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lPu^chai?c^  for  the  Xibrar^ 

of  tte 

^nivcrait^  ct  Toronto 

out  ot  tbc  proceeds  ot  tbe  tuuD 

bequeatbeD  b\? 

JL,  B,  iphillipa  Stewart,  3B.a.,  xx.3B. 

Ob.    A.D.    IS9-_' 


.v-.A 


/// 


HE    KNEW    HE    WAS 

RIGHT 


By  ANTHONY  TROLLOPE 


Mitti   Sitfj-four   lllustralions   bj  glattns   Stora 


VOLUME  II. 


1 


t 


3 


I  -, 


I 


1    II 


STRAHAN  AND  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS 

56,    LUDGATE   HILL,    LONDON 
1869 


sm 


1/,Z 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  L. 

PACK 

Camilla  XRiUMPnANT »        ,        .        1 


CHAPTER  LI. 
Shewtnq  w^hat  happened  during  Miss  Stanbury's  Illness  .        8 

CHAPTER  LII. 
Mr.  Outhouse  complains  that  it's  Hard         »       ...      20 

CHAPTER  LHI. 
Hugh  Stanbury  is  shewn  to  be  no  Conjuror         ...      25 

CHAPTER  LIV. 
Mr.  Gibson's  Threat 32 

CHAPTER  LV. 
The  Republican  Browning  .......      39 

CHAPTER  LVI. 
Withered  Grass ,49 

CHAPTER  LVII. 
Dorothy's  Fate 57 


VI  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  LVIII. 

PAGB 

Dorothy  at  IIome 67 

CHAPTER  LIX. 
Mr.  Bozzle  at  Home 73 

CHAPTER  LX. 
Another  Struggle ,        ,      7S 

CHAPTER  LXI. 
Parker's  Hotel,  Mowbray  Street    .        .        .        .        ,        »      90 

CHAPTER  LXII. 

Lady  Rovley  makes  an  Attempt      .        .        .        ,        ,        .97 

CHAPTER  LXin. 
Sir  Marmaduke  at  Home 106 

CHAPTER  LXIV. 
Sir  Marmaduke  at  his  Club      .......    116 

CHAPTER  LXV. 
Mysterious  Agencies 121 

CHAPTER  LXYI. 
Of  a  Quarter  of  Lamb *        .    130 

CHAPTER  LXVII. 
River's  Cottage -        .     135 

CHAPTER  LXYin. 
Major  Magruder's  Committee    .        .  ....     145 


CONTENTS.  VU 

CHAPTER  LXIX. 

PAGE 

SiK  Makmaduice  at  Willesden 150 

CHAPTER  LXX. 
SnEwiis'a  WHAT  Nora  Rowley  thought  about  Carriages      .    155 


CHAPTER  LXXl. 

Shewing  what  Hugh  Stanbury  thought  about  the  Duty 

OF  Man 162 


CHAPTER  LXXn. 
The  Delivery  of  the  Lamb ,        .169 

CHAPTER  LXXIII. 
Dorothy  returns  to  Exeter 176 

CHAPTER  LXXIV. 
The  Lioness  aroused 185 

CHAPTER  LXXV. 
The  Rowleys  go  over  the  Alps        ...,.,    193 

CHAPTER  LXXVI. 
"  We  shall  be  so  poor  " 201 

CHAPTER  LXXVn. 
The  future  Lady  Peterborough 208 

CHAPTER  LXXVIII. 
Casalunga 217 

CHAPTER  LXXEX. 
I  CAN  sleep  on  the  Boards 227 


Till  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  LXXX. 

PAOE 

Will  they  despise  him  ?........    232 

CHAPTER  LXXXI. 
Me.  Glascock  is  Master 241 

CHAPTER  LXXXII. 
Mes.  Feench's  Caetlng  Knife 251 

CHAPTER  LXXXIII. 
Bella  Victeix .    258 

CHAPTER  LXXXIV. 
Self-saceifice       ..........    265 

CHAPTER  LXXXV. 
The  Baths  of  Lucca ,       ,        .    270 

CHAPTER  LXXXVI. 

Me.  Glascock  as  Xuese .,       ,        .    278 

CHAPTER  LXXXVII. 

Me.  Glascock's  Maeeiage  completed        .        .        .        ,        ,    289 

CHAPTER  LXXXVIII. 
Ceoppee  and  Buegess .    298 

CHAPTER  LXXXIX. 
"I  "wouldn't  do  it,  if  I  "WAS  you"  ..,,..     308 

CHAPTER  XO. 
Lady  Ro'wley  conqueeed 313 


CONTENTS.  IX 

CHAPTEE  XCI. 

PAGE 

Fomi  O'CLOCK  m  the  MoR^"I^•G 320 

CHAPTER  XCII. 

TEEVELY^m  DISCOURSES  ON  LlFE  ......      329 

CILiPTER  XCni. 
Say  tiiat  you  foroiye  me 337 

CHAPTEE  XCIY. 
A  REAL  Christian 346 

CHAPTEE  XCV. 
Trevelyan  back  in  England      .        .        .        ,        ,        ,        .354 

CHAPTEE  XCVI. 

MONKHAMS ,  .      36] 

CHAPTEE  xcyn. 

Mrs.  Brooke  Burgess 36S 

CHAPTEE  XCYIII. 
Acquitted ,        .    375 

CHiYPTEE  XCIX. 
Conclusion , 382 


ILLUSTRATIONS  TO  YOL.  IL 


The  World  was  going  bound  with  Dorothy 
Nora's  Letter      ...... 

"Brooke  wants  me  to  be  his  Wife" 

"Put  it  ox  the  Fire-back,  Bozzle  "  , 

"And  why  does  he  come  here?" 

*'You  haven't  forgotten  Mamma?" 

"But  you  must  give  it  up,"  s.ud  Sib  Marmaduke 

"Only  the  Vagaries  of  an  old  Woman"    . 

The  Eivalh  .         .         .         .         .         . 

"It  is  hard  to  speak  sometimes" 
Camilla's  Wrath  •         .         .         .         . 

Trevelyan  at  Casalunga      .... 

Barty  Burgess     ...... 

"  i  must  always  remember  that  i  met  you  there  " 

Nora's  Veil 

monkhams    .,,,,,. 


PAQK 

16 
31 
60 
74 
113 
137 
158 
183 
206 
229 
251 
268 
802 
317 
358 
367 


\ 


HE  KNEW  HE  WAS  EIGHT. 


CHAPTER  L, 


CAMILLA  TBIV3TPHAXT. 

T  was  now  New  Year's  clay,  and 
there  was    some  grief  and  per- 
Lai^s  more  excitement  in  Exeter, 
— for  it  was  rumonred  that  Miss 
Stanbury    lay    very   ill    at    her 
house    in    the    Close.       But    in 
order  that  our  somewhat  uneven 
story  may  run  as  smoothly  as  it 
may  he  made  to    do,  the   little 
history  of  the  French  family  for 
the  intervening  months  shall  be 
told    in   this    chapter,    in    order 
that  it  may  be  understood  how 
matters   were  with  them   when 
the    tidings  of   Miss   Stanbury's 
severe  illness  first  reached  their 
house  at  Heavitree. 
After  that  ten-ible  scene  in  which  Miss  Stanbury  had  so  dreadfully 
confounded  Mr.  Gibson  by  declaring  the  manner  in  which  he  had 
been  rebuffed  by  Dorothy,  the  unfortunate  clergyman  had  endeavoured 
to  make  his  peace  with  the  French  family  by  assuring  the  mother 
that  in  very  truth  it  was  the  dearest  wish  of  his  heart  to  make  her 
daughter  Camilla  his  wife.     Mrs.  French,  who  had  ever  been  disposed 
to  favour  Arabella's  ambition,  well  knowing  its  priority  and  ancient 

VOL.  II.  B 


'2  II K    KNEW    HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

right,  and  wbo  of  late  had  hccn  taught  to  consider  that  even  CamiUa 
had  consented  to  waive  any  claim  that  she  might  have  once  possessed, 
could  not  refrain  from  the  expression  of  some  surprise.  That  he 
should  be  recovered  at  all  out  of  the  Stanbmy  clutches  was  very- 
much  to  Mrs.  French, — was  so  much  that,  had  time  been  given  her 
for  consideration,  she  would  have  acknowledged  to  herself  readily  that 
the  property  had  best  be  secured  at  once  to  the  family,  without 
incurring  that  amount  of  risk  which  must  unquestionably  attend  any 
attempt  on  her  part  to  dii'eet  Mr.  Gibson's  purpose  hither  or  thither. 
But  the  proposition  came  so  suddenlj'-,  that  time  was  not  allowed  to 
her  to  be  altogether  wise.  "  I  thought  it  was  poor  Bella,"  she  said, 
with  something  of  a  piteous  whine  in  her  voice.  At  the  moment  Mr. 
Gibson  was  so  humble,  that  he  was  half  inclined  to  give  way  even  on 
that  head.  He  felt  himself  to  have  been  brought  so  low  in  the 
market  by  that  terrible  story  of  Miss  Stanbury's, — which  he  had  been 
unable  either  to  contradict  or  to  explain, — that  there  was  but  little 
power  of  fighting  left  in  him.  He  was,  however,  just  able  to  speak 
a  word  for  himself,  and  that  sufficed.  "I  hope  there  has  been  no 
mistake,"  he  said:  "but  really  it  is  Camilla  that  has  my  heart." 
Mrs.  French  made  no  rejoinder  to  this.  It  was  so  much  to  her  to 
know  that  Mr.  Gibson's  heart  was  among  them  at  all  after  what  had 
occurred  in  the  Close,  that  she  acknowledged  to  herself  after  that 
moment  of  reflection  that  Arabella  must  be  sacrificed  for  the  good  of  the 
family  interests.  Poor,  dear,  loving,  misguided,  and  spiritless  mother ! 
She  would  have  given  the  blood  out  of  her  bosom  to  get  husbands  for 
her  daughters,  though  it  was  not  of  her  own  experience  that  she  had 
learned  that  of  all  worldly  goods  a  husband  is  the  best.  But  it  was 
the  possession  which  they  had  from  their  earliest  years  thought  of 
acquiring,  which  they  first  expected,  for  which  they  had  then 
hoped,  and  afterwards  worked  and  schemed  and  striven  mth  every 
energy, — and  as  to  which  they  had  at  last  almost  despaii-ed.  And 
now  Arabella's  fire  had  been  rekindled  with  a  new  spark,  which,  alas, 
was  to  be  quenched  so  suddenly!  "And  ami  to  tell  them?"  asked 
Mrs.  French,  with  a  tremor  in  her  voice.  To  this,  however,  Mr. 
Gibson  demurred.  He  said  that  for  certain  reasons  he  should  like  a 
fortnight's  grace  ;  and  that  at  the  end  of  the  fortnight  he  would  be 
prepared  to  speak.  The  interval  was  granted  without  fui'ther  ques- 
tions, and  Mr.  Gibson  was  allowed  to  leave  the  house. 

After  that  Mrs.  French  was  not  very  comfortable  at  home.  As 
soon  as  Mr.  Gibson  had  departed,  Camilla  at  once  returned  to  her 
mother  and  desired  to  know  what  had  taken  place.  Was  it  true  that 
the  perjured  man  had  proposed  to  that  young  woman  in  the  Close  ? 


CAMILLA   TllILMrilANT.  6 

His.  French  was  not  clever  at  keeping  a  secret,  and  she  could  not 
keep  this  by  her  own  aid.  She  told  all  that  happened  to  Camilla, 
and  between  them  they  agreed  that  iVi-abella  should  bo  kept  in 
ignorance  till  the  fatal  fortnight  should  have  passed.  "When  Camilla 
was  interrogated  as  to  her  own  purpose,  she  said  she  should  like  a 
day  to  think  of  it.  She  took  the  twenty-four  hours,  and  then  made 
the  following  confession  of  her  passion  to  her  mother.  "You  sec, 
mamma,  I  always  liked  Mr.  Gibson, — always." 

"  So  did  Ai-abella,  my  dcar^ — before  you  thought  of  such  things." 

*'  I  dare  say  that  may  be  true,  mamma;  but  that  is  not  my  fault. 
He  came  here  among  us  on  such  sweetly  intimate  terms  that  the 
feeling  gi-ew  up  with  me  before  I  knew  what  it  meant.  As  to  any 
idea  of  cutting  out  Aivabella,  my  conscience  is  quite  clear.  If  I 
thought  there  had  been  anything  really  between  them  I  would  have 
gone  anywhere, — to  the  top  of  a  mountain, — ^rather  than  rob  my 
sister  of  a  heart  that  belonged  to  her." 

"He  has  been  so  slow  about  it,"  said  Mrs.  French. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Camilla.  "  Gentlemen  have  to  be 
slow,  I  suppose,  when  they  think  of  their  incomes.  He  only  got  St. 
Peter's-cum-Pumkin  three  years  ago,  and  didn't  know  for  the  first  year 
Avhether  he  could  hold  that  and  the  minor  canonry  together.  Of  coui'so 
a  gentleman  has  to  think  of  these  things  before  he  comes  forward." 

"  My  dear,  he  has  been  very  backward." 

"If  I'm  to  be  Mrs.  Gibson,  mamma,  I  beg  that  I  mayn't  hear 
anything  said  against  him.  Then  there  came  all  this  about  that 
young  woman  ;  and  when  I  saw  that  Arabella  took  on  so, — which  I 
must  say  was  very  absurd, — I'm  sure  I  put  myself  out  of  the  way 
entii'ely.  If  I'd  bmied  myself  under  the  ground  I  couldn't  have  done 
it  more.  And  it's  my  belief  that  what  I've  said,  all  for  Arabella's 
sake,  has  put  the  old  woman  into  such  a  rage  that  it  has  made  a 
quan-el  between  him  and  the  niece  ;  otherwise  that  wouldn't  be  off. 
I  don't  bcUeve  a  word  of  her  refusing  him,  and  never  shall.  Is  it  in 
the  course  of  things,  mamma  ?"  Mrs.  French  shook  her  head.  "  Of 
com-se  not.  Then  when  you  question  him, — very  properly, — he  says 
that  he's  devoted  to — poor  mo.  If  I  was  to  refuse  him,  he  Avouldn't 
put  up  with  Bella." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Mrs.  French. 

"He  hates  Bella.  I've  known  it  all  along,  though  I  wouldn't  say 
60.  If  I  were  to  sacrifice  myself  ever  so  it  wouldn't  be  of  any 
good, — and  I  shan't  do  it."     In  this  way  the  matter  was  arranged. 

At  the  end  of  the  fortnight,  however,  Mr.  Gibson  did  not  come,— 

B  2 


4  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

cor  at  tlic  end  of  three  weeks.  Inquiries  bad  of  course  been  made, 
and  it  was  ascertained  that  be  had  gone  into  Cornwall  for  a  parson's 
holiday  of  thirteen  daj-s.  That  might  be  all  veiy  well.  A  man 
might  want  the  recruiting  vigour  of  some  change  of  air  after  such 
scenes  as  those  Mr.  Gibson  had  gone  through  with  the  Stanburys, 
and  before  his  proposed  encounter  with  new  perils.  And  he  was  a 
man  so  tied  by  the  leg  that  his  escape  could  not  bo  for  any  long 
time.  He  was  back  on  the  appointed  Sunday,  and  on  the  Wednesday 
Mrs.  French,  under  Camilla's  instruction,  -wrote  to  him  a  pretty  little 
note.  He  replied  that  he  would  be  ■with  her  on  the  Satm-daj-.  It 
Avould  then  be  nearly  four  weeks  after  the  great  day  with  Miss 
Stanbury,  but  no  one  would  be  inclined  to  quarrel  with  so  short 
a  delay  as  that.  Ai-abella  in  the  meantime  had  become  fidgety 
and  unhappy.  She  seemed  to  understand  that  something  was 
expected,  being  quite  unable  to  guess  what  that  something  might  be. 
She  was  true  throughout  these  days  to  the  simplicity  of  head-gear 
which  Mr.  Gibson  had  recommended  to  her,  and  seemed  in  her  ques- 
tions to  her  mother  and  to  Camilla  to  be  more  fearful  of  Dorothy 
Stanbury  than  of  any  other  enemy.  "  Mamma,  I  think  you  ought  to 
toll  her,"  said  Camilla  more  than  once.  But  she  had  not  been  told 
when  Mr.  Gibson  came  on  the  Saturdaj'.  It  may  truly  be  said  that 
the  poor  mother's  pleasure  in  the  prospects  of  one  daughter  was 
altogether  destroyed  by  the  anticipation  of  the  other  daughter's 
misery.  Had  Mr.  Gibson  made  Dorothy  Stanbury  his  wife  they 
could  have  all  comforted  themselves  together  by  the  heat  of  their 
joint  animosity. 

He  came  on  the  Saturday,  and  it  was  so  managed  that  he  was 
closeted  with  Camilla  before  Arabella  knew  that  he  was  in  the  house. 
There  was  a  quarter  of  an  hour  during  which  his  work  was  easy,  and 
perhaps  pleasant.  When  he  began  to  explain  his  intention  Camilla, 
^vith  the  utmost  frankness,  informed  him  that  her  mother  had  told 
her  all  about  it.  Then  she  turned  her  face  on  one  side  and  put  her 
hand  in  his ;  he  got  his  arm  round  her  waist,  gave  her  a  kiss,  and 
the  thing  was  done.  Camilla  was  fully  resolved  that  after  such  a 
betrothal  it  should  not  be  undone.  She  had  behaved  with  sisterly 
forbearance,  and  would  not  now  lose  the  reward  of  virtue.  Not  a. 
word  was  said  of  Arabella  at  this  interview  till  he  was  pressed  ta 
come  and  drmk  tea  with  them  all  that  night.  He  hesitated  a  moment; 
and  then  Camilla  declared,  with  something  perhaps  of  imperious 
roughness  in  her  manner,  that  he  had  better  face  it  all  at  once. 
"Mamma  will  tell  her,  and  she  will  understand,"  said  Camilla.  He 
hesitated  again,  but  at  last  promised  that  he  would  come. 


CAMILLA   TRIUMPHANT.  O 

TMiilst  he  was  yet  in  tbo  house  Mrs.  French  had  told  the  wholo 
story  to  her  poor  elder  daughter.  '•  What  is  he  doing  with  Camilla  '? " 
Ai-abclla  had  asked  with  feverish  excitement. 

"  Bella,  darling  ; — don't  you  know  ?"  said  the  mother. 

"I  know  nothing.  Everybody  keeps  me  in  the  dark,  and  I  am 
badly  used.  What  is  it  that  he  is  domg  ?"  Then  Mrs.  French  tried 
to  take  the  poor  young  woman  in  her  arms,  but  Arabella  would  not 
submit  to  be  embraced.  "Don't!"  she  exclaimed.  "Leave  mo 
alone.  Nobody  likes  me,  or  cares  a  bit  about  mc  !  Why  is  Cammy 
with  him  there,  all  alone  ?" 

"I  suppose  he  is  asking  her — to  be — his  wife."  Then  Ai-abella 
threw  herself  in  despair  upon  the  bed,  and  wept  without  any  fui-ther 
attempt  at  control  over  her  feelings.  It  was  a  death-blow  to  her  last 
hope,  and  all  the  world,  as  she  looked  upon  the  world  then,  was  over 
for  her.  "  If  I  could  have  arranged  it  the  other  way,  you  know  that 
I  would,"  said  the  mother. 

"Mamma,"  said  Ai-abclla  jumping  up,  "he  shan't  do  it.  He 
hasn't  a  right.  And  as  for  her, — Oh,  that  she  should  treat  mo  in 
this  way!  Didn't  he  tell  me  the  other  night,  when  he  drank  tea 
here  with  me  alone " 

"  What  did  he  tell  you,  Bella  ?" 

"  Never  mind.  Nothing  shall  ever  make  me  speak  to  him  again  ; — 
not  if  he  married  her  three  times  over  ;  nor  to  her.  She  is  a  nasty, 
sly,  good-for-nothing  thing !" 

"But,  Bella " 

"Don't  talk  to  me,  mamma.  There  never  was  such  a  thing  done 
before  since  people — were — people  at  all.  She  has  been  doing  it  all 
the  time.     I  know  she  has." 

Nevertheless  Arabella  did  sit  down  to  tea  with  the  two  lovers  that 
night.  There  was  a  terrible  scene  between  her  and  Camilla  ;  but 
Camilla  held  her  own ;  and  Ai-abella,  being  the  weaker  of  the  two, 
was  vanquished  by  the  expenditure  of  her  own  small  energies. 
Camilla  argued  that  as  her  sister's  chance  was  gone,  and  as  the  prize 
had  come  in  her  own  way,  there  was  no  good  reason  why  it  should 
be  lost  to  the  family  altogether,  because  Ai-abella  could  not  win  it. 
When  Arabella  called  her  a  treacherous  vixen  and  a  heartless,  profli- 
gate hussy,  she  spoke  out  freely,  and  said  that  she  wasn't  going  to 
be  abused.  A  gentleman  to  whom  she  was  attached  had  asked  her 
for  her  hand,  and  she  had  given  it.  If  Ai'abclla  chose  to  make  herself 
a  fool  she  might, — but  what  would  be  the  cfl'ect  ?  Simply  that  all 
the  world  would  know  that  she,  Arabella,  Avas  disappointed.  Poor 
Bella  at  last  gave  way,  put  on  her  discarded  chignon,  and  came  down 


b  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

to  tea.  Mr.  Gibson  was  already  in  the  room  wlien  she  entered  it. 
"Arabella,"  he  said,  getting  up  to  greet  her,  "I  hope  you  will 
congratulate  me."  He  had  planned  his  little  speech  and  his  manner 
of  making  it,  and  had  wisely  decided  that  in  this  way  might  he  best 
get  over  the  difficulty. 

"  Oh  yes ; — of  course,"  she  said,  with  a  little  giggle,  and  then  a 
sob,  and  then  a  flood  of  tears. 

*'  Dear  Bella  feels  these  things  so  strongly,"  said  Mrs.  French. 

"We  have  never  been  parted  yet,"  said  Camilla.  Then  Ai-abella 
tapped  the  head  of  the  sofa  three  or  four  times  sharply  with  her 
knuckles.  It  was  the  only  protest  against  the  reading  of  the  scene 
which  Camilla  had  given  of  which  she  was  capable  at  that  moment. 
After  that  Mrs.  French  gave  out  the  tea,  Arabella  cui'led  herself  upon 
the  sofa  as  though  she  were  asleep,  and  the  two  lovers  settled  down 
to  proper  lover-like  conversation. 

The  reader  may  be  sure  that  Camilla  was  not  slow  in  making  tho 
fact  of  her  engagement  notorious  through  the  city.  It  was  not 
probably  true  that  the  tidings  of  her  success  had  anything  to  do  with 
Miss  Stanbuiy's  illness  ;  but  it  was  reported  by  many  that  such  was 
the  case.  It  was  in  November  that  the  arrangement  was  made,  and 
it  certainly  was  true  that  Miss  Stanbury  was  rather  ill  about  the 
same  time.  "You  know,  you  naughty  Lothario,  that  you  did  give 
her  some  ground  to  hope  that  she  might  dispose  of  her  unfortunate 
niece,"  said  Camilla  playfully  to  her  own  one,  when  this  illness  was 
discussed  between  them.  "  But  you  are  caught  now,  and  your  wings 
are  clipped,  and  you  are  never  to  be  a  naughty  Lothario  again."  The 
clerical  Don  Juan  bore  it  all,  awkwardly  indeed,  but  with  good 
humour,  and  declared  that  all  his  troubles  of  that  sort  were  over,  now 
and  for  ever.  Nevertheless  he  did  not  name  the  day,  and  Camilla 
began  to  feel  that  there  might  be  occasion  for  a  little  more  of  that 
imperious  roughness  which  she  had  at  her  command. 

November  was  nearly  over  and  nothing  had  been  fixed  about  the 
day.  Arabella  never  condescended  to  speak  to  her  sister  on  the 
gubject ;  but  on  more  than  one  occasion  made  some  inquiry  of  her 
mother.  And  she  came  to  perceive,  or  to  think  that  she  perceived, 
that  her  mother  was  still  anxious  on  the  subject.  "I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  he  wasn't  off  some  day  now,"  she  said  at  last  to  her 
mother. 

"Don't  say  anything  so  dreadful,  Bella." 

"It  would  serve  Cammy  quite  right,  and  it's  just  what  he's  likely 
to  do." 

"  It  would  kill  me,"  said  the  mother. 


CAMILLA   TRIUMPHANT.  / 

"I  dou't  know  about  lulliiij.',"  said  Arabella;  "it's  uotbiug  to 
what  I've  had  to  go  through.  I  shouldu't  pretend  to  be  sorry  if  ho 
•vvcro  to  go  to  Hong-Kong  to-morrow." 

But  Ml-.  Gibson  had  no  idea  of  going  to  Hong-Kong.  Ho  was 
simply  carrjang  out  his  little  scheme  for  securing  the  advantages  of  a 
"long  day  "  He  was  fully  resolved  to  be  married,  and  was  contented 
to  think  that  his  engagement  was  the  best  thing  for  him.  To  one  or 
two  male  friends  ho  spoke  of  Camilla  as  the  perfection  of  female 
\irtue,  and  entertained  no  smallest  idea  of  ultimate  escape.  But  a 
"long  day"  is  often  a  convenience.  A  bill  at  three  months  sits 
easier  on  a  man  than  one  at  sixty  days ;  and  a  bill  at  six  months  is 
almost  as  little  of  a  burden  as  no  bill  at  all. 

But  Camilla  was  resolved  that  some  day  should  be  fixed. 
"  Thomas,"  she  said  to  her  lover  one  morning,  as  they  were  walking 
home  together  after  service  at  the  cathedral,  "  isn't  this  rather  a  fool's 
Paradise  of  ours  ?  " 

"How  a  fool's  Paradise ?"  asked  the  happy  Thomas. 

"What  I  mean  is,  dearest,  that  we  ought  to  fix  something. 
Mamma  is  getting  uneasy  about  her  own  plans." 

"  In  what  way,  dearest  ?" 

"About  a  thousand  things.  She  can't  arrange  anything  till  our 
plans  are  made.  Of  course  there  are  little  troubles  about  money 
when  people  ain't  rich."  Then  it  occurred  to  her  that  this  might 
seem  to  be  a  plea  for  postponing  rather  than  for  hurrying  the 
marriage,  and  she  mended  her  argument.  "  The  truth  is,  Thomas, 
she  wants  to  know  when  the  day  is  to  be  fixed,  and  I've  promised  to 
ask.     She  said  she'd  ask  you  herself,  but  I  wouldn't  let  her  do  that." 

"We  must  think  about  it,  of  course,"  said  Thomas. 

"  But,  my  dear,  there  has  been  plenty  of  time  for  thinking.  What 
do  you  say  to  Januaiy  ?"     This  was  on  the  last  day  of  November. 

"  January  ! "  exclaimed  Thomas,  in  a  tone  that  betrayed  no  triumph. 
"I  couldn't  get  my  services  arranged  for  in  January." 

"I  thought  a  clergyman  could  always  manage  that  for  his  mar- 
riage," said  Camilla. 

"Not  in  January.  Besides,  I  was  thinking  you  would  like  to  be 
away  in  warmer  weather." 

They  were  still  in  November,  and  he  was  thinking  of  postponing  it 
till  the  summer !  Camilla  immediately  perceived  how  necessary  it 
was  that  she  should  bo  plain  with  him.  "  Wc  shall  not  have  warm 
weather,  as  you  call  it,  for  a  very  long  time,  Thomas  ; — and  I  don't 
think  that  it  would  be  wise  to  wait  for  the  weather  at  all.  Indeed, 
I've  begun  to  get  my  things  for  doing  it  in  the  winter.     Mamma  said 


8  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

fli:it  slac  was  sure  January  would  bo  the  very  latest.  And  it  isn't  as 
though  we  had  to  get  furniture  or  anything  of  that  kind.  Of  course 
a  lady  shouldn't  be  pressing."  She  smiled  sweetly  and  leaned  on  his 
arm  as  she  said  this.  "  But  I  hate  all  girlish  nonsense  and  that  kind 
of  thing.  It  is  such  a  bore  to  be  kept  waiting.  I'm  sure  there's 
nothing  to  prevent  it  coming  off  in  February." 

The  31st  of  March  was  fixed  before  they  reached  Heavitree,  and 
Camilla  went  into  her  mother's  house  a  happy  woman.  But  Mr. 
Gibson,  as  he  went  home,  thought  that  he  had  been  hardly  used. 
Here  was  a  girl  who  hadn't  a  shilling  of  money, — not  a  shilling  till 
her  mother  died, — and  who  already  talked  about  his  house,  and  his 
furniture,  and  his  income  as  if  it  were  all  her  own  !  Circumstanced 
as  she  was,  what  right  had  she  to  press  for  an  early  day  ?  He  was 
quite  sure  that  Arabella  would  have  been  more  discreet  and  less 
exacting.  He  was  very  angry  Avith  his  dear  Cammy  as  he  went 
across  the  Close  to  his  house. 


CHAPTEK  LI. 

SHEWING  WHAT  HAFFENED  DURING  MISS  STANBVRY'S  ILLNESS. 

It  was  on  Christmas-day  that  Sir  Peter  Mancrudy,  the  highest  autho- 
rity on  such  matters  in  the  west  of  England,  was  sent  for  to  see  Miss 
Stanbury ;  and  Sir  Peter  had  acknowledged  that  things  were  very 
serious.  He  took  Dorothy  on  one  side,  and  told  her  that  Mr.  Martin, 
the  ordinary  practitioner,  had  treated  the  case,  no  doubt,  quite  wisely 
throughout ;  that  there  was  not  a  word  to  be  said  against  Mr.  Martin, 
whose  experience  Avas  great,  and  whose  discretion  was  undeniable;  but, 
nevertheless, — at  least  it  seemed  to  Dorothy  that  this  was  the  only  mean- 
ing to  be  attributed  to  Sir  Peter's  words, — Mr.  Martin  had  in  this  case 
taken  one  line  of  treatment,  when  he  ought  to  have  taken  another. 
The  plan  of  action  was  undoubtedly  changed,  and  Mr.  Martin  became 
very  fidgety,  and  ordered  nothing  without  Sir  Peter's  sanction.  Miss 
Stanbury  was  suffering  from  bronchitis,  and  a  complication  of  diseases 
about  her  throat  and  chest.  Barty  Burgess  declared  to  more  than  one 
acquaintance  in  the  little  parlour  behind  the  bank,  that  she  would  go 
on  drinking  four  or  five  glasses  of  new  port  wine  every  day,  in  direct 
opposition  to  Martin's  request.  Camilla  French  heard  the  report, 
and  repeated  it  to  her  lover,  and  perhaps  another  person  or  two, 
with  an  expression  of  her  assured  conviction  that  it  must  be  false, — 
at  any  rate,  as  regarded  the  fifth  glass.     Mrs.  MacHugh,  who  saw 


WHAT  IIAPrEXED  DUIllXG  MISS  STANBURY's  ILLNESS.  9 

Martha  daily,  was  much  frightcueil.  The  peril  of  such  a  friend  dis- 
turbed equally  the  repose  and  the  pleasures  of  her  life.  Mrs.  Cliflbrd 
was  often  at  Miss  Stanbury's  bed-side, — and  would  have  sat  there 
reading  for  hours  together,  had  she  not  been  made  to  understand  by 
Martha  that  Miss  Stanbury  preferred  that  Miss  Dorothy  should  read 
to  her.  The  sick  woman  received  the  Sacrament  weekly, — not  from 
Mr.  Gibson,  but  from  the  hands  of  another  minor  canon ;  and,  though 
she  never  would  admit  her  ovm.  danger,  or  allow  others  to  talk  to  her 
of  it,  it  was  known  to  them  all  that  she  admitted  it  to  herself  because 
she  had,  with  much  personal  annoyance,  caused  a  codicil  to  be  added 
to  her  will.  "  As  you  didn't  marry  that  man,"  she  said  to  Dorothy, 
*'l  must  change  it  again."  It  was  in  vain  that  Dorothy  begged  her 
not  to  trouble  herself  with  such  thoughts.  "  That's  trash,"  said  Miss 
Stanbury,  angrily.  "A  person  who  has  it  is  bound  to  trouble  himself 
about  it.  You  don't  suppose  I'm  afraid  of  dying  ; — do  you  ?  "  she 
added.  Dorothy  answered  her  with  some  commonplace, — declaring 
how  strongly  they  all  expected  to  see  her  as  well  as  ever.  "  I'm  not 
a  bit  afraid  to  die,"  said  the  old  woman,  wheezing,  struggling  with 
such  voice  as  she  possessed ;  "  I'm  not  afraid  of  it,  and  I  don't  think 
I  shall  die  this  time  ;  but  I'm  not  going  to  have  mistakes  when  I'm 
gone."  This  was  on  the  eve  of  the  new  year,  and  on  the  same  night 
.  she  asked  Dorothy  to  Avrite  to  Brooke  Burgess,  and  request  him  to 
come  to  Exeter.     This  was  Dorothy's  letter: — 

'♦Exeter,  31st  December,  ISC—. 
*'  My  De.vr  Me.  Burgess, 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  written  before,  to  say  that  Aunt 
Stanbury  is  not  as  well  as  we  could  wish  her ;  but,  as  I  know 
that  you  cannot  very  well  leave  your  office,  I  have  thought  it  best  not 
to  say  anything  to  frighten  you.  But  to-night  Aunt  herself  has 
desired  me  to  tell  you  that  she  thinks  you  ought  to  know  that  she  is 
ill,  and  that  she  wishes  you  to  come  to  Exeter  for  a  day  or  two,  if  it 
is  possible.  Su-  Peter  Mancrudy  has  been  here  every  day  since  Christ- 
mas-day, and  I  believe  he  thinks  she  may  get  over  it.  It  is  chiefly 
in  the  throat ; — what  they  call  bronchitis, — and  she  has  got  to  be 
very  weak  with  it,  and  at  the  same  time  very  liable  to  inflammation. 
So  I  know  that  you  will  come  if  you  can. 

"  Yours  very  truly, 

"Dorothy  Stanbury. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  she  had  her  la-n^'er  here  with 

b3 


10  HE   KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

her  the  day  before  yesterday ;  but  she  does  not  seem  to  think  that 
she  herself  is  in  danger.  I  read  to  her  a  good  deal,  and  I  think  she 
is  generally  asleep  ;  when  I  stoj)  she  wakes,  and  I  don't  believe  she 
gets  any  other  rest  at  all." 

When  it  was  known  in  Exeter  that  Brooke  Burgess  had  been  sent 
for,  then  the  opinion  became  general  that  Miss  Stanbury's  days 
were  numbered.  Questions  were  asked  of  Sir  Peter  at  every  corner 
of  the  street ;  but  Sir  Peter  was  a  discreet  man,  who  could  answer 
such  questions  without  giving  any  information.  If  it  so  pleased  God, 
his  patient  would  die  ;  but  it  was  quite  possible  that  she  might  live. 
That  was  the  tenor  of  Sir  Peter's  replies,' — and  they  were  read  in 
any  light,  according  to  the  idiosyncrasies  of  the  reader.  Mrs.  Mac- 
Hugh  was  quite  sure  that  the  danger  was  over,  and  had  a  little  game 
of  cribbage  on  the  sly  with  old  Miss  Wright ; — for,  during  the 
severity  of  Miss  Stanbury's  illness,  whist  was  put  on  one  side  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  Close.  Barty  Burgess  was  still  obdurate,  and  shook 
his  head.  He  was  of  opinion  that  they  might  soon  gratify  their 
curiosity,  and  see  the  last  crowning  iniquity  of  this  wickedest  of  old 
women.  Mrs.  Clifford  declared  that  it  was  all  in  the  hands  of  God  ; 
but  that  she  saw  no  reason  why  Miss  Stanbury  should  not  get  about 
again,  Mr.  Gibson  thought  that  it  was  all  up  with  his  late  friend ; 
and  Camilla  wished  that  at  their  last  interview  there  had  been  more  of 
charity  on  the  part  of  one  whom  she  had  regarded  in  past  days  with 
respect  and  esteem.  Mrs.  French,  despondent  about  everything,  was 
quite  despondent  in  this  case.  Martha  almost  despaired,  and  already 
was  burdened  with  the  cares  of  a  whole  wardrobe  of  solemn  funereal 
clothing.  She  was  seen  peering  in  for  half-an-hour  at  the  windows 
and  doorway  of  a  large  warehouse  for  the  sale  of  mourning.  Giles 
Hickbody  would  not  speak  above  his  breath,  and  took  his  beer  stand- 
ing ;  but  Dorothy  was  hopeful,  and  really  believed  that  her  aunt 
would  recover.  Perhaps  Sir  Peter  had  spoken  to  her  in  terms  less 
oracular  than  those  which  he  used  towards  the  public. 

Brooke  Burgess  came,  and  had  an  interview  with  Sir  Peter,  and  to 
him  Sir  Peter  was  under  some  obligation  to  speak  plainly,  as  being 
the  person  whom  Miss  Stanbury  recognised  as  her  heir.  So  Sir  Peter 
declared  that  his  patient  might  perhaps  live,  and  perhaps  might  die. 
"The  truth  is,  Mr.  Burgess,"  said  Sir  Peter,  "  a  doctor  doesn't  know 
go  very  much  more  about  these  things  than  other  people."  It  was 
understood  that  Brooke  was  to  remain  three  days  in  Exeter,  and  then 
return  to  London.  He  would,  of  course,  come  again  if if  any- 
thing should  happen.     Sir  Peter  had  been  quite  clear  in  his  opinion, 


WHAT  HAPPENED  DmiNG  MISS  STANBURy's  ILLNESS.  11 

that  no  immecHato  result  was  to  be  anticipated, — cither  in  the  one 
direction  or  the  other.  His  patient  was  doomed  to  a  long  illness  ;  she 
might  get  over  it,  or  she  might  succumb  to  it. 

Dorothy  and  Brooke  were  thus  thrown  much  together  during  these 
three  days.  Dorothy,  indeed,  spent  most  of  her  hom-s  beside  her 
aunt's  bed,  instigating  sleep  by  the  reading  of  a  certain  series  of 
sermons  in  which  Miss  Stanbury  had  great  faith  ;  but  nevertheless, 
there  were  some  minutes  in  which  she  and  Brooke  were  necessarily 
together.  They  eat  their  meals  in  each  other's  company,  and  there 
was  a  period  in  the  evening,  before  Dorothy  began  her  night-watch 
in  her  aunt's  room,  at  which  she  took  her  tea  while  Martha  was  nurse 
in  the  room  above.  At  this  time  of  the  day  she  would  remain  an 
hour  or  more  with  Brooke  ;  and  a  great  deal  may  be  said  between  a 
man  and  a  woman  in  an  hour  when  the  will  to  say  it  is  there.  Brooke 
Burgess  had  by  no  means  changed  his  mind  since  he  had  declared  it 
to  Hugh  Stanbuiy  under  the  midnight  lamps  of  Long  Acre,  when 
warmed  by  the  influence  of  oysters  and  whisky  toddy.  The  whisky 
toddy  had  in  that  instance  brought  out  truth  and  not  falsehood, — as 
is  ever  the  nature  of  whisky  toddy  and  similar  dangerous  provocatives. 
There  is  no  saying  truer  than  that  which  declares  that  there  is  truth 
in  wine.  Wine  is  a  dangerous  thing,  and  should  not  be  made  the 
exponent  of  truth,  let  the  truth  be  good  as  it  may ;  but  it  has  the 
merit  of  forcing  a  man  to  show  his  true  colours.  A  man  who  is  a 
gentleman  in  his  cups  may  be  trusted  to  be  a  gentleman  at  all  times. 
I  trust  that  the  severe  censor  will  not  turn  upon  me,  and  tell  me  that 
no  gentleman  in  these  days  is  ever  to  be  seen  in  his  cups.  There  are 
cups  of  dificrent  degrees  of  depth;  and  cups  do  exist,  even  among 
gentlemen,  and  seem  disposed  to  hold  their  own  let  the  censor  be 
ever  so  severe.  The  gentleman  in  his  cups  is  a  gentleman  always ; 
and  the  man  who  tells  his  friend  in  his  cups  that  he  is  in  love,  does 
so  because  the  fact  has  been  very  present  to  himself  in  his  cooler  and 
calmer  moments.  Brooke  Burgess,  who  had  seen  Hugh  Stanbury  on 
two  or  three  occasions  since  that  of  the  oysters  and  toddy,  had  not 
spoken  again  of  his  regard  for  Hugh's  sister ;  but  not  the  less  was  he 
determined  to  carry  out  his  plan  and  make  Dorothy  his  wife  if  she 
would  accept  him.  But  could  he  ask  her  while  the  old  lady  was,  as  it 
might  be,  dying  in  the  house  ?  He  put  this  question  to  himself  as  he 
travelled  do-\vn  to  Exeter,  and  had  told  himself  that  he  must  be  guided 
for  an  answer  by  circumstances  as  they  might  occur.  Hugh  had  met 
him  at  the  station  as  ho  started  for  Exeter,  and  there  had  been  a  con- 
sultation between  them  as  to  the  propriety  of  bringing  about,  or  of 
attempting  to  bring  about,  an  interview  between  Hugh  and  his  aunt. 


12  HE    KNEW   HE    "WAS    RIGHT. 

"Do  whatever  you  like,"  Hugli  had  said.     "  I  would  go  down  to  her 
at  a  moment's  warning,  if  she  should  express  a  desire  to  see  me." 

On  the  first  night  of  Brooke's  arrival  this  question  had  been  dis- 
cussed between  him  and  Dorothy.  Dorothy  had  declared  herself 
unable  to  give  advice.  If  any  message  were  given  to  her  she  would 
deliver  it  to  her  aunt ;  but  she  thought  that  anything  said  to  her 
aunt  on  the  subject  had  better  come  from  Brooke  himself.  "You 
evidently  are  the  person  most  important  to  her,"  Dorothy  said,  "  and 
she  would  listen  to  j-ou  when  she  would  not  let  any  one  else  say 
a  word."  Brooke  promised  that  he  would  think  of  it ;  and  then 
Dorothy  tripped  up  to  relieve  Martha,  dreaming  nothing  at  all  of  that 
other  doubt  to  which  the  important  personage  down-stairs  was  now 
subject.  Dorothy  was,  in  truth,  very  fond  of  the  new  friend  she  had 
made ;  but  it  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  he  might  be  a  possible 
suitor  to  her.  Her  old  conception  of  herself, — that  she  was  beneath 
the  notice  of  any  man, — had  only  been  partly  disturbed  by  the  abso- 
lute fact  of  Mr.  Gibson's  courtship.  She  had  how  heard  of  his 
engagement  with  Camilla  French,  and  saw  in  that  complete  proof  that 
the  foolish  man  had  been  induced  to  offer  his  hand  to  her  by  the 
promise  of  her  aunt's  money.  If  there  had  been  a  moment  of  exalta- 
tion,— a  period  in  which  she  had  allowed  herself  to  think  that  she  was, 
as  other  women,  capable  of  making  herself  dear  to  a  man, — it  had 
been  but  a  moment.  And  now  she  rejoiced  greatly  that  she  had  not 
acceded  to  the  wishes  of  one  to  whom  it  was  so  manifest  that  she  had 
not  made  herself  in  the  least  dear. 

On  the  second  day  of  his  visit,  Brooke  was  summoned  to  Miss 
Stanbury's  room  at  noon.  She  was  forbidden  to  talk,  and  diu-ing  a 
great  portion  of  the  day  could  hardly  speak  without  an  effort ;  but 
there  would  be  half  hours  now  and  again  in  which  she  would  become 
stronger  than  usual,  at  which  time  nothing  that  Martha  and  Dorothy 
could  say  would  induce  her  to  hold  her  tongue.  When  Brooke  came 
to  her  on  this  occasion  he  found  her  sitting  up  in  bed  with  a  great 
shawl  round  her  ;  and  he  at  once  perceived  she  was  much  more  like 
her  own  self  than  on  the  former  day.  She  told  him  that  she  had  been 
an  old  fool  for  sending  for  him,  that  she  had  nothing  special  to  say 
to  him,  that  she  had  made  no  alteration  in  her  will  in  regard  to  him, 
— except  that  I  have  done  something  for  Dolly  that  will  have  to  como 
out  of  your  pocket,  Brooke."  Brooke  declared  that  too  much  could 
not  be  done  for  a  person  so  good,  and  dear,  and  excellent  as  Dorothy 
Stanbury,  let  it  come  out  of  whose  pocket  it  might.  "  She  is  nothing 
to  you,  you  know,"  said  Miss  Stanbmy. 


AVIIAT  H.vri'KNKD  DURING  MISS  STANBURY's  ILLNESS.  13 

"  She  is  a  great  deal  to  me,"  said  Brooke. 
"  ^Ybat  is  she  ?"  askoil  Miss  Stanbury. 
''  Oh  ; — a  frioud  ;  a  great  friend." 

"  "Well;  yes.  I  hope  it  may  be  so.  Cut  she  won't  have  anything 
that  I  haven't  saved,"  said  Miss  Stanbury.  "There  arc  two  houses 
at  St.  Thomas's ;  but  I  bought  them  myself,  Brooke  ; — out  of  the 
income."  Brooke  couki  only  declare  that  as  the  whole  property  was 
hers,  to  do  what  she  liked  with  it  as  completely  as  though  she  had 
inherited  it  from  her  o^^^l  fothcr,  no  one  could  have  any  right  to  ask 
questions  as  to  when  or  how  this  or  that  portion  of  the  property  had 
accrued.  "  But  I  don't  think  I'm  going  to  die  yet,  Brooke,"  she  said. 
"If  it  is  God's  will,  I  am  ready.  Not  that  I'm  fit,  Brooke.  God 
forbid  that  I  should  ever  think  that.  But  I  doubt  whether  I  shall 
ever  be  fitter.  I  can  go  without  repining  if  He  thinks  best  to  take 
me."  Then  he  stood  up  by  her  bed-side,  with  his  hand  upon  hers, 
and  after  some  hesitation  asked  her  whether  she  would  wish  to  see 
her  nephew  Hugh.  "No,"  said  she,  sharply.  Brooke  went  on  to 
say  how  pleased  Hugh  would  have  been  to  come  to  her.  "  I  don't 
think  much  of  death-bed  reconciliations,"  said  the  old  woman  grimly. 
"  I  loved  him  dearly,  but  he  didn't  love  me,  and  I  don't  know  what 
good  we  should  do  each  other."  Brooke  declared  that  Hugh  did  love 
her  ;  but  he  could  not  press  the  matter,  and  it  was  dropped. 

On  that  evening  at  eight  Dorothy  came  down  to  her  tea.  She  had 
dined  at  the  same  table  with  Brooke  that  afternoon,  but  a  servant  had 
been  in  the  room  all  the  time  and  nothing  had  been  said  between 
them.  As  soon  as  Brooke  had  got  his  tea  ho  began  to  tell  the  story 
of  his  failui'C  about  Hugh,  He  was  sorry,  he  said,  that  he  had 
spoken  on  the  subject  as  it  had  moved  Miss  Stanbury  to  an  acrimony 
which  he  had  not  expected. 

"  She  always  declares  that  ho  never  loved  her,"  said  Dorothy. 
"  She  has  told  me  so  twenty  times." 

"  There  are  people  who  fancy  that  nobody  cares  for  them,"  said 
Brooke. 

"  Indeed  there  arc,  Mr.  Burgess  ;  and  it  is  so  natural." 

"Why  natural?" 

"  Just  as  it  is  natural  that  there  should  be  dogs  and  cats  that  are 
petted  and  loved  and  made  much  of,  and  others  that  have  to  crawl 
through  life  as  they  can,  cufi'ed  and  kicked  and  starved." 

"  That  depends  on  the  accident  of  possession,"  said  Brooke. 

"  So  does  the  other.  How  many  people  thcro  arc  that  don't  seem 
to  Itelong  to  anybody, — and  if  thoy  do,  they're  no  good  to  anybody. 
They're  not  culled  exactly,  or  starved  ;  but " 


14  HE   KNEAV   HE   WAS    RIGHT, 

"You  mean  that  tbcy  don't  get  their  share  of  aficction  ?" 
"  They  get  jDerhaps  as  much  as  they  deserve,"  said  Dorothy. 
"Because  they're  cross-grained,  or  ill-tempered,  or  disagreeable?" 
"  Not  exactly  that." 
*'  What  then  ?  "  asked  Brooke. 

**  Because  they're  just  nobodies.  They  are  not  anything  particular 
to  anybody,  and  so  they  go  on  living  till  they  die.  You  know  what  I 
mean,  Mr.  Burgess.  A  man  who  is  a  nobody  can  perhaps  make  him- 
self somebody, — or,  at  any  rate,  he  can  try ;  but  a  woman  has  no 
means  of  trying.  She  is  a  nobody,  and  a  nobody  she  must  remain. 
She  has  her  clothes  and  her  food,  but  she  isn't  wanted  anywhere. 
People  put  up  with  her,  and  that  is  about  the  best  of  her  luck.  If 
she  were  to  die  somebody  perhaps  would  be  sorry  for  her,  but  nobody 
would  be  worse  off.  She  doesn't  earn  anything  or  do  any  good. 
She  is  just  there  and  that's  all." 

Brooke  had  never  heard  her  speak  after  this  fashion  before,  had 
never  known  her  to  utter  so  many  consecutive  words,  or  to  put 
forward  any  opinion  of  her  own  with  so  much  vigour.  And  Dorothy 
herself,  when  she  had  concluded  her  speech,  was  frightened  by  her 
own  energy  and  grew  red  in  the  face,  and  shewed  very  plainly  that 
she  was  half  ashamed  of  herself.  Brooke  thought  that  he  had  never 
seen  her  look  so  pretty  before,  and  was  pleased  by  her  enthusiasm. 
He  understood  perfectly  that  she  was  thinking  of  her  own  position, 
though  she  had  entertained  no  idea  that  he  would  so  read  her  mean- 
ing ;  and  he  felt  that  it  was  incumbent  on  him  to  undeceive  her,  and 
make  her  know  that  she  was  not  one  of  those  women  who  are  "just 
there  and  that's  all."  "  One  does  see  such  a  woman  as  that  noAv  and 
again,"  he  said. 

"There  are  hundreds  of  them,"  said  Dorothy.     "And  of  course 
it  can't  be  helped." 

"  Such  as  Arabella  French,"  said  he,  laughing. 
"Well, — yes  ;  if  she  is  one.     It  is  very  easy  to  see  the  difference. 
Some  people  are  of  use  and  are  always  doing  things.     There  are 
others,  generally  women,  who  have  nothing  to  do,  but  who  can't  be 
got  rid  of.     It  is  a  melancholy  sort  of  feeling." 
"  You  at  least  are  not  one  of  them." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  complain  about  myself,"  she  said.     "  I  have  got 
a  great  deal  to  make  me  happy." 

"  I  don't   suppose  you  regard  yourself  as  an  Arabella  French," 
said  he. 

"  How  angry  Miss  French  would  be  if  she  heard  you.     She  con- 
siders herself  to  be  one  of  the  reigning  beauties  of  Exeter." 


\VIL\T  HAPPENED  DURING  MISS  STANBURv's  ILLNESS.  15 

"  She  has  had  a  very  long  reign,  and  dominion  of  that  sort  to  bo 
successful  ought  to  ho  short." 

*'  That  is  spiteful,  Mr.  Burgess." 

"  I  don't  feel  spiteful  against  her,  poor  woman.     I  own  I  do  not 
love  Camilla.     Not  that  I  begrudge  Camilla  her  present  prosperity." 

'•'Nor  I  cither,  Mr.  Burgess." 

"  She  and  Mr.  Gibson  will  do  very  well  together,  I  dare  say." 

"I  hope  they  will,"  said  Dorothy,  "and  I  do  not  see  any  reason 
against  it.     They  have  known  each  other  a  long  time." 

"  A  very  long  time,"  said  Brooke.  Then  he  paused  for  a  minute, 
thinking  how  he  might  best  tell  her  that  which  he  had  now  resolved 
should  be  told  on  this  occasion.  Dorothy  finished  her  tea  and  got  up 
as  though  she  were  about  to  go  to  her  duty  up-staii'S.  She  had 
been  as  yet  hardly  an  houi*  in  the  room,  and  the  period  of  her  relief 
was  not  fairly  over.  But  there  had  come  something  of  a  personal 
flavour  in  their  conversation  which  prompted  her,  unconsciously,  to 
leave  him.  She  had,  without  any  special  indication  of  herself, 
included  herself  among  that  company  of  old  maids  who  are  born  and 
live  and  die  without  that  vital  interest  in  the  affairs  of  life  which 
nothing  but  family  duties,  the  care  of  children,  or  at  least  of  a  hus- 
band, will  give  to  a  woman.  If  she  had  not  meant  this  she  had  felt 
it.  He  had  understood  her  meaning,  or  at  least  her  feeling,  and  had 
taken  upon  himself  to  assure  her  that  she  was  not  one  of  the  com- 
pany whose  privations  she  had  endeavoured  to  describe.  Her  instinct 
rather  than  her  reason  put  her  at  once  upon  her  guard,  and  she  pre- 
pared to  leave  the  room.     "  You  are  not  going  yet,"  he  said. 

"I  think  I  might  as  well.  Martha  has  so  much  to  do,  and  she 
comes  to  me  again  at  five  in  the  morning." 

"  Don't  go  quite  yet,"  he  said,  pulling  out  his  watch.  "  I  know 
all  about  the  hours,  and  it  wants  twenty  minutes  to  the  proper  time." 

"  There  is  no  proper  time,  Mr.  Burgess." 

"  Then  you  can  remain  a  few  minutes  longer.  The  fact  is,  I've  got 
something  I  want  to  say  to  you." 

He  was  now  standing  between  her  and  the  door,  so  that  she  could 
not  get  away  from  him;  but  at  this  moment  she  was  absolutely 
ignorant  of  his  purpose,  expecting  nothing  of  love  from  him  more 
than  she  would  from  Sir  Peter  Mancrudy.  Her  face  had  become 
fiuslied  when  she  made  her  long  speech,  but  there  was  no  blush  on  it 
as  she  answered  bun  now.  "  Of  coui-se,  I  can  wait,"  she  said,  "  if 
you  have  anything  to  say  to  me." 

"  "Well ;— I  have.    I  should  have  said  it  before,  only  that  that  other 


IG  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

man  Avas  hero."  He  was  blushing  now, — up  to  the  roots  of  his  hair, 
and  felt  that  he  was  in  a  difficulty.  There  are  men,  to  whom  such 
moments  of  thcii"  lives  are  pleasurable,  but  Brooke  Burgess  was  not 
one  of  them.  He  would  have  been  glad  to  have  had  it  done  and 
over, — so  that  then  he  might  take  pleasure  in  it. 

"  What  man  ?  "  asked  Dorothy,  in  perfect  innocence. 

"  Mr.  Gibson,  to  be  sure.  I  don't  know  that  there  is  anybody 
else." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Gibson.  He  never  comes  here  now,  and  I  don't  suppose 
he  will  again.     Aunt  Stanbury  is  so  very  angry  with  him." 

"  I  don't  care  whether  he  comes  or  not.  "What  I  mean  is  this. 
When  I  was  here  before,  I  was  told  that  you  were  going — to  marry 
him." 

"  But  I  wasn't." 

"  How  was  I  to  know  that,  when  you  didn't  tell  me  ?  I  certainly 
did  know  it  after  I  came  back  from  Dartmoor."  He  paused  a  moment,, 
as  though  she  might  have  a  word  to  say.  She  had  no  word  to  say,, 
and  did  not  in  the  least  know  what  was  coming.  She  was  so  far 
from  anticipating  the  truth,  that  she  was  composed  and  easy  in  her 
mind.  "But  all  that  is  of  no  use  at  all,"  he  continued.  "  When  I 
was  here  before  Miss  Stanbury  wanted  you  to  marry  Mr.  Gibson ; 
and,  of  course,  I  had  nothing  to  say  about  it.  Now  I  want  you — to 
marry  me." 

"Mr.  Bm-gess!" 

**  Dorothy,  my  darling,  I  love  you  better  than  all  the  world.  I  do, 
indeed."  As  soon  as  he  had  commenced  his  protestations  he  became 
profuse  enough  with  them,  and  made  a  strong  attempt  to  support 
them  by  the  action  of  his  hands.  But  she  retreated  from  him  step 
by  step,  till  she  had  regained  her  chair  by  the  tea-table,  and  there 
she  seated  herself, — safelj^  as  she  thought ;  but  he  was  close  to  her, 
over  her  shoulder,  still  continuing  his  protestations,  offering  up  his 
vows,  and  imploring  her  to  reply  to  him.  She,  as  yet,  had  not  an- 
swered him  by  a  word,  save  by  that  one  half-terrified  exclamation  of 
his  name.  "Tell  me,  at  any  rate,  that  you  believe  me,  when  I 
assure  you  that  I  love  you,"  he  said.  The  room  was  going  round 
with  Dorothy,  and  the  world  was  going  round,  and  there  had  come 
upon  her  so  strong  a  feeling  of  the  disruption  of  things  in  general, 
that  she  was  at  the  moment  anything  but  happy.  Had  it  been 
possible  for  her  to  find  that  the  last  ten  minutes  had  been  a  dream, 
she  would  at  this  moment  have  wished  that  it  might  become  one.  A 
trouble  had  come  upon  her,  out  of  which  she  did  not  see  her  way. 


TIIK    WOULD    WAS    GOING    ROUND    WITH    DOKOTHY. 


WHAT  H.VrrEXED  DURING  MISS  STANBURY's  ILLNESS.  17 

To  tlivc  among  the  waters  iu  warm  weather  is  very  pleasant ;  there  ig 
nothing  pleasanter.  But  when  the  young  swimmer  first  feels  the 
thorough  immersion  of  his  plunge,  there  comes  upon  him  a  strong 
desire  to  he  quickly  out  again.  Ho  will  remember  afterwards  how 
joyous  it  was ;  but  now,  at  this  moment,  the  dry  land  is  everything 
to  him.  So  it  was  with  Dorothy.  She  had  thought  of  Brooke  Bur- 
gess as  one  of  those  bright  ones  of  the  world,  with  whom  everything 
is  happy  and  pleasant,  whom  everybody  loves,  who  may  have  what- 
ever they  please,  whose  lines  have  been  laid  in  pleasant  places.  She 
thought  of  him  as  a  man  who  might  some  day  make  some  woman 
veiy  happy  as  his  Mife.  To  be  the  wife  of  such  a  man  was,  in 
Dorothy's  estimation,  one  of  those  blessed  chances  which  come  to 
some  women,  but  which  she  never  regarded  as  being  within  her  own 
reach.  Though  she  had  thought  much  about  him,  she  had  never 
thought  of  him  as  a  possible  possession  for  herself;  and  now  that  ho 
was  oftering  himself  cO  her,  she  was  not  at  once  made  happy  by  his 
love.  Her  ideas  of  herself  and  of  her  life  were  all  dislocated  for  the 
moment,  and  she  requii'ed  to  be  alone,  that  she  might  set  herself  in 
order,  and  try  herself  all  over,  and  find  whether  her  bones  were 
broken.     "  Say  that  you  believe  me,"  he  repeated. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  she  whispered. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  to  say.    Say  at  once  that  you  will  be  my  wife." 

"I  can't  say  that,  Mr.  Burgess." 

"  ^\Tiy  not '?     Do  you  mean  that  you  cannot  love  me  ?  " 

"  I  think,  if  you  please,  I'll  go  up  to  Aunt  Stanbury.  It  is  time 
for  me  ;  indeed  it  is  ;  and  she  will  be  wondering,  and  Martha  will  be 
put  out.     Indeed  I  must  go  up." 

"  And  will  you  not  answer  me  ?  " 

**  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  You  must  give  me  a  little  time  to 
consider.     I  don't  quite  think  you're  serious." 

"  Heaven  and  earth  !  "  began  Brooke. 

"  And  I'm  sure  it  would  never  do.  At  any  rate,  I  must  go  now. 
I  must,  indeed." 

And  so  she  escaped,  and  went  up  to  her  aunt's  room,  which  she 
reached  at  ten  minutes  after  her  usual  time,  and  before  Martha  had 
licgun  to  be  put  out.  She  was  very  civil  to  Martha,  as  though  ]\Iartha 
had  been  injured ;  and  she  put  her  hand  on  her  aunt's  arm,  with  a 
soft,  caressing,  apologetic  touch,  feeling  conscious  that  she  had  given 
cause  for  oflfence.  "  AVhut  has  he  been  saying  to  you?"  said  her 
aunt,  as  soon  as  Martha  had  closed  the  door.  This  was  a  question 
which  Dorothy,  certainly,  could  not  answer.     Miss  Stanbury  meant 

VOL.  II.  L  ■ 


18  HE   KNEW   HE  WAS   RIGHT. 

nothing  by  it, — nothing  beyond  a  sick  woman's  desire  that  something 
of  the  conversation  of  those  who  were  not  sick  should  be  retailed  to 
her  ;  but  to  Dorothy  the  question  meant  so  much  !  How  should  her 
aunt  have  known  that  he  had  said  anything  ?  She  sat  herself  down 
and  waited,  giving  no  answer  to  the  question.  "  I  hope  he  gets  his 
meals  comfortably,"  said  Miss  Stanbury. 

"I  am  sure  he  does,"  said  Dorothy,  infinitely  relieved.  Then, 
knowing  hoAV  important  it  was  that  her  aunt  should  sleep,  she  took 
up  the  volume  of  Jeremy  Taylor,  and,  with  so  great  a  burden  on  her 
mind,  she  went  on  painfully  and  distinctly  with  the  second  sermon  on 
the  Marriage  Eing.  She  strove  valiantly  to  keep  her  mind  to  the 
godliness  of  the  discourse,  so  that  it  might  be  of  some  possible  service 
to  herself;  and  to  keep  her  voice  to  the  tone  that  might  be  of  service 
to  her  aunt.  Presently  she  heard  the  grateful  sound  which  indicated 
her  aunt's  repose,  but  she  knew  of  experience  that  were  she  to  stop, 
the  sound  and  the  sleep  would  come  to  an  end  also.  For  a  whole 
hour  she  persevered,  reading  the  sermon  of  the  Marriage  King  vnth 
such  attention  to  the  godly  principles  of  the  teaching  as  she  could 
give, — with  that  terrible  burden  upon  her  mind, 

"Thank  you; — thank  you;  that  will  do,  my  dear.  Shut  it  up," 
said  the  sick  woman.  "It's  time  now  for  the  draught."  Then 
Dorothy  moved  quietly  about  the  room,  and  did  her  nurse's  work  with 
soft  hand,  and  soft  touch,  and  soft  tread.  After  that  her  aunt  kissed 
her,  and  bade  her  sit  down  and  sleep. 

"I'll  go  on  reading,  aunt,  if  you'll  let  me,"  said  Dorothy.  But 
Miss  Stanbury,  who  was  not  a  cruel  woman,  would  have  no  more  of 
the  reading,  and  Dorothy's  mind  was  left  at  liberty  to  think  of  the 
proposition  that  had  been  made  to  her.  To  one  resolution  she  came 
very  quickly.  The  period  of  her  aunt's  illness  could  not  be  a  proper 
time  for  marriage  vows,  or  the  amenities  of  love-making.  She  did 
not  feel  that  he,  being  a  man,  had  offended ;  but  she  was  quite  sure 
that  were  she,  a  woman,  the  niece  of  so  kind  an  aunt,  the  mirse  at 
the  bed-side  of  such  an  invalid, — were  she  at  such  a  time  to  consent 
to  talk  of  love,  she  would  never  deserve  to  have  a  lover.  And  from 
this  resolve  she  got  great  comfort.  It  would  give  her  an  excuse  for 
making  no  more  assured  answer  at  present,  and  would  enable  her  to 
reflect  at  leisure  as  to  the  reply  she  would  give  him,  shovald  he  ever, 
by  any  chance,  renew  his  offer.  If  he  did  not, — and  probably  he 
would  not, — then  it  would  have  been  very  well  that  he  should  not 
have  been  made  the  victim  of  a  momentary  generosity.  She  had 
complained  of  the  diJness  of  her  life,  and  that  complaint  from  her 


AVIIAT  HArrENED  DURING  MISS  STANBURY's  ILLNESS.  19 

had  produced  his  noble,  kind,  generous,  dear,  enthusiastic  benevo- 
lence towards  her.  As  she  thought  of  it  all, — and  by  degrees  she 
took  gi'eat  pleasure  in  thinking  of  it, — her  mind  bestowed  upon  him 
all  manner  of  eulogies.  She  could  not  persuade  herself  that  ho  really 
loved  her,  and  )-et  she  was  full  at  heart  of  gratitude  to  him  for  the 
expression  of  his  love.  And  as  for  herself,  could  she  love  him  ?  We 
who  are  looking  on  of  course  know  that  she  loved  him ; — that  from 
this  moment  there  was  nothing  belonging  to  him,  down  to  his  shoe- 
tie,  that  would  not  bo  dear  to  her  heart  and  an  emblem  so  tender  as 
to  force  a  tear  from  her.  He  had  already  become  her  god,  though 
she  did  not  know  it.  She  made  comparisons  between  him  and 
Ml*.  Gibson,  and  tried  to  convince  herself  that  the  judgment,  which 
■was  always  pronounced  very  clearly  in  Brooke's  favour,  came  from 
anything  but  her  heart.  And  thus  through  the  long  watches  of  the 
night  she  became  verj'  bappy,  feeling  but  not  knowing  that  the  whole 
aspect  of  the  world  was  changed  to  her  by  those  few  words  which 
her  lover  had  spoken  to  her.  She  thought  now  that  it  would  be 
consolation  enough  to  her  in  future  to  know  that  such  a  man  as 
Brooke  Burgess  had  once  asked  her  to  be  the  partner  of  his  life,  and 
that  it  would  be  almost  ungenerous  in  her  to  push  her  advantage 
fm-ther  and  attempt  to  take  him  at  his  word.  Besides,  there  would 
be  obstacles.  Her  aunt  would  dislike  such  a  marriage  for  him,  and 
he  would  be  bound  to  obey  her  aunt  in  such  a  matter.  She  would 
not  allow  herself  to  think  that  she  could  ever  become  Brooke's  wife, 
but  nothing  could  rob  her  of  the  treasure  of  the  offer  which  he  had 
made  her.  Then  Martha  came  to  her  at  five  o'clock,  and  she  went  to  her 
bed  to  dream  for  an  hour  or  two  of  Brooke  Bm-gess  and  her  future  life. 

On  the  next  morning  she  met  him  at  breakfast.  She  went  down 
stairs  later  than  usual,  not  till  ten,  having  hung  about  her  aunt's 
room,  thinking  that  thus  she  would  escape  him  for  the  present.  She 
would  wait  till  he  was  gone  out,  and  then  she  would  go  down.  She 
did  wait ;  but  she  could  not  hear  the  front  door,  and  then  her  aunt 
mm-mured  something  about  Brooke's  breakfast.  She  was  told  to  go 
down,  and  she  went.  But  when  on  the  stairs  she  slunk  back  to  her 
own  room,  and  stood  there  for  awhile,  aimless,  motionless,  not 
knowing  what  to  do.  Then  one  of  the  girls  came  to  her,  and  told 
her  that  Mr.  Burgess  was  waiting  breakfast  for  her.  She  know  not 
what  excuse  to  make,  and  at  last  descended  slowly  to  the  parlour. 
She  was  very  happy,  but  had  it  been  possible  for  her  to  have  run 
away  she  would  have  gone. 

"Dear  Dorothy,"  ho  said  at  onco.  "I  may  call  you  bo, — may  I 
not  ?  " 


20  HE   KNEW   HE   AVAS   RIGHT. 

«'  Oh  yes." 

"  And  you  will  love  me  ; — and  be  my  own,  own  wife  ?  " 

"No,  Mr.  Burgess." 

"No?" 

"  I  mean  ; — that  is  to  say " 

"  Do  you  love  me,  Dorothy  ?" 

"  Only  think  how  ill  Aunt  Stanbury  is,  Mr.  Burgess  ; — perhaps 
dying !  How  can  I  have  any  thought  now  except  about  her  ?  It 
wouldn't  be  right ; — would  it  ?" 

"  You  may  say  that  you  love  me." 

"Mr,  Burgess,  pray,  pray  don't  speak  of  it  now.  If  you  do  I 
must  go  away." 

"  But  do  you  love  mo  ?  " 

"Pray,  pray  don't,  Mr.  Burgess  !" 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  got  from  her  during  the  whole  day 
than  that.  He  told  her  in  the  evening  that  as  soon  as  Miss  Stanbury 
was  well,  he  would  come  again ; — that  in  any  case  he  would  come 
again.  She  sat  quite  still  as  he  said  this,  with  a  solemn  face, — but 
smiling  at  heart,  laughing  at  heart,  so  happy  !  When  she  got  up  to 
leave  him,  and  was  forced  to  give  him  her  hand,  he  seized  her  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her.  "  That  is  very,  very  wrong,"  she  said,  sobbing, 
and  then  ran  to  her  room, — the  happiest  girl  in  all  Exeter.  He  was 
to  start  early  on  the  following  morning,  and  she  knew  that  she  would 
not  be  forced  to  see  him  again.  Thinking  of  him  was  so  much 
pleasanter  than  seeing  him ! 


CHAPTER  LII. 
jlIE.  OUTHOUSE  COMPLAIJS'S  THAT  IT'S  HA  ED. 

Life  had  gone  on  during  the  winter  at  St.  Diddulph's  Parsonage  in 
a  dull,  weary,  painful  manner.  There  had  come  a  letter  in  November 
from  Trevelyan  to  his  wife,  saying  that  as  he  could  trust  neither  her 
nor  her  uncle  with  the  custody  of  his  child,  he  should  send  a  person 
armed  with  due  legal  authority,  addressed  to  Mr.  Outhouse,  for  the 
recovery  of  the  boy,  and  desiring  that  little  Louis  might  be  at  once 
surrendered  to  the  messenger.  Then  of  course  there  had  arisen 
great  trouble  in  the  house.  Both  iMrs.  Trevelyan  and  Nora  Rowley 
had  learned  by  this  time  that,  as  regarded  the  master  of  the  house, 
they  were  not  welcome  guests  at  St.  Diddulph's.  When  the  threat 
was  shewn  to  Mr.  Outhouse,  he  did  not  say  a  word  to  indicate  that 


MR.  OUTHOUSE    COMri.AlNS   THAT    It's   HARD.  21 

the  cbikl  should  bo  given  up.  IIo  mutterctl  something,  inclcccl,  about 
impotent  nonsense,  which  seemed  to  imply  that  the  threat  could  be  of 
no  avail ;  but  there  was  none  of  that  reassurance  to  be  obtained  from 
him  which  a  positive  promise  on  his  part  to  hold  the  bairn  against  all 
comers  would  have  given.  Mrs.  Outhouse  told  her  niece  more  than 
once  that  the  child  would  bo  given  to  no  messenger  whatever ;  but 
even  she  did  not  give  the  assurance  with  that  energy  which  the 
mother  would  have  liked.  "  They  shall  drag  him  away  from  mc  by 
force  if  they  do  take  him  !  "  said  the  mother,  gnashing  her  teeth.  Oh, 
if  her  father  would  but  come  !  For  some  weeks  she  did  not  let  the 
boy  out  of  her  sight ;  but  when  no  messenger  had  presented  himself 
by  Christmas  time,  they  all  began  to  believe  that  the  threat  had  in 
truth  meant  nothing, — that  it  had  been  part  of  the  ravings  of  a 
madman. 

But  the  threat  had  meant  something.  Early  on  one  morning  in 
January  Mr.  Outhouse  was  told  that  a  person  in  the  hall  wanted  to 
see  him,  and  Mrs.  Trevelyan,  who  was  sitting  at  breakfast,  the  child 
being  at  the  moment  up-stairs,  started  from  her  seat.  The  maid 
described  the  man  as  being  "All  as  one  as  a  gentleman,"  though  she 
would  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  he  was  a  gentleman  in  fact.  Mr. 
Outhouse  slowly  rose  from  his  breakfast,  went  out  to  the  man  in  the 
passage,  and  bade  him  follow  into  the  little  closet  that  was  now  used 
as  a  study.    It  is  needless  perhaps  to  say  that  the  man  was  Bozzle. 

"  I  dare  say,  Mr.  Houthouse,  you  don't  know  me,"  said  Bozzle. 
Mr.  Outhouse,  disdaining  all  complimentary  language,  said  that  he 
certainly  did  not.  "  My  name,  Mr.  Houthouse,  is  Samuel  Bozzle,  and 
I  live  at  No.  55,  Stony  Walk,  Union  Street,  Borough.  I  was  in  the 
Force  once,  but  I  work  on  my  own  'ook  now." 

"  What  do  you  want  with  me,  Mr.  Bozzle  ?  " 

"It  isn't  so  much  with  you,  sir,  as  it  is  with  a  lady  as  is  under 
your  protection ;  and  it  isn't  so  much  with  the  lady  as  it  is  with  her 
infant." 

"  Then  you  may  go  away,  Mr.  Bozzle,"  said  Mr.  Outhouse,  impa- 
tiently.    "  You  may  as  avcU  go  away  at  once." 

"  Will  you  i^lease  read  them  few  lines,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Bozzle. 
"  They  is  in  Mr.  Trewilyan's  handwriting,  which  will  no  doubt  be 
familiar  characters, — leastways  to  Mrs.  T.,  if  you  don't  know  the 
gent's  fist."  Mr.  Outhouse,  after  looking  at  the  paper  for  a  minute, 
and  considering  deeply  what  in  this  emergency  he  had  better  do,  did 
take  the  paper  and  read  it.  The  words  ran  as  follows  :  "  I  hereby 
give  full  authority  to  Mr.  Samuel  Bozzle,  of  55,  Stony  Walk,  Union 


22  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

Street,  Borougli,  to  claim  and  to  enforce  possession  of  tlie  body  of  my 
cliild,  Louis  Trevelyan ;  and  I  require  that  any  person  whatsoever 
who  may  now  have  the  custody  of  the  said  child,  whether  it  be  my 
wife  or  any  of  her  friends,  shall  at  once  deliver  him  up  to  Mr.  Bozzle 
on  the  production  of  this  authority. — Louis  Teevelyan."  It  may  be 
explained  that  before  this  document  had  been  written  there  had  been 
much  correspondence  on  the  subject  between  Bozzle  and  his  employer. 
To  give  the  ex-policeman  his  due,  he  had  not  at  first  wished  to  meddle 
in  the  matter  of  the  child.  He  had  a  wife  at  home  who  expressed  an 
opinion  with  much  vigour  that  the  boy  should  be  left  with  its  mother, 
and  that  he,  Bozzle,  should  he  succeed  in  getting  hold  of  the  child, 
would  not  know  what  to  do  with  it.  Bozzle  was  aware,  moreover,  that 
it  was  his  business  to  find  out  facts,  and  not  to  perform  actions.  But 
his  emploj'er  had  become  very  urgent  with  him.  Mr.  Bideawhile  had 
positively  refused  to  move  in  the  matter  ;  and  Trevelyan,  mad  as  he 
was,  had  felt  a  disinclination  to  throw  his  affairs  into  the  hands  of  a 
certain  Mr.  Skint,  of  Stamford  Street,  whom  Bozzle  had  recom- 
mended to  him  as  a  lawj-er.  Trevelyan  had  hinted,  moreover,  that  if 
Bozzle  would  make  the  application  in  person,  that  application,  if  not 
obeyed,  would  act  with  usefulness  as  a  preliminary  step  for  further 
personal  measures  to  be  taken  by  himself.  He  intended  to  return  to 
England  for  the  purpose,  but  he  desired  that  the  order  for  the  child's 
rendition  should  be  made  at  once.  Therefore  Bozzle  had  come.  He 
was  an  earnest  man,  and  had  now  worked  himself  up  to  a  certain 
degree  of  energy  in  the  matter.  He  was  a  man  loving  power,  and 
specially  anxious  to  enforce  obedience  from  those  with  whom  he  came 
in  contact  by  the  production  of  the  law's  mysterious  authority.  In 
his  heart  he  was  ever  tapping  people  on  the  shoulder,  and  telling 
them  that  they  were  wanted.  Thus,  when  he  displayed  his  document 
to  Mr.  Outhouse,  he  had  taught  himself  at  least  to  desii'e  that  that 
document  should  be  obeyed. 

Mr.  Outhouse  read  the  paper  and  turned  up  his  nose  at  it.     "  You 
Jiad  better  go  away,"  said  he,  as  he  thrust  it  back  into  Bozzle's  hand. 

"  Of  course  I  shall  go  away  when  I  have  the  child." 

"Psha!"  said  Mr.  Outhouse, 

"  What  does  that  mean,  Mr.  Houthouse  ?     I  presume  you'll  not 
dispute  the  paternal  parent's  legal  authority  ?" 

"  Go  away,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Outhouse. 

«*Go  away!" 

"  Yes  ; — out  of  this  house.     It's  my  belief  that  you're  a  knavo.'^ 

"  A  knave,  Mr.  Houthouse  ?" 


MR.  OUTHOUSE    COMPLAINS   THAT   IT*S    HARD,  23 

"  Yes ; — a  knave.  No  one  who  was  not  a  knave  -woukl  lend  a 
hand  towards  separatmg  a  little  child  from  its  mother.  I  think  yon 
arc  a  knave,  but  I  don't  think  you  are  fool  enough  to  suppose  that 
the  child  -will  be  given  up  to  you." 

"  It's  my  belief  that  knave  is  hactionable,"  said  Bozzle, — whoso 
respect,  however,  for  the  clcrgj-mau  was  rising  fast.  "  Would  you 
mind  ringing  the  bell,  Mr.  Houthouse,  and  calling  me  a  knave  again 
before  the  young  woman  ?  " 

"  Go  away,"  said  Mr.  Outhouse. 

"If  you  have  no  objection,  sir,  I  should  be  glad  to  sec  the  lady 
before  I  goes." 

"You  won't  see  any  lady  here;  and  if  you  don't  get  out  of  my 
house  when  I  tell  you,  I'll  send  for  a  real  policeman."  Then  was 
Bozzle  conquered  ;  and,  as  he  wx-nt,  he  admitted  to  himself  that  he 
had  sinned  against  all  the  rules  of  his  life  in  attempting  to  go  beyond 
the  legitimate  line  of  his  profession.  As  long  as  he  confined  himself 
to  the  getting  up  of  facts  nobody  could  threaten  him  with  a  "  real 
policeman."  But  one  fact  he  had  learned  to-day.  The  clergyman  of 
St.  Diddulph's,  w'ho  had  been  represented  to  him  as  a  weak,  foolish 
man,  was  anything  but  that.  Bozzle  w^as  much  impressed  in  favour 
of  Mr.  Outhouse,  and  would  have  been  glad  to  have  done  that  gentle- 
man a  kindness  had  an  opportunity  come  in  his  way. 

"What  does  he  want,  Uncle  Oliphant?"  said  Mrs.  Trevelyan  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  guarding  the  way  up  to  the  nursery.  At  this 
moment  the  front  door  had  just  been  closed  behind  the  back  of  Mr. 
Bozzle. 

"Y^ou  had  bettor  ask  no  questions,"  said  Mr.  Outhouse. 

"But  is  it  about  Louis?" 

"Yes,  he  came  about  him." 

"  Well  ?  Of  course  you  must  tell  me,  Uncle  Oliphant.  Think  of 
my  condition." 

"  He  had  some  stupid  paper  in  his  hand  from  your  husband,  but  it 
meant  nothing." 

"  Ho  was  the  messenger,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  ho  was  the  messenger.  But  I  don't  suppose  he  expected  to 
get  anything.  Never  mind.  Go  up  and  look  after  the  child."  Then 
Mrs.  Trevelyan  rctimiod  to  her  boy,  and  Mr.  Outhouse  went  back 
to  his  papers. 

It  was  very  hard  upon  him,  Mr.  Outhouse  thought, — very  hard. 
He  was  threatened  with  an  action  now,  and  most  probably  would 
become  subject  to  one.     Though  he  had  been  spirited  enough  in  pre- 


24  HE   KXEW   HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

sence  of  tlic  enemy,  lie  was  very  much  out  of  spu-its  at  tliis  moment. 
Though  he  had  admitted  to  himself  that  his  duty  requii-ed  him  to  pro- 
tect his  wife's  niece,  he  had  never  taken  the  poor  woman  to  his  heart 
with  a  loving,  generous  feeling  of  true  guardianship.  Though  he 
would  not  give  up  the  child  to  Bozzlc,  he  thoroughly  wished  that  tho 
child  was  out  of  his  house.  Though  he  called  Bozzle  a  knave  and 
Trevelyan  a  madman,  still  he  considered  that  Colonel  Osborne  was 
the  chief  sinner,  and  that  Emily  Trevelyan  had  behaved  badly.  He 
constantly  repeated  to  himself  the  old  adage,  that  there  was  no  smoke 
without  fire ;  and  lamented  the  misfortune  that  had  brought  him 
into  close  relation  with  things  and  people  that  were  so  little  to  his 
taste.  He  sat  for  awhile,  with  a  pen  in  his  hand,  at  the  miserable 
little  substitute  for  a  library  table  which  had  been  provided  for  him, 
and  strove  to  collect  his  thoughts  and  go  on  -with  his  work.  But 
the  effort  was  in  vain.  Bozzle  would  be  there,  presenting  his  docu- 
ment, and  begging  that  the  maid  might  be  rung  for,  in  order  that  she 
might  hear  him  called  a  knave.  And  then  he  knew  that  on  this  very 
day  his  niece  intended  to  hand  him  money,  which  he  could  not  refuse. 
Of  what  use  would  it  be  to  refuse  it  now,  after  it  had  been  once 
taken  ?  As  he  could  not  wiite  a  word,  he  rose  and  went  away  to  his 
wife. 

"  If  this  goes  on  much  longer,"  said  he,  "  I  shall  be  in  Bedlam." 
"  My  dear,  don't  speak  of  it  in  that  waj' ! " 

'*  That's  all  very  Avell.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  say  that  I  like  "it. 
There  has  been  a  policeman  here  who  is  going  to  bring  an  action 
against  me." 

"  A  policeman !" 

*'  Some  one  that  her  husband  has  sent  for  the  child." 
"  The  boy  must  not  be  given  up,  Oliphant." 

"  It's  all  very  well  to  say  that,  but  I  suppose  we  must  obey  the 
law.  The  Parsonage  of  St.  Diddulph's  isn't  a  castle  in  the  Apennines. 
When  it  comes  to  this,  that  a  policeman  is  sent  here  to  fetch  any 
man's  child,  and  threatens  me  with  an  action  because  I  teU  him  to 
leave  my  house,  it  is  very  hard  upon  me,  seeing  how  very  little  I've 
had  to  do  with  it.  It's  all  over  the  parish  now  that  my  niece  is  kept 
here  away  from  her  husband,  and  that  a  lover  comes  to  see  her. 
This  about  the  policeman  will  be  known  now,  of  course.  I  only  say 
it  is  hard ;  that's  all."  The  wife  did  all  that  she  could  to  comfort 
him,  reminding  him  that  Sir  Marmaduke  would  be  home  soon,  and 
that  then  the  burden  would  be  taken  from  his  shoulders.  But  she 
was  forced  to  admit  that  it  was  very  hard. 


CILVPTER  LIII. 
JIVGn  STANBrLY  IS  SHEWN  TO  BE  yo  COXJUnOR. 


'm'^^'iM  /-^^  weeks  had  now  passed  sinco 


Ilugli  Stanbury  had  paid  his  visit 
to     St.     .Diddulph's,    and     Nora 
Rowley  was  beginning  to  believe 
that   her   rejection   of   her   lover 
had    been   so   firm   and    decided 
that  she  would  never  see  him  or 
hear  from   him  more ; — and   she 
had  long  since  confessed  to  her- 
self that  if  she  did  not  see  him  or 
hear  from  him  soon,  life   would 
not    be   worth    a    straw   to    her. 
To   all   of   us    a   single   treasure 
counts  for  much  more  when  the 
outward    circumstances     of    our 
life     are     dull,     unvaried,     and 
melancholy,    than   it  does  when  our   days  are  full  of  pleasure,  or 
excitement,  or  even  of  business.     With  Nora  Rowley  at  St.  Did- 
dulph's life  at  present  was  very  melancholy.     There  was  little  or  no 
society  to  enliven  her.     Her  sister  was  sick  at  heart,  and  becoming 
ill  in  health  under  the  burden  of  her  troubles.     Mr.  Outhouse  was 
moody  and  wretched ;  and  Mrs.  Outhouse,  though  she  did  her  best  to 
make  her  house  comfortable  to  her  unwelcome  inmates,  could  not 
make  it  appear  that  their  presence  there  was  a  pleasure  to  her.     Nora 
understood  better   than    did  her  sister  how  distasteful  the  present 
arrangement  was  to  their  uncle,  and  was  consequently  very  uncom- 
fortable on  that  score.     And  in  the  midst  of  that  unhappiness,  she  of 
course  told  herself  that  she  was  a   young   woman   miserable    and 
unfortunate  altogether.     It  is  always  so  with  us.     The  heart  when  it 
is  burdened,  though  it  may  have  ample  strength  to  bear  the  burden, 
loses  its  buoyancy  and  doubts  its  own  power.     It  is  like  the  springs 

VOL.  II.  C 


20  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

of  a  carriago  Avhich  aro  pressed  flat  by  the  su2)eriucumbent  weiglit. 
But,  because  the  springs  are  good,  the  weight  is  carried  safely,  and 
they  are  the  better  afterwards  for  their  required  purposes  because  of 
the  trial  to  which  they  have  been  subjected. 

Nora  had  sent  her  lover  away,  and  now  at  the  end  of  three  months 

from  the  day  of  his  dismissal  she  had  taught  herself  to  believe  that 

he  would  never  come  again.     Amidst  the  sadness  of  her  life  at  St. 

Diddulph's  some  confidence  in  a  lover  expected  to  come  again  would 

have  done  much  to   cheer  her.     The    more    she   thought    of  Hugh 

Stanbury,  the  more  fully  she  became  convinced  that  he  was  the  man 

Avho  as  a  lover,  as  a  husband,  and  as  a  companion,  would  just  suit 

all  her  tastes.     She  endowed  him  liberally  with  a  hundred  good  gifts 

in  the  disposal  of  which  Nature  had  been  much  more  sparing.     She 

made  for  herself  a  mental  portrait  of  him  more  gracious  in  its  flattery 

than  ever  was  canvas  coming  from  the  hand  of  a  Court  limner.     She 

gave  him  all  gifts  of  manliness,  honesty,  truth,  and  energy,  and  felt 

regarding  him  that  he  was  a  Paladin, — such  as  Paladins  are  in  this 

age,  that  he  was  indomitable,  sure  of  success,  and  fitted  in  all  respects 

to  take  the  high  position  which  he  would  certainly  win  for  himself. 

But  she  did  not  presume  him  to  be  endowed  with  such  a  constancy  as 

would  make  him  come  to  seek  her  hand  again.     Had  Nora  at  this 

time  of  her  life  been  living  at  the  West-end  of  London,  and  going  out 

to  parties  three  or  four  times  a  week,  she  would  have  been  quite  easy 

about  his  coming.     The  springs  would  not  have  been  weighted   so 

heavily,  and  her  heart  would  have  been  elastic. 

No  doubt  she  had  forgotten  many  of  the  circumstances  of  his  visit 
and  of  his  departure.  Immediately  on  his  going  she  had  told  her 
sister  that  he  would  certainly  come  again,  but  had  said  at  the  same 
time  that  his  coming  could  be  of  no  use.  He  was  so  poor  a  man ; 
and  she, — though  poorer  than  he, — had  been  so  little  accustomed  to 
poverty  of  life,  that  she  had  then  acknowledged  to  herself  that  she 
was  not  fit  to  be  his  wife.  Gradually,  as  the  slow  weeks  went  by 
her,  there  had  come  a  change  in  her  ideas.  She  now  thought  that  ho 
never  would  come  again  ;  but  that  if  he  did  she  would  confess  to 
him  that  her  own  views  about  life  were  changed.  "  I  would  tell  him 
frankly  that  I  could  eat  a  crust  with  him  in  any  garret  in  London." 
But  this  was  said  to  herself; — never  to  her  sister.  Emily  and 
Mrs.  Outhouse  had  determined  together  that  it  would  be  wise  to 
abstain  from  all  mention  of  Hugh  Stanbury's  name.  Nora  had  felt 
that  her  sister  had  so  abstained,  and  this  reticence  li  ;d  assisted  in 
producing  the  despair  which  had  come  upon  her.     Hugh,  when  ha 


HKill    Sl.VM'.L'RY    IS    SI1K^V^•    TO    HE    NO    CONJ  U  UOIl.  27 

h:ul  left  lior,  li:id  ccrtaluly  giwu  her  cncmiragemcnt  to  expect  that  ho 
wouUl  return.  She  had  been  sure  then  that  he  woukl  return.  She 
liad  been  sure  of  it,  though  she  had  told  him  that  it  would  be  useless. 
But  now,  when  these  sad  weeks  had  slowly  crept  over  her  head,  when 
during  the  long  hours  of  the  long  days  she  had  thought  of  him  cou- 
tinuiilly, — telling  herself  that  it  was  impossible  that  she  should  ever 
become  the  wife  of  any  man  if  she  did  not  become  his, — she  assured 
herself  that  she  had  seen  and  heard  the  last  of  him.  She  must  surely 
have  forgotten  his  hot  words  and  that  daring  embrace. 

Then  there  came  a  letter  to  her.  The  question  of  the  management 
of  letters  for  young  ladies  is  handled  very  differently  in  different 
houses.  In  some  establishments  the  post  is  as  free  to  young  ladies  as 
it  is  to  the  reverend  seniors  of  the  household.  In  others  it  is 
considered  to  be  quite  a  matter  of  course  that  some  experienced 
discretion  should  sit  in  judgment  on  the  correspondence  of  the 
daughters  of  the  family.  When  Nora  Rowley  was  living  with  her 
sister  in  Curzon  Street,  she  would  have  been  very  indignant  indeed 
had  it  been  suggested  to  her  that  there  was  any  authority  over  her 
letters  vested  in  her  sister.  But  now,  circumstanced  as  she  was  at 
St.  Diddulph's,  she  did  understand  that  no  letter  would  reach  her 
without  her  aunt  knowing  that  it  had  conic.  All  this  was  distasteful 
to  her, — as  were  indeed  all  the  details  of  her  life  at  St.  DidduljA's  ; — ■ 
but  she  could  not  help  herself.  Had  her  aunt  told  her  that  she 
should  never  be  allowed  to  receive  a  letter  at  all,  she  must  have 
submitted  till  her  mother  had  come  to  her  relief.  The  letter  which 
reached  her  now  was  put  into  her  hands  by  her  sister,  but  it  had 
heen  given  to  Mrs.  Trevelyan  by  Mrs.  Outhouse.  "Nora,"  said 
Mrs.  Trevelyan,  "  here  is  a  letter  for  you.  I  think  it  is  from  Mr. 
Stanbur)-." 

"  Give  it  me,"  said  Nora  greedily. 

"  Of  course  I  will  give  it  you.  But  I  hope  you  do  not  intend  to 
correspond  with  him." 

"  If  he  has  written  to  me  I  shall  answer  him  of  course,"  said  Nora, 
holding  her  treasure. 

"  Aunt  Mary  thinks  that  you  should  not  do  so  till  pnpa  and  mamma 
Lave  arrived." 

"  If  Aunt  Mary  is  afraid  of  me  let  her  tell  njo  so,  and  I  will  con- 
tjjve  to  go  somewhere  else."  Poor  Nora  knew  that  this  threat  was 
futile.     There  was  no  ho'i:.e  to  which  she  could  take  herself. 

"  She  is  not  afraid  of  you  at  all,  Nora.  She  only  says  that  sho 
thinks  you  bhould  not  write  to  Mr.  Stanbury."     Then  Nora  escaped 


28  HK    KNEW    II H    WAS    EIOTIT. 

to  the  cold  Lut  solitary  soclupion  of  her  bed-room  and  there  she  read 
her  letter. 

The  reader  may  remember  that  Hugh  Stanbury  when  he  last  left 
St.  Diddulph's  had  not  been  oppressed  by  any  of  the  gloomy  reveries 
of  a  despairing  lover.  He  had  spoken  his  mind  freely  to  Nora,  and 
had  felt  himself  justified  in  believing  that  ho  had  not  spoken  in  vain. 
He  had  had  her  in  his  arms,  and  she  had  found  it  impossible  to  say 
that  she  did  not  love  him.  But  then  she  had  been  quite  firm  in  her 
purpose  to  give  him  no  encouragement  that  she  could  avoid.  She 
had  said  no  word  that  would  justify  him  in  considering  that  there 
was  any  engagement  between  them ;  and,  moreover,  he  had  been 
warned  not  to  come  to  the  house  by  its  mistress.  Froift  day  to  day 
he  thought  of  it  all,  now  telling  himself  that  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done  but  to  trust  in  her  fidelity  till  he  should  be  in  a  position  to  offer 
her  a  fitting  home,  and  then  reflecting  that  he  could  not  expect  such  a 
girl  as  Nora  Kowley  to  vrait  for  him,  unless  he  could  succeed  in 
making  her  understand  that  he  at  any  rate  intended  to  wait  for  her. 
On  one  day  he  would  think  that  good  faith  and  proper  consideration 
for  Nora  herself  required  him  to  keep  silent ;  on  the  next  he  would 
tell  himself  that  such  maudlin  chivalry  as  he  was  proposing  to  him- 
self was  sure  to  go  to  the  wall  and  be  neither  rewarded  nor  recognised. 
So  at  last  he  sat  down  and  wrote  the  following  letter : — • 

"Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  Jammrj-,  lf?6— . 
"  Deaeest  Noea, 

"  Ever  since  I  last  saw  you  at  St.  Diddulph's,  I  have  been 
trying  to  teach  myself  what  I  ought  to  do  in  reference  to  you.  Some- 
times I  think  that  because  I  am  poor  I  ought  to  hold  my  tongue.  At 
others  I  feel  sure  that  I  ought  to  speak  out  loud,  because  I  love  you 
so  dearly.  You  may  presume  that  just  at  this  moment  the  latter 
opinion  is  in  the  ascendant. 

"  As  I  do  write  I  mean  to  be  very  bold; — so  bold  that  if  I  am 
Yv^rong  you  will  be  thoroughly  disgusted  with  me  and  will  never 
T.illingly  see  me  again.  But  I  think  it  best  to  be  true,  and  to  say 
what  I  think.  I  do  believe  that  you  love  me.  According  to  all 
precedent  I  ought  not  to  say  so ; — but  I  do  believe  it.  Ever  since  I 
was  at  St.  Diddulph's  that  belief  has  made  me  happy, — though  there 
have  been  moments  of  doubt.  If  I  thought  that  you  did  not  love  me, 
I  would  trouble  you  no  further.  A  man  may  win  his  way  to  love 
when  social  circumstances  are  such  as  to  throw  him  and  the  girl 
together ;  but  such  is  not  the  case  with  us  ;  and  unless  you  love  mo 


HUGH    STANBURY    IS   SHEWN   TO    BE    NO   CONJUROR,  29 

now,  you  never  will  love  me."  "I  do — I  do  !  "  said  Nora,  pressing 
the  letter  to  her  bosom.  "If  you  do,  I  thiuk  that  you  owe  it  me  to 
say  so,  and  to  let  me  have  all  the  joy  and  all  the  feeling  of  respon- 
sibility which  such  an  assurance  will  give  me."  "  I  will  tell  him  so," 
said  Nora  ;  "  I  don't  care  what  may  come  afterwards,  but  I  will  tell 
him  the  truth."  "  I  know,"  continued  Hugh,  "  that  an  engagement 
with  me  now  would  be  hazardous,  because  what  I  earn  is  both  scanty 
and  precarious  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  nothing  could  ever  be  done 

■\nthout  some  risk.     There  are  risks   of  different  kinds, "     She 

wondered  whether  he  was  thinking  when  he  wrote  this  of  the  rock  on 
which  her  sister's  barque  had  been  split  to  pieces; — "and  wo  may 
hardly  hope  to  avoid  them  all.  For  m5'self,  I  own  that  life  would  be 
tame  to  me,  if  there  were  no  dangers  to  be  overcome. 

"  If  you  do  love  me,  and  will  say  so,  I  will  not  ask  you  to  be  my 
wife  till  I  can  give  you  a  proper  home  ;  but  the  knowledge  that  I  am 
the  master  of  the  treasure  which  I  desire  will  give  me  a  double 
energy,  and  -will  make  me  feel  that  when  I  have  gained  so  much  I 
cannot  fail  of  adding  to  it  all  other  smaller  things  that  may  bo 
necessary. 

"Pray, — pray  send  me  an  answer.     I  cannot  reach  you  except  by 
writing,  as  I  was  told  by  your  aunt  not  to  come  to  the  house  again. 
"  Dearest  Nora,  pray  believe 

"  That  I  shall  always  be  truly  j-ours  only, 

"  Hugh  Sxaxeury." 

Write  to  him !  Of  course  she  would  write  to  him.  Of  course  she 
v/ould  confess  to  him  the  truth.  "  He  tells  me  that  I  owe  it  to  him 
to  say  so,  and  I  acknowledge  the  debt,"  she  said  aloud  to  herself. 
"And  as  for  a  proper  home,  he  shall  be  the  judge  of  that."  She 
resolved  that  she  would  not  be  a  fine  lady,  not  fastidious,  not  coy, 
not  afraid  to  take  her  full  share  of  the  risk  of  which  he  spoke  in 
such  manly  terms.  "  It  is  quite  true.  As  he  has  been  able  to  make 
me  love  him,  I  have  no  right  to  stand  aloof, — even  if  I  wished  it." 
As  she  was  walking  up  and  down  the  room  so  resolving  her  sister 
came  to  her. 

"  Well,  dear  !  "  said  Emily.  "  May  I  ask  what  it  is  he  says  ?  " 
Nora  paused  a  moment,  holding  the  letter  tight  in  her  hand,  and 
then  she  held  it  out  to  her  sister.  "  There  it  is.  You  may  read  it." 
Mrs.  Trevelyan  took  the  letter  and  read  it  slowly,  during  which  Nora 
stood  looking  out  of  the  window.  She  would  not  watch  her  sister's 
face,  as  she  did  not  wish  to  have  to  reply  to  any  outward  signs  of 


80  in:  km:w  iik  was  right. 

disapproval.     "  Give  it  mc  back,"  she  saitl,  when  she  heard  by  tho 
rclbldiug  of  the  paper  that  the  perusal  was  finished. 

"  Of  course  I  shall  give  it  you  back,  dear." 

"  Yes  ; — thanks.     I  did  not  mean  to  doubt  you."' 

"  And  what  will  you  do,  Nora  ?" 

"  Answer  it  of  course." 

'•  I  would  think  a  little  before  I  answered  it,"  said  Mrs.  Trevclyan. 

*'I  have  thought, — a  great  deal,  already." 

"  And  how  will  you  answer  it  ?  " 

Nora  paused  again  before  she  replied.  "  As  nearly  as  I  know  how 
to  do  in  such  words  as  he  would  put  into  my  mouth.  I  shall  strive 
to  write  just  what  I  think  ho  would  wish  me  to  write." 

"  Then  you  will  engage  yourself  to  him,  Nora  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  shall.  I  am  engaged  to  him  already.  I  have  been 
ever  since  he  came  here." 

"  You  told  me  that  there  was  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"  I  told  you  that  I  loved  him  better  than  anybody  in  the  world, 
and  that  ought  to  have  made  you  know  what  it  must  come  to.  When 
I  am  thinking  of  him  every  day,  and  ever}'  hour,  how  can  I  not  be 
glad  to  have  an  engagement  settled  with  him  ?  I  couldn't  marry 
anybody  else,  and  I  don't  want  to  remain  as  I  am."  The  tears  camo 
into  the  married  sister's  eyes,  and  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  as  this 
was  said  to  her.  Would  it  not  have  been  better  for  her  had  she 
remained  as  she  was?  "Dear  Emily,"  said  Nora,  "you  have  got 
Louey  still." 

"  Yes  ; — and  they  mean  to  take  him  from  me.  But  I  do  not  wish 
to  speak  of  myself.  Will  you  postpone  your  answer  till  mamma  is 
.bere?" 

" I  cannot  do  that,  Emily.  What;  receive  such  a  letter  as  that, 
find  send  no  reply  to  it !  " 

"  I  would  write  a  line  for  you,  and  explain " 

"  No,  indeed,  Emily.     I  choose  to  answer  my  own  letters.     I  have 
^  shewn  you  that,  because  I  trust  you ;  but  I  have  fully  made  up  my 
mind  as  to  what  I  shall  write.     It  will  have  been  written  and  sent 
before  dinner." 

"I  think  you  will  be  wrong,  Nora." 

"Why  wrong  !  When  I  came  over  here  to  stay  with  you,  would 
mamma  ever  have  thought  of  directing  me  not  to  accept  any  offer  till 
her  consent  had  been  obtained  all  the  way  from  the  Mandarins  ?  She 
would  never  have  dreamed  of  such  a  thing." 

'♦  Wm  you  ask  Aunt  Mary  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.     What  is  Aunt  Mary  to  me  ?     We  are  here  in  hei 


NOEA  S    LETTER. 


HIGH    STANIJLUY    IS    SUEW>'    TO    HE    NO    CONJUIIOK.  ol 

house  for  a  time,  under  the  press  of  circumstances  ;  but  I  owe  her  no 
obedience.  She  told  Mr.  Stanbury  not  to  come  here  ;  and  he  has 
not  come  ;  and  I  shall  not  ask  him  to  come.  I  would  not  williugly 
bring  any  one  into  Uncle  Ohphant's  house,  that  he  and  she  do  not 
wish  to  see.  But  I  will  not  admit  that  either  of  them  have  any 
authority  over  me." 

"  Then  who  has,  dearest  ?  " 

"Nobody; — except  papa  and  mamma;  and  they  have  chosen  to 
leave  me  to  myself.'' 

Mrs.  Trevelyan  found  it  impossible  to  shake  her  sister's  firmness, 
and  could  herself  do  nothing,  except  tell  Mrs.  Outhouse  what  was 
the  state  of  affairs.  "When  she  said  that  she  should  do  this,  there 
almost  came  to  be  a  flow  of  high  words  between  the  two  sisters  ;  but 
fit  last  Nora  assented.  "As  for  knowing,  I  don't  care  if  all  the 
world  knows  it.  I  shall  do  nothing  in  a  comer.  I  don't  suppose 
Aunt  Mary  will  endeavour  to  prevent  my  posting  my  letter." 

Emily  at  last  went  to  seek  Mrs.  Outhouse,  and  Nora  at  once  sat 
down  to  her  desk.  Neither  of  the  sisters  felt  at  all  sure  that  Mrs. 
Outhouse  would  not  attempt  to  stop  the  emission  of  the  letter  from 
her  house ;  but,  as  it  happened,  she  Avas  out,  and  did  not  return 
till  Nora  had  come  back  from  her  journey  to  the  neighbouring  post- 
office.  She  would  trust  her  letter,  when  written,  to  no  hands  but  her 
own ;  and  as  she  herself  dropped  it  into  the  safe  custody  of  the 
Postmaster-General,  it  also  shall  be  revealed  to  the  public  : — 

,,  Tx  TT  "raisona^c,  St.  Diddulph's,  Januarv,  ISO — . 

"  Dear  Hugh,  °  '■ 

"  For  I  suppose  I  may  as  well  write  to  j'ou  in  that  way 

now.     I  have   been  made   so  happy  by  your  affectionate  letter.     Is 

not  that  a  candid  confession  for  a  young  lady  ?     But  you  tell  me  that 

I  owe  you  the  truth,  and  so  I  tell  you  the  truth.     Nobody  will  ever 

be  anything  to  me,  except  you  ;  and  you  are  everything.     I  do  love 

you  ;  and  should  it  ever  be  possible,  I  will  become  your  wife. 

"I  have  said  so  much,  because  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  obey  the 

order  you  have  given  me  ;  but  pray  do  not  try  to  see  me  or  write  to 

me  till  mamma  has  arrived.     She  and  papa  will  be  here  in  the  spring, 

— quite  early  in  the  spring,  we  hope ;  and  then  you  may  come  to  us. 

What  they  may  say,  of  course,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  shall  be  true  to 

you. 

"  Your  own,  with  truest  affection, 

'•  Nora. 

"  Of  course,  you  knew  that  I  loved  you,  and  I  don't  tbink  tbat  }  ou 
are  a  conjuror  at  all." 


32  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

As  soon  as  ever  the  letter  was  %vi-ittcn,  sLe  put  on  her  bonnet,  and 
went  forth  with  it  herself  to  the  post-office.  Mrs.  Trevelyan  stopped 
her  on  the  stairs,  and  endeavoured  to  detain  her,  but  Nora  would  not 
be  detained.  "  I  must  judge  for  myself  about  this,"  she  said.  "If 
mamma  were  here,  it  would  be  different,  but,  as  she  is  not  hero,  I 
must  judge  for  myself." 

AVhat  Llrs.  Outhouse  might  have  done  had  she  been  at  home  at  the 
time,  it  would  be  useless  to  surmise.  She  was  told  what  had  hap- 
pened when  it  occurred,  and  questioned  Nora  on  the  subject.  "  I 
thought  I  understood  from  you,"  she  said,  with  something  of  severity 
in  her  countenance,  "that  there  was  to  be  nothing  between  you  and 
Mr.  Stanbury — at  any  rate,  till  my  brother  came  home  ?  " 

"I  never  pledged  myself  to  anything  of  the  kind,  Aunt  Mary," 
Nora  said.  "  I  think  he  promised  that  he  would  not  come  here,  and 
I  don't  suppose  that  he  meaus  to  come.  If  he  should  do  so,  I  shall 
not  see  him." 

With  this  Mrs.  Outhouse  was  obliged  to  be  content.  The  letter 
was  gone,  and  could  not  be  stopped.  Nor,  indeed,  had  any  authority 
been  delegated  to  her  by  which  she  would  have  been  justified  in  stop- 
ping it.  She  could  only  join  her  husband  in  wishing  that  they  both 
might  be  relieved,  as  soon  as  possible,  from  the  terrible  burden  which 
had  been  thrown  upon  them.  "  I  call  it  very  hard,"  said  Mr.  Out- 
house ; — "  very  hard,  indeed.  If  we  were  to  desire  them  to  leave 
the  house,  everybody  would  cry  out  upon  us  for  our  cruelty ;  and 
yet,  while  they  remain  here,  they  will  submit  themselves  to  no  autho- 
rity. As  far  as  I  can  see,  they  may,  both  of  them,  do  just  what  they 
please,  and  we  can't  stop  it." 


CHAPTER  LIY. 

MR.  GIBSON'S  THREAT. 


Miss  Stanbuey  for  a  long  time  persisted  in  being  neither  better  nor 
worse.  Sir  Peter  would  not  declare  her  state  to  be  precarious,  nor 
would  he  say  that  she  was  out  of  danger ;  and  Mr.  Martin  had  been 
so  utterly  prostrated  by  the  nearly-fatal  effects  of  his  own  mistake  that 
he  was  quite  unable  to  rally  himself  and  talk  ou  the  subject  v/ith  any 
spirit  or  confidence.  When  interrogated  he  would  simply  reply  that 
Sir  Peter  said  this  and  Sii*  Peter  said  that,  and  thus  add  to,  rather 
than  diminish,  the  doubt,  and  excitement,  and  varied  opinion  which 


MR.  Gibson's  threat.  33 

prevnilod  through  the  city.    On  one  morning  it  was  fibsolutely  asserted 
"vvithin  the  limits  of  the  Close  that  Miss  Stanbury  was  dying, — and  it 
"was  believed  for  half  a   day  at  the  bank  that  she  was  then  lying 
in  articulo  mortis.     There  had  got  about,  too,  a  report  that  a  portion  of 
the  property  had  only  been  left  to  Miss  Stanbury  for  her  life,  that  tho 
Burgesses  would  be  able  to  reclaim  the  houses  in  the  city,  and  that  a 
will  had  been  made  altogether  in  favour  of  Dorothy,  cutting  out  even 
Brooke  from  any  share  in  the  inheritance  ; — and  thus  Exeter  had  a 
good  deal  to  say  respecting  the  affairs  and  state  of  health  of  our  old 
friend.     Miss   Stanbmy's  illness,  however,   was  true  enough.     She 
was  much  too  ill  to  hear  anything  of  what  was  going  on ; — too  ill  to 
allow  Martha  to  talk  to  her  at  all  about  the  outside  public.     When  the 
invalid  herself  would  ask  questions  about  the  affairs  of  the  world, 
Mai-tha  would  be  verj' discreet  and  turn  away  from  the  subject.     Miss 
Stanbury,  for  instance,  ill  as  she  was,  exhibited  a  most  mundane  interest, 
not  exactly  in  Camilla  French's  marriage,  but  in  the  delay  which  that 
marriage  seemed  destined  to  encounter.      "  I  dare  say  he'll  ^I'd  out  of  it 
yet,"  said  the  sick  lady  to  her  confidential  servant.    Then  Martha  had 
thought  it  right  to  change  the  subject,  feeling  it  to  be  wrong  that  an 
old  lady  on  her  death-bed  should  be  taking  joy  in  the  disappointment 
of  her  young  neighbour.     Martha  changed  the  subject,  first  to  jelly, 
and  then  to  the  psahns  of  the  day.     Miss  Stanbury  was  too  v,-eak  to 
resist ;  but  the  last  verse  of  the  last  psalm  of  the  evening  had  hardl)' 
been  finished  before  she  remarked  that  she  would  never  believe  it 
till  she  saw  it.     "  It's  all  in  the  hands  of  Him  as  is  on  high,  mum," 
said  Martha,  turning  her  ej'cs  uj)  to  the  ceiling,  and  closing  the  book 
at  the  same  time,  with  a  look  strongly  indicative  of  displeasure. 

Miss  Stanbury  understood  it  all  as  well  as  though  she  were  in  per- 
fect health.  She  knew  her  own  failings,  was  conscious  of  her  worldly 
tendencies,  and  perceived  that  her  old  servant  was  thinking  of  it. 
And  then  simdry  odd  thoughts,  half-digested  thoughts,  ideas  too 
difiicult  for  her  present  strength,  crossed  her  brain.  Had  it  been 
wicked  of  her  when  she  was  well  to  hope  that  a  scheming  woman 
should  not  succeed  in  betraying  a  man  by  her  schemes  into  an  ill- 
assorted  marriage  ;  and  if  not  wicked  then,  was  it  -wicked  now  because 
she  was  ill  ?  And  from  that  thought  her  mind  travelled  on  to  the 
ordinary  practices  of  death-bed  piety.  Could  an  assumed  devotion 
be  of  use  to  her  now, — such  a  devotion  as  Martha  was  enjoinijig  upon 
her  from  hour  to  hour,  in  pure  and  affectionate  solicitude  for  her  soul  ? 
She  had  spoken  one  evening  of  a  game  of  cards,  saying  that  a  gamo 
of  cribbago  would  have  consoled  her.     Then  Martha,  with  a  shudder, 


04  HE    KXKAV    IIi;    AVAS    RIGHT. 

liad  suggested  a  liymn,  and  had  had  recourse  at  once  to  a  sleeping 
draught.  Miss  Stanbury  had  submitted,  but  had  understood  it  all. 
If  cards  were  wicked,  she  had  indeed  been  a  terrible  sinner.  "What 
hope  could  there  be  now,  on  her  death-bed,  for  one  so  sinful "?  And 
)she  could  not  repent  of  her  cards,  and  would  not  try  to  repent  of 
them,  not  seeing  the  evil  of  them ;  and  if  they  were  innocent,  why 
should  she  not  have  the  consolation  now, — when  she  so  much  wanted 
it  ?  Yet  she  knew  that  the  whole  household,  even  Dorothy,  would 
be  in  arms  against  her,  were  she  to  suggest  such  a  thing.  She  took 
the  hymn  and  the  sleeping  draught,  telling  herself  that  it  Avould  be 
best  for  her  to  banish  such  ideas  from  her  mind.  Pastors  and  masters 
had  laid  down  for  her  a  mode  of  living,  which  she  had  followed,  but 
indifferently  perhaps,  but  still  with  an  intention  of  obedience.  They 
had  also  laid  down  a  mode  of  dying,  and  it  would  be  well  that  she 
should  follow  that  as  closely  as  possible.  She  Avould  say  nothing 
more  about  cards.  She  would  think  nothing  more  of  Camilla  French. 
But,  as  she  so  resolved;  with  intellect  half  asleep,  with  her  mind 
wandering  between  fact  and  dream,  she  was  unconsciously  com- 
fortable with  an  assurance  that  if  Mr.  Gibson  did  marry  Camilla 
French,  Camilla  French  would  lead  him  the  very  devil  of  a  life. 

During  three  days  Dorothy  went  about  the  liouse  as  quiet  as  a 
mouse,  sitting  nightly  at  her  aunt's  bedside,  and  tending  the  sick 
Avoman  with  the  closest  care.  She,  too,  had  been  now  and  again 
somewhat  startled  by  the  seeming  worldliuess  of  her  aunt  in  her 
illness.  Her  aunt  talked  to  her  about  rents,  and  ga^e  her  messages 
for  Brooke  Burgess  on  subjects  which  seemed  to  Dorothy  to  be  pro- 
fane when  spoken  of  on  what  might  perhaps  be  a  death-bed.  And 
this  struck  her  the  more  strongly,  because  she  had  a  matter  of  her 
own  on  which  she  would  have  much  wished  to  ascertain  her  aunt's 
opinion,  if  she  had  not  thought  that  it  would  have  been  exceedingly 
wrong  of  her  to  trouble  her  aunt's  mind  at  such  a  time  by  any  such 
matter.  Hitherto  she  had  said  not  a  word  of  Brooke's  proposal  to  any 
living  being.  At  present  it  was  a  secret  with  herself,  but  a  secret  so  big 
that  it  almost  caused  her  bosom  to  burst  with  the  load  that  it  bore. 
She  could  not,  she  thought,  write  to  Priscilla  till  she  had  told  her 
J  aunt.  If  she  were  to  write  a  word  on  the  subject  to  any  one,  she 
could  not  fail  to  make  manifest  the  extreme  longing  of  her  o^vn  heart. 
She  could  not  have  written  Brooke's  name  on  paper,  in  reference  to 
Lis  words  to  herself,  without  covering  it  with  epithets  of  love.  But 
all  that  must  be  known  to  no  one  if  her  love  was  to  be  of  no  avail  to 
her.     And  she  had  an  idea  that  her  aunt  would  not  wish  Brooke  to 


TMU.  giuson's  threat.  S'') 

many  her, — would  think  that  Brooke  should  do  better ;  and  she  was 
quite  clear  that  in  such  a  matter  as  this  her  aunt's  -wishes  must  bo 
law.  Had  not  her  aunt  the  power  of  disinheriting  Brooke  altogether  ? 
And  what  then  if  her  aunt  should  die, — should  die  now, — leaving 
Brooke  at  liberty  to  do  as  he  pleased  ?  There  was  something  so  dis- 
tasteful to  her  in  this  view  of  the  matter  that  she  would  not  look  at 
it.  She  would  not  allow  herself  to  think  of  any  success  which  might 
possibly  accrue  to  herself  by  reason  of  her  aunt's  death.  Intense  as 
Avas  the  longing  in  her  heart  for  permission  from  those  in  authority 
over  her  to  give  herself  to  Brooke  Burgess,  perfect  as  was  the  earthly 
Paradise  which  ajipcarcd  to  be  open  to  her  when  she  thought  of  the 
good  thing  which  had  befallen  her  in  that  matter,  she  conceived  that 
she  would  be  guilty  of  the  grossest  ingratitude  were  she  in  any  degree 
to  curtail  even  her  own  estimate  of  her  aunt's  prohibitory  powers 
because  of  her  aunt's  illness.  The  remembrance  of  the  words  which 
Brooke  had  spoken  to  her  was  with  her  quite  perfect.  She  was 
cntii'ely  conscious  of  the  joy  which  would  be  hers,  if  she  might  accept 
those  words  as  properly  sanctioned ;  but  she  was  a  creature  in  her 
aunt's  hands, — according  to  her  own  ideas  of  her  own  duties  ;  and 
while  her  aunt  was  ill  she  could  not  even  learn  what  might  be  the 
behests  which  she  would  be  called  on  to  obey. 

She  was  sitting  one  evening  alone,  thinking  of  all  this,  having  left 
Martha  with  her  aunt,  and  was  trying  to  I'econcile  the  circumstances 
of  her  life  as  it  now  existed  with  the  circumstances  as  they  had  been 
with  her  in  the  old  days  at  Nuncombo  Putney,  wondering  at  herself 
in  that  she  should  have  a  lover,  and  trying  to  convince  herself  that 
for  her  this  little  episode  of  romance  could  mean  nothing  serious, 
when  Martha  crept  down  into  the  room  to  her.  Of  late  days, — 
the  alteration  might  perhaps  be  dated  from  the  rejection  of  Mr. 
Gibson, — Martha,  who  had  always  been  very  kind,  had  become  more 
respectful  in  her  manner  to  Dorothy  than  had  heretofore  been  usual 
with  her.  Dorothy  was  quite  aware  of  it,  and  was  not  unconscious 
of  a  certain  rise  in  the  world  which  was  thereby  indicated.  "  If  you 
please,  miss,"  said  Martha,  "  who  do  you  think  is  here  ?" 

"  But  there  is  nobody  with  my  aunt  ?"  said  Dorothy. 

"■  She  is  sleeping  like  a  babby,  and  I  came  down  just  for  a  moment. 
Mr.  Gibson  is  here,  miss, — in  the  house  !  Ho  asked  for  j'our  aunt, 
and  when,  of  course,  he  could  not  see  her,  ho  asked  for  you." 
Dorothy  for  a  few  minutes  was  utterly  disconcerted,  but  at  last  she 
consented  to  see  Mr.  Gibson.  "  I  think  it  is  best,"  said  Martha, 
"  because  it  is  bad  to  be  fighting,  and  missus  so  ill.    'Blessed  arc  the 


36  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

peace-makers,'  miss,  *  for  they  shall  be  called  tlic  children  of  God.* " 
Convinced  by  this  argument,  or  by  the  working  of  her  own  mind, 
Dorothy  dii'ected  that  Mr.  Gibson  might  be  shewn  into  the  room. 
When  he  came,  she  found  herself  unable  to  address  him.  She  remem- 
bered the  last  time  in  which  she  had  seen  him,  and  was  lost  in 
wonder  that  he  should  be  there.  But  she  shook  hands  with  him, 
and  went  through  some  form  of  greeting  in  which  no  word  was 
uttered. 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  think  that  I  have  done  MToug,"  said  he,  "  in 
calling  to  ask  after  my  old  friend's  state  of  health  ?" 

**  Oh  dear,  no,"  said  Dorothy,  quite  bewildered. 

"I  have  known  her  for  so  very  long.  Miss  Dorothy,  that  now  in 
the  hour  of  her  distress,  and  perhaps  mortal  malady,  I  cannot  stop  to 
remember  the  few  harsh  words  that  she  spoke  to  me  lately." 

"  She  never  means  to  be  harsh,  Mr.  Gibson," 

"Ah;  well;  no, — perhaps  not.  At  any  rate  I  have  learned  to 
forgive  and  forget.     I  am  afraid  your  aunt  is  very  ill,  Miss  Dorothy." 

"She  is  ill,  certainly,  Mr.  Gibson." 

"Dear,  dear  !  We  are  all  as  the  grass  of  the  field.  Miss  Dorothy, — 
here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow,  as  sparks  fly  upwards.  Just  fit  to 
be  cut  down  and  cast  into  the  oven.  Mr.  Jennings  has  been  with 
her,  I  believe  ?"     Mr.  Jennings  was  the  other  minor  canon. 

"He  comes  three  times  a  week,  Mr.  Gibson." 

"  He  is  an  excellent  young  man, — a  very  good  young  man.  It  has 
been  a  great  comfort  to  me  to  have  Jennings  with  me.  But  he's 
very  young.  Miss  Dorothy;  isn't  he?"  Dorothy  muttered  some- 
thing, purporting  to  declare  that  she  was  not  acquainted  with  the 
exact  circumstances  of  Mr.  Jennings'  age.  "I  should  be  so  glad  to 
come  if  my  old  friend  would  allow  me,"  said  Mr.  Gibson,  almost 
with  a  sigh.  Dorothy  was  clearl}-  of  opinion  that  any  change  at  the 
present  would  be  bad  for  her  aunt,  but  she  did  not  Imow  how  to 
express  her  opinion;  so  she  stood  silent  and  looked  at  him.  "  There 
needn't  be  a  word  spoken,  you  know,  about  the  ladies  at  Hea\dtree," 
said  Mr.  Gibson. 

"  Oh  dear,  no,"  said  Dorothy.  And  yet  she  knew  well  that  there 
would  be  such  words  spoken  if  Mr.  Gibson  were  to  make  his  way 
into  her  aunt's  room.  Her  aunt  was  constantly  alluding  to  the 
ladies  at  Heavitree,  in  spite  of  all  the  efforts  of  her  old  servant  to 
restrain  her. 

"  There  was  some  little  misunderstanding,"  said  Mr.  Gibson;  "  but 
all  that  should  be  over  now.     We  both  intended  for  the  best.  Miss 


iMR.  giuson's  threat.  37 

Dorothy;  and  I'm  sure  nobody  licro  can  say  tbat  I  wasn't  sincere." 
But  Dorothy,  though  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  answer  Mr. 
Gibson  plainl)',  could  not  bo  induced  to  assent  to  his  proposition. 
She  muttered  something  about  her  aunt's  weakness,  and  the  gi'cat 
attention  which  Mr.  Jennings  shewed.  Her  aunt  had  become  very 
fond  of  Mr.  Jennings,  and  she  did  at  last  express  her  opinion,  with 
some  clearness,  that  her  aunt  should  not  be  disturbed  by  any  changes 
at  present.  "After  that  I  should  not  think  of  pressing  it,  Miss 
Dorothy,"  said  Mr.  Gibson;  "but,  still,  I  do  hope  that  I  may  have 
the  privilege  of  seeing  her  yet  once  again  in  the  flesh.     And  touching 

my   approaching   mairiage,   Miss   Dorothy "      He  paused,   and 

Dorothy  felt  that  she  was  blushing  up  to  the  roots  of  her  hair. 
"Touching  my  marriage,"  continued  Mr.  Gibson,  "which  however 
will  not  be  solemnized  till  the  end  of  j\[arch;" — it  was  manifest  that 
he  regarded  this  as  a  point  that  would  in  that  household  be  regarded 
as  an  argument  in  his  favour, — "I  do  hope  that  you  will  look  upon 
it  in  the  most  favourable  light, — and  your  excellent  aunt  also,  if  she 
be  spared  to  us.'  ' 

"  I  am  sure  we  hope  that  you  will  be  happy,  Mr.  Gibson." 

"  What  was  I  to  do.  Miss  Dorothy  ?  I  know  that  I  have  been  very 
much  blamed ; — but  so  unfairly !  I  have  never  meant  to  be  untrue 
to  a  mouse,  Miss  Dorothy."  Dorothy  did  not  at  all  understand 
whether  she  were  the  mouse,  or  Camilla  French,  or  Arabella.  "  And 
it  is  BO  hard  to  find  that  one  is  ill-spoken  of  because  things  have  gone 
a  little  amiss."  It  was  quite  impossible  that  Dorothy  should  make 
any  answer  to  this,  and  at  last  Mr.  Gibson  left  her,  assuring  her  with 
his  last  word  that  nothing  would  give  him  so  much  pleasure  as  to  be 
called  upon  once  more  to  see  his  old  friend  in  her  last  moments. 

Though  Miss  Staubury  had  been  described  as  sleeping  "  like  a 
babby,"  she  had  heard  the  footsteps  of  a  strange  man  in  the  house, 
and  had  made  Martha  tell  her  whose  footsteps  they  were.  As  soon 
as  Dorothy  went  to  her,  she  darted  upon  the  subject  with  all  her  old 
keenness.     "  What  did  he  want  here,  Dolly  ?" 

"He  said  he  would  like  to  see  you,  aunt, — when  you  are  a  little 
better,  you  know.  lie  spoke  a  good  deal  of  his  old  friendship  and 
respect." 

"He  should  have  thought  of  that  before.  How  am  I  to  see  people 
tow  ?  •• 

"  But  when  you  are  better,  aunt ?  " 

"How  do  I  know  that  I  shall  ever  be  better?  He  isn't  oil'  with 
those  people  at  Heavitree, — is  he  ?" 


G8  KE    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

"  I  litipc  not,  aunt." 

"  Psha  !  A  poor,  weak,  insufficient  creature  ;—tliat'ti  what  ho  i^. 
-Mr.  Jennings  is  worth  twenty  of  him."  Dorothy,  though  she  put 
the  question  again  in  its  most  alluring  fonn  of  Christian  charity  and 
forgiveness,  could  not  induce  her  aunt  to  say  that  she  would  see  Mr. 
Gihson,  "  How  can  I  see  him,  when  you  know  that  Sir  Peter  has  for- 
bidden mo  to  see  anybody,  except  Mrs.  Clifibrd  and  Mr.  Jennings?"    ' 

Two  daj'S  afterwards  there  was  an  uncomfortable  little  scene  at 
Heavitree.  It  must,  no  doubt,  have  boon  the  case,  that  the  same 
train  of  circumstances  which  had  produced  Mr,  Gibson's  visit  to  th(! 
Close,  produced  also  the  scene  in  question.  It  was  suggested  bj^ 
some  who  were  attending  closely  to  the  matter  that  Mr.  Gibson  had 
already  come  to  repent  his  engagement  with  Camilla  French ;  and, 
indeed,  there  were  those  who  pretended  to  believe  that  he  was  in- 
duced, by  the  prospect  of  Miss  Stanbury's  demise,  to  transfer  his 
allegiance  yet  again,  and  to  bestow  his  hand  upon  Dorothj'  at  last. 
There  were  many  in  the  city  who  could  never  be  persuaded  that 
Dorothy  had  refused  him, — these  being,  for  the  most  part,  ladies  in 
whose  estimation  the  value  of  a  husband  was  counted  so  great,  and  a 
beneficed  clergyman  so  valuable  among  suitors,  that  it  was  to  their 
thinking  impossible  that  Dorothy  Stanbury  should  in  her  sound 
senses  have  rejected  such  an  oiler.  "I  don't  believe  a  bit  of  it," 
said  Mrs.  Crumble  to  Mrs.  Apjohn  ;  '•  is  it  likely  ?"  The  ears  of  all 
the  French  family  were  keenly  alive  to  rumours,  and  to  rumours  of 
rumours.  Pieports  of  these  opinions  respecting  Mr.  Gibson  reached 
Heavitree,  and  had  their  effect.  As  long  as  Mr.  Gibson  was  behaving 
well  as  a  suitor,  they  were  inoperative  there.  What  did  it  matter  to 
them  how  the  pi'ize  might  have  been  struggled  for, — might  still  bo 
struggled  for  elsewhere,  while  they  enjoyed  the  consciousness  of  pos- 
session ?  But  when  the  consciousness  of  possession  became  marred 
by  a  cankerous  doubt,  such  rumours  were  very  important.  Camilla 
heard  of  the  visit  in  the  Close,  and  swore  that  she  would  have  justice 
done  her.  She  gave  her  mother  to  understand  that,  if  any  trick 
were  played  upon  her,  the  diocese  should  be  made  to  ring  of  it,  in  a 
fashion  that  would  astonish  them  all,  from  the  bishop  downwards. 
Whereupon  Mrs.  French,  putting  much  faith  in  her  daughter's  threats, 
sent  for  Mr.  Gibson. 

"  The  truth  is,  Mr.  Gibson,"  said  Mrs.  French,  when  the  civilities 
of  their  first  greeting  had  been  completed,  "  my  poor  child  is  pining." 

"Pining,  Mrs.  French  !" 

"Yes; — pining,  Mr.  Gibson.     I  am  afraid  that  you  little  under- 


IIIK    UKrUl'.LICAN    IJUOWMNG.  39 

stand  bow  sousitivo  is  that  young  heart.  01"  course,  she  is  your  own 
now.  To  bcr  thinking,  it  would  be  treason  to  you  for  her  to  indulge 
in  conversation  witb  any  other  gentleman ;  but,  then,  she  expects  that 
you  should  spend  your  evenings  with  her, — of  course  !  " 

'*  But,  Mrs.  French, — think  of  my  engagements,  as  a  clergyman." 

**  We  know  all  aboiit  that,  Mr.  Gibson.  "We  know  what  a  clergy- 
man's calls  are.     It  isn't  like  a  doctor's,  Mr.  Gibson." 

•'  It's  very  often  Avorsc,  Mrs.  French." 

"  Why  should  you  go  calling  in  the  Close,  Mr.  Gibson  ?  "  Hero 
was  the  gist  of  the  accusation. 

"  Wouldn't  you  have  me  make  my  peace  with  a  poor  dying  sister?" 
pleaded  Mr.  Gibson. 

•'Mter  what  has  occurred,"  said  Mrs.  French,  shaking  her  bead  at 
him,  •'  and  while  things  ai'c  just  as  they  are  now,  it  would  bo  more 
like  an  honest  man  of  you  to  stay  away.  And,  of  course,  Camilla 
feels  it.   She  feels  it  very  much ; — and  she  won't  put  up  with  it  neither." 

'•  I  think  this  is  the  cruellest,  cruellest  thing  I  ever  heard,"  said  Mr. 
Gibson. 

"It  is  you  that  arc  cruel,  sir." 

Then  the  wretched  man  turned  at  bay.  "  I  tell  you  what  it  is, 
]\lrs.  French  ;— if  I  am  treated  in  tliis  way,  I  won't  stand  it.  I  won't, 
iniUed.  I'll  go  away.  I'm  not  going  to  be  suspected,  nor  yet  blown 
Uj>.     I  think  I've  behaved  handsomely,  at  any  rate  to  Camilla." 

••  Quite  so,  Mr.  Gibson,  if  you  would  come  and  see  her  on  even- 
ings," said  Mrs.  French,  who  was  falling  back  into  her  usual  state  of 
timidity. 

"  But,  if  I'm  to  be  Ireuted  in  this  way,  I  will  go  away.  I'\'e 
thoughts  of  it  as  it  is.  I've  been  already  invited  to  go  to  Natal,  and 
if  I  hear  anything  more  of  these  accusations,  I  shall  certainly  make 
u])  my  mind  to  go."  Then  he  left  the  house,  before  Camilla  could  bo 
down  upon  him  from  her  perch  on  the  landing-place. 


CHAPTEll  LV. 
THE  UErUBLlCiy  BROWXIXG. 


Mr.  Glascock  had  returned  to  Naples  after  his  sufferings  in  tho 
<linuig-room  of  the  American  Minister,  and  by  the  middle  of  February 
was  back  again  in  Florence.  His  father  was  still  alive,  and  it  was 
said  that  the  old  lord  would  noAV  probably  live  througli  the  winter. 


40  HE    KNEW   II]':    WAS   RIGHT. 

And  it  was  understood  that  Mr.  Glascock  would  remain  in  Italy. 
He  had  declared  that  he  would  pass  his  time  between  Naples,  Rome, 
and  Florence ;  but  it  seemed  to  his  friends  that  Florence  was,  of  the 
three,  the  most  to  his  taste.  He  liked  his  room,  he  said,  at  the  York 
Hotel,  and  he  liked  being  in  the  capital.  That  was  his  own  state- 
ment. His  friends  said  that  he  liked  being  with  Carry  Spalding,  the 
daughter  of  the  American  Minister ;  but  none  of  them,  then  in  Italy, 
were  sufficiently  intimate  with  him  to  express  that  opinion  to  himself. 
It  had  been  expressed  more  than  once  to  Carry  Spalding.  The 
world  in  general  says  such  things  to  ladies  more  openly  than  it  does 
to  men,  and  the  probability  of  a  girl's  success  in  matrimony  is 
canvassed  in  her  hearing  by  those  who  are  nearest  to  her  -wdth  a 
freedom  which  can  seldom  be  used  in  regard  to  a.  man.  A  man's 
most  intimate  friend  hardly  speaks  to  him  of  the  prospect  of  his 
marriage  till  he  himself  has  told  that  the  engagement  exists.  The 
lips  of  no  living  person  had  suggested  to  Mr.  Glascock  that  the 
American  girl  was  to  become  his  wife ;  but  a  great  deal  had  been 
said  to  Carry  Spalding  about  the  conquest  she  had  made.  Her 
uncle,  her  aunt,  her  sister,  and  her  great  friend  Miss  Petrie,  the 
poetess, — the  Eepublican  Browning  as  she  was  called, — had  all 
spoken  to  her  about  it  frequently.  Olivia  had  declared  her  conviction 
that  the  thing  was  to  be.  Miss  Petrie  had,  with  considerable  elo- 
quence, explained  to  her  friend  that  that  English  title,  which  was  but 
the  clatter  of  a  sounding  brass,  should  be  regarded  as  a  drawback 
rather  than  as  an  advantage.  Mrs.  Spalding,  who  was  no  poetess, 
would  undoubtedly  have  welcomed  Mr,  Glascock  as  her  niece's  hus- 
band with  all  an  aunt's  energy.  When  told  by  Miss  Petrie  that  old 
Lord  Peterborough  was  a  tinkling  cymbal  she  snapped  angrily  at  her 
gifted  countrywoman.  But  she  was  too  honest  a  woman,  and  too 
conscious  also  of  her  niece's  strength,  to  say  a  word  to  urge  her  on. 
Mr.  Spalding  as  an  American  minister,  with  full  powers  at  the  court 
of  a  European  sovereign,  felt  that  he  had  full  as  much  to  give  as  to 
receive ;  but  he  was  well  inclined  to  do  both.  He  would  have  been 
much  pleased  to  talk  about  his  nephew  Lord  Peterborough,  and  he 
loved  his  niece  dearly.  But  by  the  middle  of  February  he  was 
beginning  to  think  that  the  matter  had  been  long  enough  in  training. 
If  the  Honourable  Glascock  meant  anythmg,  why  did  he  not  speak 
out  his  mind  plainly  ?  The  American  Minister  in  such  matters  was 
accustomed  to  fewer  ambages  then  were  common  in  the  circles  among 
which  Mr.  Glascock  had  lived. 

In   the   meantime   Caroline    Spalding   was   suffering.       She    had 


THE    RKPIIJLICAN     BHO'NVMNf;.  11 

allowed  herself  to  think  that  Mr.  Glascock  iutcuded  to  propose  to  her, 
and  had  acknowledged  to  herself  that  were  he  to  do  so  she  would 
certainly  accept  him.  All  that  she  had  seen  of  him,  since  the  day 
on  which  he  had  heen  courteous  to  her  about  the  scat  in  the  diligence, 
had  been  pleasant  to  her.  She  had  felt  the  charm  of  his  manner, 
his  education,  and  his  gentleness  ;  and  had  told  herself  that  with  all 
her  love  for  her  own  country,  she  would  willingly  become  an  English- 
woman for  the  sake  of  being  that  man's  wife.  But  nevertheless  the 
warnings  of  her  great  friend,  the  poetess,  had  not  been  thrown  away 
upon  her.  She  would  put  away  from  herself  as  far  as  she  could 
any  desire  to  become  Lady  Peterborough.  There  should  be  no  bias 
in  the  man's  favour  on  that  score.  The  tinkling  cymbal  and  the 
sounding  brass  should  be  nothing  to  her.  But  yet, — yet  what  a 
chance  was  there  here  for  her?  "They  are  dishonest,  and  rotten 
at  the  core,"  said  Miss  Petrie,  trying  to  make  her  friend  understand 
that  a  free  American  should  under  no  circumstances  place  trust  in  an 
Eughsh  aristocrat.  "  Their  country,  Carry,  is  a  game  played  out, 
while  we  arc  still  breasting  the  hill  Vvith  our  young  lungs  full  of  air." 
Cany  Spalding  was  proud  of  her  intimacy  with  the  Republican  Brown- 
ing ;  but  nevertheless  she  liked  Mr.  Glascock  ;  and  when  Mr.  Glascock 
had  been  ten  days  in  Florence,  on  his  third  visit  to  the  city,  and  had 
been  four  or  five  times  at  the  embassy  without  expressing  his  inten- 
tions in  the  proper  form.  Carry  Spalding  began  to  think  that  she 
had  better  save  herself  from  a  heartbreak  while  salvation  might  bo 
within  her  reach.  She  perceived  that  her  uncle  was  gloomy  and 
almost  angry  when  he  spoke  of  Mr.  Glascock,  and  that  her  aunt 
was  fretful  with  disappointment.  The  Republican  Browning  had 
uttered  almost  a  note  of  triumph  ;  and  had  it  not  been  that  Olivia 
persisted.  Carry  Spalding  would  have  consented  to  go  away  with 
Miss  Petrie  to  Rome.  "The  old  stones  arc  rotten  too,"  said  the 
poetess;  "but  their  dust  tells  no  lies."  That  well  known  piece  of 
hers — "Ancient  IMarbles,  Avhile  ye  crumble,"  was  written  at  this 
time,  and  contained  an  occult  reference  to  Mr.  Glascock  and  her 
friend. 

But  Livy  Spalding  clung  to  the  alliance.  She  probably  knew  her 
sister's  heart  better  than  did  the  others ;  and  perhaps  also  had  a 
clearer  insight  into  ]\Ir.  Glascock's  character.  She  was  at  any  rate 
clearly  of  opinion  that  there  should  be  no  running  away.  "Either 
you  do  like  him,  or  you  don't.  If  you  do,  what  are  you  to  get  by 
going  to  Rome  ?"  said  Liv}'. 

"I  shall  get  quit  of  doubt  and  trouble." 

VOL.  II.  c  '•■ 


42  HE    KNKAV    IlK    WAS    IHGIIT. 

"I  call  that  cowardice.  I  ■would  ucver  run  away  from  a  man, 
Cairy.  Aunt  Sophie  forgets  that  they  don't  manage  these  things  in 
EiiL^land  just  as  we  do." 

"I  don't  know  why  there  should  be  a  diflerence." 

"Nor  do  I ; — only  that  there  is.  You  haven't  read  so  many  of 
their  novels  as  I  have." 

"  AVho  would  ever  think  of  learning  to  live  out  of  an  English 
novel '?  "  said  Carry. 

"  I  am  not  saying  that.  You  may  teach  him  to  live  how  you  like 
afterwards.  But  if  j'ou  have  anything  to  do  ^\ath  people  it  must  be 
well  to  know  what  their  manners  are.  I  think  the  richer  sort  of 
people  in  England  slide  into  these  things  more  gradually  than  we  do. 
You  stand  your  ground,  Carry,  and  hold  your  own,  and  take  the 
goods  the  gods  provide  you."  Though  Caroline  Spalding  opposed  her 
sister's  arguments,  and  was  particularly  hard  upon  that  allusion  to 
"  the  richer  sort  of  people," — which,  as  she  knew,  Miss  Petrie  would 
have  regarded  as  evidence  of  reverence  for  sounding  brasses  and 
tinkling  cymbals, — nevertheless  she  loved  Livy  dearly  for  what  she 
said,  and  kissed  the  sweet  counsellor,  and  resolved  that  she  would  for 
the  present  decline  the  invitation  of  the  poetess.  Then  was  Miss 
Petrie  somewhat  indignant  with  her  friend,  and  threw  out  her  scorn 
in  those  lines  which  have  been  mentioned. 

But  the  American  Minister  hardly  knew  how  to  behave  himself 
when  he  met  Mr.  Glascock,  or  even  when  he  was  called  upon  to 
speak  of  him.  Florence  no  doubt  is  a  large  city,  and  is  now  the 
capital  of  a  great  kingdom  ;  but  still  people  meet  in  Florence  much 
more  frequently  than  they  do  in  Paris  or  in  London.  It  may  almost 
be  said  that  they  whose  habit  it  is  to  go  into  society,  and  whose  circum- 
stances bring  them  into  the  same  circles,  will  see  each  other  every 
day.  Now  the  American  Minister  delighted  to  see  and  to  be  seen  in 
all  places  frequented  by  persons  of  a  certain  rank  and  position  in 
Florence.  Having  considered  the  matter  much,  he  had  convinced 
himself  that  he  could  thus  best  do  his  duty  as  minister  from  the  great 
Piepublic  of  Free  States  to  the  newest  and, — as  he  called  it, — '-the 
free-est  of  the  European  kingdoms."  The  minister  from  France  was  a 
marquis ;  he  from  England  was  an  earl ;  from  Spain  had  come  a  count, 
— and  so  on.  In  the  domestic  privacy  of  his  embassy  Mr.  Spalding 
would  be  severe  enough  upon  the  sounding  brasses  and  the  tinkling 
cymbals,  and  was  quite  content  himself  to  be  the  Honourable 
Jonas  G.  Spalding, — Honourable  because  selected  by  his  country  for 
n  post  of  honour  ;  but  he  liked  to  be  heard  among  the  cymbals  and 


'Hit;    KICI'LIU.U  AN    JIUOWMNG.  43 

seen  among  the  brasses,  and  to  feel  that  his  position  was  as  hij^h  as 
theirs.  Mr.  Glascock  also  was  frequently  in  the  same  circles,  and  thus 
it  came  to  pass  that  the  two  gentlemen  saw  each  other  almost  daily. 
That  Mr,  Spalding  knew  well  how  to  bear  himself  in  his  high  place 
no  one  could  doubt ;  but  he  did  not  quite  know  how  to  carry  himself 
before  Mr.  Glascock.  At  home  at  Boston  he  would  have  been  more 
completely  master  of  the  situation. 

He  thought  too  that  he  began  to  perceive  that  Mr.  Glascock 
avoided  him,  though  he  would  hear  on  his  return  home  that  that 
gentleman  had  been  at  the  embassy,  or  had  been  walking  in  the 
Cascinc  with  his  nieces.  That  their  young  ladies  should  walk  in 
l)ublic  places  with  unmarried  gentlemen  is  nothing  to  American 
fathers  and  guardians.  American  young  ladies  are  accustomed  to 
choose  their  own  companions.  But  the  minister  was  tormented  by 
his  doubts  as  to  the  ways  of  Englishmen,  and  as  to  the  phase  in 
which  English  habits  might  most  properly  exhibit  themselves  in 
Italy.  He  knew  that  people  were  talking  about  Mr.  Glascock  and  his 
niece.  Why  then  did  Mr.  Glascock  avoid  him '?  It  was  perhaps 
natural  that  Mr.  Spalding  should  have  omitted  to  observe  that 
Mr.  Glascock  was  not  delighted  by  those  lectures  on  the  American 
constitution  which  formed  so  large  a  part  of  his  ordinary  conversation 
vith  Englishmen. 

It  happened  one  afternoon  that  they  were  thrown  to;.';<  Iher  so 
closely  for  nearly  an  hour  that  neither  could  avoid  the  other.  The}- 
Avere  both  at  the  old  palace  in  which  the  Italian  parliament  is  held, 
and  were  kept  waiting  during  some  long  delay  in  the  ceremonies  of 
the  place.  They  were  seated  next  to  each  other,  and  during  such 
delay  there  was  nothing  for  them  but  to  talk.  On  the  other  side  of 
each  of  them  was  a  stranger,  and  not  to  talk  in  such  circtimstances 
would  be  to  quarrel.     Mr.  Glascock  began  by  asking  after  the  ladies. 

"They  are  quite  well,  sir,  thank  you,"  said  the  minister.  "I 
hope  that  Lord  Peterborough  was  pretty  well  when  last  }()u  beard 
from  Naples,  Mr.  Glascock."  Mr.  Glascock  explained  that  his 
father's  condition  was  not  much  altered,  and  then  there  was  silence 
fur  a  moment. 

"Your  nieces  will  remain  with  you  through  the  spring  I  suppose?" 
said  Mr.  Glascock. 

"  Such  is  their  intention,  sir." 

"  They  seem  to  like  Florence,  I  think." 

"Yes; — yes;  I  think  they  do  like  Florence.  They  sec  this 
capital,  sir,  perhaps  under  more  favourable  circumstances  than  are 


44  HE    KNEW    111:    WAS    UI(;l!T. 

accorded  to  most  of  my  couu  try  women.  Our  republican  simplicity, 
Mr.  Glascock,  has  this  drawback,  that  away  from  home  it  subjects 
lis  somewhat  to  the  cold  shade  of  unobserved  obscurity.  That  it 
possesses  merits  which  much  more  than  compensate  for  this  trifling 
evil  I  should  be  the  last  man  in  Europe  to  deny."  It  is  to  bo 
observed  that  American  citizens  are  always  prone  to  talk  of  Eui'ope. 
It  afi'ords  the  best  counterpoise  they  know  to  that  other  term, 
America, — and  America  and  the  United  States  are  of  course  the  same. 
To  speak  of  France  or  of  England  as  weighing  equally  against  theii-  own 
country  seems  to  an  American  to  be  an  absurdity, — and  almost  an 
insult  to  himself.  With  Europe  he  can  compare  himself,  but  even 
this  is  done  generally  in  the  style  of  the  Republican  Browning  when 
she  addressed  the  Ancient  Marbles. 

"  Undoubtedly,"  said  Mr.  Glascock,  "  the  family  of  a  minister  abroad 
has  great  advantages  in  seeing  the  country  to  which  he  is  accredited." 

"  That  is  my  meaning,  sir.  But,  as  I  was  remarking,  we  carry 
with  us  as  a  people  no  external  symbols  of  our  standing  at  home. 
The  wives  and  daughters,  sir,  of  the  most  honoured  of  our  citizens 
have  no  nomenclatm-e  different  than  that  which  belongs  to  the  least 
noted  among  us.  It  is  perhaps  a  consequence  of  this  that  Europeans 
who  are  accustomed  in  theii'  social  intercourse  to  the  assistance  of 
titles,  will  not  always  trouble  themselves  to  inquire  who  and  what 
are  the  American  citizens  who  may  sit  opposite  to  them  at  table.  I 
have  known,  Mr.  Glascock,  the  wife  and  daughter  of  a  gentleman 
who  has  been  thrice  sent  as  senator  £i-om  his  native  State  to  Washing- 
ton, to  remain  as  disregarded  in  the  intercourse  of  a  European  city, 
as  though  they  had  formed  part  of  the  family  of  some  grocer  from 
your  Eussell  Square  !" 

"Let  the  Miss  Spaldings  go  M'hcre  they  will,"  said  Mr.  Glascock, 
"  they  will  not  fare  in  that  way." 

"  The  Miss  Spaldiugs,  sir,  are  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  the 
minister  with  a  bow. 

"  I  regard  it  as  one  of  the  luckiest  chances  of  my  life  that  I  was 
throYv'n  in  with  them  at  St.  Michael  as  I  was,"  said  Mr.  Glascock  with 
something  like  warmth. 

"I  am  sure,  sir,  they  will  never  forget  the  courtesy  displayed  by 
you  on  that  occasion,"  said  the  minister  bowing  again. 

"  That  was  a  matter  of  course.  I  and  my  friend  would  have  done 
the  same  for  the  grocer's  wife  and  daughter  of  v/hom  you  spoke. 
Little  services  such  as  that  do  not  come  from  appreciation  of  merit, 
but  are  simply  the  payment  of  the  debt  due  by  all  men  to  all  women." 


Tin:  iu;rui5MCAN'  iirownixg.  45 

"  Such  is  certainly  the  rulo  of  living  in  our  country,  sir,"  saitl  Mv. 
Spalding. 

'•  The  chances  arc."  continued  the  Englishman,  "that  no  further 
ohservation  follows  the  payment  of  such  a  dcht.  It  has  hecn  a  thing 
of  course." 

"  We  dehght  to  think  it  so,  Mr.  Glascock,  in  our  o^Yn  cities." 

"But  in  this  instance  it  has  given  rise  to  one  of  the  pleasantcst, 
and  as  I  hope  most  enduring  friendships  that  I  have  ever  formed," 
said  Mr.  Glascock  -with  enthusiasm.  What  could  the  American 
Minister  do  but  how  agaui  three  times  ?  And  what  other  meaning 
could  he  attach  to  such  words  than  that  which  so  many  of  his  friends 
had  been  attributing  to  Mr.  Glascock  for  some  weeks  past  ?  It  had 
occun-ed  to  Mr.  Spalding,  even  since  he  had  been  sitting  in  his 
present  close  proximity  to  Mr.  Glascock,  that  it  might  possibly  bo 
his  duty  as  an  uncle  having  to  deal  with  an  Englishman,  to  ask  that 
gentleman  what  were  his  intentions.  He  would  do  his  duty  let 
it  be  what  it  might ;  but  the  asking  of  such  a  question  would  bo 
very  disagreeable  to  him.  For  the  present  he  satisfied  himself  with 
inviting  his  neighbour  to  come  and  drink  tea  with  Mrs.  Spalding 
on  the  next  evening  but  one.  "  The  girls  will  be  delighted,  I  am 
sure,"  said  he,  thinking  himself  to  be  justified  in  this  friendly 
familiarity  by  Mr.  Glascock's  enthusiasm.  For  Mr.  Spalding  was 
clearly  of  opinion  that,  let  the  value  of  republican  simplicity  be  what 
it  might,  an  alliance  with  the  crumbling  marbles  of  Europe  would  in 
his  niece's  circumstances  be  not  inexpedient,  Mr.  Glascock  accepted 
the  invitation  with  alacrity,  and  the  minister  when  he  was  closeted 
with  his  wife  that  evening  declared  his  opinion  that  after  all  the 
Britisher  meant  fighting.  The  aunt  told  the  girls  that  Mr.  Glascock 
was  coming,  and  in  order  that  it  might  not  seem  that  a  net  was  being 
specially  spread  for  him,  others  were  invited  to  join  the  partj'.  Miss 
Petrio  consented  to  be  there,  and  the  Italian,  Count  Buouarosci,  to 
whose  presence,  though  she  could  not  speak  to  him,  Mrs.  Spalding 
was  becoming  accustomed.  It  was  painful  to  her  to  feel  that  sho 
could  not  communicate  with  those  around  her,  and  for  that  reason 
she  would  have  avoided  Italians.  But  she  had  an  idva  that  she  could 
not  thoroughly  realise  the  advantages  of  foreign  travel  unless  she  lived 
with  foreigners ;  and,  therefore,  she  was  glad  to  become  intimate  at 
any  rate  with  the  outside  of  Count  Buonarosci. 

"  I  think  your  uncle  is  wi'ong,  dear,"  said  Miss  Pctrie  early  in  the 
day  to  her  friend. 

"But  why  ?     He  has  done  nothing  more  than  what  is  just  civil." 


■W  HE    KNEAV    HE    WAS    Klf.lIT, 

*'  If  Mr.  Glascock  kept  a  store  in  Broadway  he  v,-oukl  not  have 
thought  it  necessary  to  shew  the  same  civility." 

"  Yes ; — if  we  all  liked  the  Mr.  Glascock  who  kept  the  store." 

"  Caroline,"  said  the  poetess  with  severe  eloquence,  "  can  you  put 
your  hand  upon  your  heart  and  say  that  this  inherited  title,  this 
tinkling  cymhal  as  I  call  it,  has  no  attraction  for  you  or  yours  "?  Is 
it  the  unadorned  simple  man  that  you  welcome  to  your  hosom,  or  a 
thing  of  stars  and  garters,  a  patch  of  parchment,  the  minifju  of  a 
throne,  the  lordling  of  twenty  descents,  in  which  each  has  been 
weaker  than  that  before  it,  the  hero  of  a  scutcheon,  whose  glory  is 
in  his  quartcrings,  and  whose  worldly  wealth  comes  from  the  sweat 
of  serfs  whom  the  euphonism  of  an  effete  country  has  learned  to 
decorate  with  the  name  of  tenants  ?" 

But  Caroline  Spalding  had  a  spirit  of  her  own,  and  had  already 
made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  not  be  talked  down  by  Miss  Petrie. 
"  Uncle  Jonas,"  said  she,  "  asks  him  because  we  like  him  ;  and 
v.'ould  do  so  too  if  he  kept  the  store  in  Broadway.  But  if  he  did 
keep  the  store  perhaps  we  should  not  like  him." 

"I  trow  not,"  said  Miss  Petrie. 

Livy  was  much  more  comfortable  in  her  tactics,  and  without  con- 
sulting anybody  sent  for  a  hairdresser.  "  It"s  all  very  Avell  for 
AVallachia,"  said  Livy, — Miss  Petrie's  name  Avas  Wallachia, — "  but  I 
know  a  nice  sort  of  man  when  I  see  him,  and  the  vvays  of  the  world 
are  not  to  be  altered  because  Wally  writes  poetry." 

When  Mr.  Glascock  was  announced  Mrs.  Spalding's  handsomo 
rooms  were  almost  filled,  as  rooms  in  Florence  are  filled, — obstruc- 
tion in  every  avenue,  a  crowd  in  every  corner,  and  a  block  at  every 
doorway,  not  being  among  the  customs  of  the  place.  Mr.  Spalding 
immediately  caught  him, — intercepting  him  between  the  passages  and 
the  ladies, — and  engaged  him  at  once  in  conversation. 

'•'  Your  John  S.  Mill  is  a  great  man,"  said  the  minister. 

"  They  tell  me  so,"  said  Mr.  Glascock.  "I  don't  read  what  he 
writes  niyself." 

This  acknowledgment  seemed  to  the  minister  to  be  almost  dis-' 
gTaceful,  and  yet  he  himself  had  never  read  a  word  of  Mr.  Mill's 
writings.  "  He  is  a  far-seeing  man,"  continued  the  minister.  "  He 
is  one  of  the  few  Europeans  who  can  look  forward,  and  sec  how  the 
rivers  of  civilization  are  running  on.  He  has  understood  that  women 
must  at  last  be  put  upon  an  equality  with  men." 

"  Can  he  manage  that  men  shall  have  half  the  babies  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Glascock,  thinking  to  escape  by  an  attempt  at  playfulness. 


THE    REmiLTCAN    T^ROWXIXG.  47 

But  the  minister  was  down  upon  him  at  once, — bad  him  hy  tho 
lappet  of  his  coat,  though  he  knew  how  important  it  was  for  his  dear 
niece  that  he  shoukl  allow  Mr.  Glascock  to  amuse  himself  this  even- 
ing after  another  fashion.  "  I  have  an  answer  ready,  sir,  for  that 
difficulty,"  he  said.  "  Stop  aside  with  mo  for  a  moment.  The  ques- 
tion is  important,  and  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  communicate  my 
ideas  to  your  gi-eat  philosopher.  Nature,  sir,  has  laid  down  certain 
laws,  which  are  immutable  ;  and,  against  them, "' 

But  Mr.  Glascock  had  not  come  to  Florence  for  this.  There  wcro 
circumstances  in  his  present  position  which  made  him  feel  that  he 
would  be  gratified  in  escaping,  even  at  the  cost  of  some  seeming 
incivility.  "  I  must  go  in  to  the  ladies  at  once,"  he  said,  "  or  I  shall 
never  get  a  word  with  them."  There  came  across  the  minister's 
brow  a  momentary  frown  of  displcasui'e,  as  though  he  felt  that  he 
were  being  robbed  of  that  which  was  justly  his  own.  For  an  instant 
his  grasp  fixed  itself  more  tightly  to  the  coat.  It  was  quite  within 
the  scope  of  his  corn-age  to  hold  a  struggling  listener  by  physical 
strength  ; — but  he  remembered  that  there  was  a  purpose,  and  ho 
relaxed  his  hold. 

"I  will  take  another  opportunity,"  said  the  minister.  "As  you 
have  raised  that  somewhat  trite  objection  of  the  bearing  of  children, 
which  we  in  oui-  country,  sii*,  have  altogether  got  over,  I  must  put 
you  in  possession  of  my  views  on  that  subject;  but  I  will  find  another 
occasion."  Then  Mr.  Glascock  began  to  reflect  whether  an  American 
lady,  married  in  England,  would  probably  want  to  see  much  of  her 
uncle  in  her  adopted  country. 

Mrs.  Spalding  was  all  smiles  when  her  guest  reached  her.  "  "Wo 
did  not  mean  to  have  such  a  crowd  of  people,"  she  said,  whispering  ; 
"but  you  know  how  one  thing  leads  to  another,  and  people  here  really 
like  short  invitations."  Then  the  minister's  wife  bowed  very  low  to 
an  Italian  lady,  and  for  the  moment  wished  herself  in  Beacon  Street. 
It  was  a  gi'eat  trouble  to  her  that  she  could  not  pluck  up  courage  to 
speak  a  word  in  Italian.  "  I  know  more  about  it  than  some  that  arc 
glib  enough,"  she  would  say  to  her  niece  Livy,  "but  these  Tuscans 
arc  so  particular  with  their  Bocca  Toscana." 

It  was  almost  spiteful  on  the  part  of  Miss  Petrie, — the  manner  in 
which,  on  this  evening,  she  remained  close  to  her  friend  Caro- 
line Spalding.  It  is  hardly  possible  to  believe  that  it  came  altogether 
from  high  principle, — from  a  determination  to  save  her  friend  from  an 
impending  danger.  One's  friend  has  no  right  to  decide  for  one  what 
is,   and  what  is  not  dangerous.     Mr.   Glascock  after  awhile  found 


48  HE  Km^^\  he  was  rigkt. 

Limself  seated  on  a  fixed  couch,  tbrit  ran  along  the  wall,  between 
Cany  Spalding  :ind  Miss  Pctric  ;  but  Miss  Pctrie  was  almost  as  bad 
to  him  as  had  been  the  minister  himself.  "  I  am  afraid,"  she  said, 
looking  up  into  his  face  with  some  severity,  and  rushing  upon  her 
hubjoet  with  audacity,  "  that  the  works  of  your  Browning  have  not 
been  received  in  your  country  with  that  veneration  to  which  they 
are  entitled." 

"Do  you  mean  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Browning?"  asked  Mr.  Glascock, — 
perhaps  with  some  mistaken  idea  that  the  lady  was  out  of  her  depth, 
and  did  not  know  the  difierencc. 

*'  Either; — both  ;  for  they  arc  one.  the  same,  and  indivisible.  The 
spirit  and  germ  of  each  is  so  reflected  in  the  outcome  of  the  other, 
that  one  sees  only  the  result  of  so  perfect  a  combination,  and  one  is 
tempted  to  acknowledge  that  here  and  there  a  marriage  may  have 
been  arranged  in  Heaven.  I  don't  think  that  in  your  country  you 
have  perceived  this,  Mr.  Glascock." 

"  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  we  have,"  said  Mr.  Glascock. 
"Yours  is  not  altogether  an  inglorious  mission,"  contimxed  Miss 
Petrie. 

"I've  got  no  mission,"  said  Mr.  Glascock, — "either  from  the 
I'oreign  Office,  or  from  my  own  inner  convictions." 

Miss  Petrie  laughed  with  a  scornful  laugh.     "I  spoke,  sir,  of  the 
mission  of  that  small  speck  on  the   earth's  broad  surface,  of  which 
you  think  so  much,  and  which  we  call  Great  Britain," 
"  I  do  think  a  good  deal  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Glascock. 
"It  has  been  more  thought  of  than  any  other  speck  of  the  same 
size,"  said  Carry  Spalding. 

"True,"  said  Miss  Petrie,  sharply; — "because  of  its  iron  and 
coal.  But  the  mission  I  spoke  of  was  this."  And  she  put  forth  her 
hand  with  an  artistic  motion  as  she  spoke.  "  It  utters  prophecies, 
though  it  cannot  read  them.  It  sends  forth  truth,  though  it  cannot 
understand  it.  Though  its  own  ears  are  deaf  as  adder's,  it  is  the 
nursery  of  poets,  who  sing  not  for  their  own  countrymen,  but  for  the 
higher  sensibilities  and  newer  intelligences  of  lands,  in  which  philan- 
thropy has  made  education  as  common  as  the  air  that  is  breathed." 

""VVally,"  said  Olivia,  coming  up  to  the  poetess,  in  anger  that  was 
almost  apparent,  "I  want  to  take  you,  and  introduce  you  to  the 
Marchesa  Pulti." 

But  Miss  Petrie  no  doubt  knew  that  the  eldest  son  of  an  English 
lord  was  at  least  as  good  as  an  Italian  marchesa.  "  Let  her  come 
here,"  said  the  poetess,  with  her  grandest  smUe. 


CHAPTEll  LYI. 


WITHERED    GRASS. 


'HEN  Caroline  Spakling  perceived  liow 
direct  an  attempt  had  been  made  by  her 
sister  to  take  the  poetess  away,  in  order 
that  she  might  thus  be  left  alone  with 
Mr.  Glascock,  her  spirit  revolted  against 
the  manoeuvre,  and  she  took  herself  away 
amidst  the  crowd.  If  Mr.  Glascock 
should  Avish  to  find  her  again  he  could 
do  so.  And  there  came  across  her  mind 
something  of  a  half-  formed  idea  that, 
perhaps  after  all  her  friend  Wallachia 
was  right.  "Were  this  man  ready  to 
take  her  and  she  ready  to  be  taken, 
would  such  an  arrangement  be  a  happy 
one  for  both  of  them  ?  His  high-born, 
wealthy  friends  might  very  probably 
despise  her,  and  it  was  quite  possible  that  she  also  might  despise 
them.  To  be  Lady  Peterborough,  and  have  the  spending  of  a 
large  fortune,  would  not  suffice  for  her  happiness.  She  was 
sure  of  that.  It  would  be  a  leap  in  the  dark,  and  all  such  leaps 
must  needs  be  dangerous,  and  therefore  should  be  avoided.  But 
she  did  like  the  man.  Her  friend  was  untrue  to  her  and  cruel 
in  those  allusions  to  tinkling  cymbals.  It  might  be  well  for 
her  to  get  over  her  liking,  and  to  think  no  more  of  one  who  was 
to  her  a  foreigner  and  a  stranger, — of  whose  ways  of  living 
in  his  own  home  she  knew  so  little,  whoso  people  might  bo  anti- 
pathetic to  her,  enemies  instead  of  friends,  among  whom  her  life 
would  be  one  long  misery ;  but  it  was  not  on  that  ground  that  Miss 
Petrie  had  recommended  her  to  start  for  Rome  as  soon  as  Mr. 
Glascock  had  reached  Florence.  "  There  is  no  reason,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "why  I  should  not  marry  a  man  if  I  like  him,  even  though 

VOL.  II.  D 


(^0  IIK    KNT.AV    HE    WAS    RlfiliT. 

he  bo  a  lord.  And  of  him  I  should  not  he  the  least  afraid.  It's  tho 
Avouien  that  I  fear."'  And  then  she  called  to  niiud  all  that  she  had 
ever  heard  of  English  countesses  and  duchesses.  She  thought  that 
she  knew  that  they  v/cro  generally  cold  and  proud,  and  very  little 
given  to  receive  outsiders  graciously  within  their  ranks.  Mr.  GLiscock 
had  an  aunt  who  was  a  Duchess,  and  a  sister  who  would  bo  a  Countess. 
Caroline  Spalding  felt  how  her  back  would  rise  against  these  now 
relations,  if  it  should  come  to  pass  that  they  should  look  unkindly 
upon  her  when  she  was  taken  to  her  own  home ; — how  she  would 
fight  with  them,  giving  them  scorn  for  scorn  ;  how  unutterably  miser- 
able she  would  be  ;  how  she  would  long  to  be  back  among  her  own 
equals,  in  spite  even  of  her  love  for  her  husband.  "  How  grand  a 
thing  it  is,"  she  said,  "to  be  equal  with  those  whom  you  love!" 
And  yet  she  was  to  some  extent  allured  by  the  social  position  of  the 
man.  She  could  perceive  that  he  had  a  charm  of  manner  which  her 
countrymen  lacked.  He  had  read,  perhaps,  less  than  her  uncle ; — ■ 
knew,  perhaps,  less  than  most  of  those  men  Avith  whom  she  had  been 
wont  to  associate  in  her  own  city  life  at  home ;- — was  not  braver,  or 
more  virtuous,  or  more  self-denying  than  they ;  but  there  was  a  soft- 
ness and  an  ease  in  his  manner  which  was  palatable  to  her,  and  an 
absence  of  that  too  visible  efibrt  of  the  intellect  which  is  so  apt  to 
mark  and  mar  tho  conversation  of  Americans.  She  almost  wished 
that  she  had  been  English,  in  order  that  the  man's  home  and  friends 
might  have  suited  her.  She  was  thinking  of  all  this  as  she  stood 
pretending  to  talk  to  an  American  lady,  who  was  very  eloquent  on 
the  delights  of  Florence. 

In  the  meantime  Olivia  and  Mr.  Glascock  had  moved  away  togolhcr, 
and  Miss  Petrie  was  left  alone.  This  was  no  injury  to  Miss  Petrie, 
as  her  mind  at  once  set  itself  to  work  on  a  sonnet  touching  the 
frivolity  of  modern  social  gatherings  ;  and  when  she  complained  after- 
wards to  Caroline  that  it  was  the  curse  of  their  mode  of  life  that  no 
moment  could  be  allowed  for  thought, — in  which  she  referred  specially 
to  a  few  words  that  Mr.  Gore  had  addressed  to  her  at  this  moment 
of  her  meditations, — she  was  not  wilfully  a  hypocrite.  She  was 
painfully  turning  her  second  set  of  rhymes,  and  really  believed  that 
she  had  been  subjected  to  a  hardship.  In  the  meantime  Olivia  and 
Mr.  Glascock  were  discussing  her  at  a  distance. 

"You  were  being  put  through  your  facings,  Mr.  Glascock,"  Olivia 
had  said. 

"Well;  yes;  and  your  dear  friend,  Miss  Petrie,  is  rather  a  stern 
examiner." 


V.lTill'.Ur.I")    ORAP.S. 


51 


*'  Sbo  is  Carry's  ally,— uot  mine,"  said  Olivi;!.  Then  slic  rcmcm- 
T.^erccl  that  by  sayiug  this  she  might  bo  doing  her  sister  an  iujurj'. 
Mv.  Glascock  might  object  to  suc}i  a  bosom  friend  for  his  wife. 
"  That  is  to  say,  of  course  we  are  dl  intimate  with  her,  but  just  at 
this  moment  Carry  is  most  in  favour." 

"  She  is  very  clever,  I  am  quite  sure,''  said  ho. 

''  Oh  yes  ; — she's  a  genius.  You  must  not  doubt  that  on  the  peril 
of  making  every  American  in  Italy  your  enemy." 

**  She  is  a  poet, — is  she  not  ?" 

"Mr.  Glascock!" 

"Have  I  said  anything  wrong?"  he  asked. 

'•  Do  you  mean  to  look  me  in  the  face  and  ttU  me  that  you  are  not 
acquainted  with  her  works, — that  you  don't  know  pages  of  them  by 
heart, — that  you  don't  sleep  with  them  under  your  pill.)w,  don't 
ti-avel  about  with  them  in  your  dressing-bag  ?  I'm  afraid  we  have 
mistaken  you,  Mr.  Glascock." 

"Is  it  so  great  a  sin  2" 

''  If  you'll  ov.-n  up  honestly,  I'll  tell  you  something, — in  a  whisper. 
You  have  not  read  a  word  of  her  poems  ?" 

"  Not  a  word." 

"  Neither  have  I.  Isn't  it  horril^le  ?  But,  perhaps,  if  I  heard 
Tennyson  talking  every  day,  I  shouldn't  read  Tennyson.  Familiariiy 
does  breed  contempt ; — doesn't  it  ?  And  then  poor  dear  Wallachia  is 
f.uch  a  bore.  I  sometimes  Avonder,  when  English  people  are  listening 
to  her,  whether  thoy  think  that  American  girls  generally  talk  like 
that." 

"  Not  all,  perhaps,  with  that  perfected  eloquence." 

"  I  dare  say  you  do,"  continued  Olivia,  craftily.  "  That  is  just 
the  v/ay  in  which  people  form  their  opinions  about  foreigners.  Some 
specially  self-asserting  American  speaks  his  mind  louder  than  other 
people,  and  then  you  say  that  all  Americans  are  self-asserting." 

"But  you  are  a  little  that  way  given,  Miss  Spalding." 

'•  Because  we  are  always  called  upon  to  answer  accusations  agauist 
ns,  expressed  or  unexpressed.  Wc  don't  think  ourselves  a  bit  better 
than  you  ;  or,  if  the  truth  were  known,  half  as  good.  Wo  are  always 
struggling  to  be  as  polished  and  easy  as  the  French,  or  as  sensible 
and  dignified  as  the  English ;  but  when  our  defects  are  thrown  in  our 
teeth " 

"  Who  throws  them  in  your  teeth,  Miss  Spalding  ?" 

**  You  look  it, — all  of  you, — if  you  do  not  speak  it  out.  You  do 
assume  a  superiority,  Mr.  Glascock ;  and  that  we  cannot  endure." 


52  KE    KXKW   HE    WAS    KIOHT, 

"I  do  not  feci  that  I  assume  anything,"  said  Mr.  Glascock,  meekly, 
"  If  three  gentlemen  be  together,  an  Englishman,  a  Frenchman,  and 
an  American,  is  not  the  American  obliged  to  be  on  his  mettle  to  prove 
that  he  is  somebody  among  the  three  ?  I  admit  that  he  is  always 
claiming  to  be  the  first ;  but  he  does  so  only  that  he  may  not  be  too 
evidently  the  last.  If  you  knew  us,  Mr.  Glascock,  you  would  find  us 
to  be  very  mild,  and  humble,  and  nice,  and  good,  and  clever,  and 
kind,  and  charitable,  and  beautiful, — in  short,  the  finest  people  that 
have  as  yet  been  created  on  the  broad  face  of  God's  smiling  earth." 
These  last  words  she  pronounced  with  a  nasal  twang,  and  in  a  tone 
of  voice  which  almost  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  direct  mimicry  of  the 
American  Minister.  The  upshot  of  the  conversation,  however,  was 
that  the  disgust  against  Americans  which,  to  a  certain  degree,  had  been 
excited  in  Mr.  Glascock's  mind  by  the  united  eflorts  of  Mr.  Spalding 
and  the  poetess,  had  been  almost  entirely  dispelled.  From  all  of 
which  the  reader  ought  to  understand  that  Miss  Olivia  Spalding  was  a 
very  clever  young  woman. 

But  nevertheless  Mr.  Glascock  had  not  quite  made  up  his  mind  to 
ask  the  elder  sister  to  be  his  wife.  He  was  one  of  those  men  to  whom 
love-making  does  not  come  very  easy,  although  he  was  never  so  much 
at  his  case  as  when  he  was  in  company  with  ladies.  He  was  sorely 
in  want  of  a  wife,  but  he  was  aware  that  at  different  periods  during 
the  last  fifteen  years  he  had  been  angled  for  as  a  fish.  Mothers  in 
England  had  tried  to  catch  him,  and  of  such  mothers  he  had  come  to 
have  the  strongest  possible  detestation.  He  had  seen  the  hooks, — or 
perhaps  had  fancied  that  he  saw  them  when  they  were  not  there. 
Lady  Janes  and  Lady  Sarahs  had  been  hard  upon  him,  till  he  learned 
to  buckle  himself  into  triple  armour  when  he  went  amongst  them, 
and  yet  he  v/anted  a  wife ; — no  man  more  sorely  wanted  one.  The 
reader  will  perhaps  remember  hoAV  he  went  down  to  Nuncombe  Putney 
in  quest  of  a  wife,  but  all  in  vain.  The  lady  in  that  case  had  been  so 
explicit  with  him  that  he  could  not  hope  for  a  more  favourable  answer  ; 
and,  indeed,  he  would  not  have  cared  to  marry  a  girl  who  had  told 
him  that  she  preferred  another  man  to  himself,  even  if  it  had  been 
possible  for  him  to  do  so.  Now  he  had  met  a  lady  very  different  from 
those  with  whom  he  had  hitherto  associated, — but  not  the  less  mani- 
festly a  lady.  Caroline  Spalding  was  bright,  pleasant,  attractive,  very 
easy  to  talk  to,  and  yet  quite  able  to  hold  her  own.  But  the  Ame- 
rican Minister  was — a  bore  ;  and  Miss  Petrie  was — unbearable.  He 
had  often  told  himself  that  in  this  matter  of  marrying  a  wife  he  would 
please  himself  altogether,  that  he  would  allow  himself  to  be  tied  down 


AVITHERED   GRASS,  63 

by  no  consideration  of  family  pride, — that  he  would  consult  nothing 
but  his  own  heart  and  feelings.  As  for  rank,  he  could  give  that  to 
his  wife.  As  for  money,  he  had  plenty  of  that  also.  He  wanted  a 
woman  that  was  not  hlasee  with  the  world,  that  was  not  a  fool,  and 
who  would  respect  him.  The  more  he  thought  of  it,  the  more  sm-e 
ho  was  that  he  haJ  seen  none  who  pleased  him  so  well  as  Carolina 
Spalding ;  and  yet  he  was  a  little  afraid  of  taking  a  step  that  would 
be  u-revocable.  Perhaps  the  American  Minister  might  express  a  wish 
to  end  his  days  at  Monkhams,  and  might  think  it  dcshable  to  havo 
Hiss  Petrie  always  with  him  as  a  private  secretary  in  poetry  ! 

"Between  you  and  us,  Mr.  Glascock,  the  spark  of  sympathy  does 
not  pass  with  a  strong  flash,"  said  a  voice  in  his  ear.  As  he  turned 
round  rapidly  to  face  his  foe,  he  was  quite  sure,  for  the  moment, 
that  under  no  possible  circumstances  would  he  ever  take  an  American 
woman  to  his  bosom  as  his  wife. 

"  No,"  said  he  ;  "  no,  no.     I  rather  think  that  I  agi-ee  with  you." 

"The  antipathy  is  one,"  continued  Miss  Petrie,  "which  has  been 
common  on  the  face  of  the  earth  since  the  clown  first  trod  upon  the 
courtier's  heels.  It  is  the  instinct  of  fallen  man  to  hate  equality,  to 
desire  ascendancy,  to  critsh,  to  oppress,  to  tyrannise,  to  enslave.  Then, 
when  the  slave  is  at  last  free,  and  in  his  freedom  demands — equality, 
man  is  not  great  enough  to  take  his  enfranchised  brother  to  his  bosom." 

"  You  mean  negroes,"  said  Mr.  Glascock,  looking  round  and  plan- 
ning for  himself  a  mode  of  escape. 

"Not  negroes  only, — not  the  enslaved  blacks,  who  are  now 
enslaved  no  more, — but  the  rising  nations  of  white  men  wherever 
they  are  to  be  seen.  You  English  have  no  sympathy  with  a  people 
who  claim  to  be  at  least  your  equals.  The  clown  has  trod  upon  the 
courtier's  heels  till  the  clown  is  clown  no  longer,  and  the  com'tier  has 
hardly  a  court  in  which  ho  may  dangle  his  sword-knot." 

"  If  so  the  clown  might  as  well  spare  the  courtier,"  not  meaning 
the  rebuke  which  his  words  implied. 

"Ah — h, — but  the  clown  will  not  spare  the  courtier,  Mr.  Glascock. 
I  understand  the  gibe,  and  I  tell  you  that  the  courtier  shall  be  spared 
no  longer ; — because  he  is  useless.  He  shall  be  cut  down  together  with 
the  withered  grasses  and  thrown  into  the  oven,  and  there  shall  bo  an 
end  of  him."  Then  she  turned  round  to  appeal  to  an  American 
gentleman  who  had  joined  them,  and  Mr.  Glascock  nuide  his  escape. 
"  I  hold  it  to  be  the  hoUest  duty  which  I  owe  to  my  country  never 
to  spare  one  of  them  when  I  meet  him." 

"  They  are  all  very  well  in  theii"  way,"  said  the  American  gentleman. 


5i  HE    KNEW    II i:    ^VAS    RIGHT. 

"  Down  with  them,  down  with  them  !  "  exclaimed  the  poetess,  with 
a  beautiful  enthusiasm.  In  tlic  meantime  Mr.  Glascock  had  made 
up  his  mind  that  ho  could  not  dare  to  ask  Caroline  Spalding  to  bo  lii^ 
■\vifo.  There  were  certain  forms  of  the  American  female  so  dreadful 
that  no  wise  man  would  wilfully  come  in  contact  with  them.  Mis,-? 
Petrie's  ferocity  wa:l  distressing  to  him,  but  her  eloquence  and  enthu- 
siasm were  worse  even  than  her  ferocity.  The  personal  incivility  of 
Avhich  she  had  been  guilty  in  calling  him  a  withered  grass  was  dis- 
tasteful to  him,  as  being  opposed  to  his  ideas  of  the  customs  of  societj' ; 
but  what  would  be  his  fate  if  his  wife's  chosen  friend  should  be  for 
ever  dinning  her  denunciation  of  withered  grasses  into  his  ear  ? 

He  was  still  thinking  of  all  this  when  he  was  accosted  by  Mrs, 
^ipalding.  "Are  you  going  to  dear  Lady  Banbury's  to-morrow?" 
she  asked.     Lady  Banbury  was  the  wife  of  the  English  Minister. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  be  there  in  the  course  of  the  evening." 

"  How  very  nice  she  is  ;  is  she  not  ?  I  do  like  Lady  Banbury  ;—  so 
fjoft,  and  gentle,  and  kind." 

'■'  One  of  the  pleasantest  old  ladies  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Glascock, 

"  It  does  not  strike  you  so  much  as  it  does  me,"  said  Mrs.  Spalding, 
Avith  one  of  her  sv/eetest  smiles.  "  The  truth  is,  vv-e  all  value  what 
we  have  not  got.  There  are  no  Lady  Banburys  in  our  country,  and 
therefore  we  think  the  more  of  them  v/hcn  wc  meet  them  here.  She 
is  talking  of  going  to  Kome  for  the  Carnival,  and  has  asked  Caroline 
to  go  with  her.  I  am  so  pleased  to  find  that  my  dear  girl  is  such  a 
favourite." 

Mr.  Glascock  immediately  told  himself  thot  he  saw  the  hook.  If 
he  Avere  to  be  fished  for  by  this  American  aunt  as  he  had  been  fished 
for  by  English  mothers,  all  his  pleasure  in  the  society  of  Caroline 
Spalding  would  be  at  once  over.  It  would  be  too  much,  indeed,  if 
i;i  this  American  household  he  were  to  find  the  old  vices  of  an  aris- 
tocracy superadded  to  j'oung  republican  sins  !  Nevertheless  Lady 
Banbury  was,  as  he  knew  well,  a  person  v.hose  opinion  about  young 
people  v/as  supposed  to  be  \evy  good.  She  noticed  those  only  who 
were  worthy  of  notice  ;  and  to  have  been  taken  by  the  hand  by  Lady 
Banbury  was  acknowledged  to  be  a  passport  into  good  society.  If 
Caroline  Spalding  was  in  truth  going  to  Rome  v/ith  Lady  Banbury, 
that  fact  was  in  itself  a  great  confirmation  of  Mr.  Glascock's  good 
opinion  of  her.  Mrs.  Spalding  had  perhaps  understood  this  ;  but  had 
not  understood  that  having  just  hinted  that  it  Avas  so,  she  should  have 
abstained  from  saying  a  word  more  about  her  dear  girl.  Clever  and 
•\vcll-practised  must,  indeed,  be  the  hand  of  the  fisherwomanin  matrimo- 


■WITHERED    GRASS.  55 

nirJ  waters  who  is  able  to  throw  her  fly  without  showK.g  any  glliupso 
of  the  hook  to  the  fish  for  whom  she  angles.  Poor  Mrs.  Spalding, 
though  with  kindly  instincts  towards  her  niece  she  did  on  this  occa- 
sion make  some  slight  attempt  at  angling,  M'as  innocent  of  any  con- 
certed plan.  It  seemed  to  her  to  be  so  natural  to  say  a  good  word  in 
praise  of  her  niece  to  the  man  whom  she  believed  to  be  in  love  with 
her  nieco. 

Caroline  and  Mr.  Glascock  did  not  meet  each  other  again  till  late 
in  the  evening,  and  just  as  he  was  about  to  take  his  leave.  As  they 
came  tocrether  each  of  them  involuntarilv  looked  round  to  see  whether 
r\Iiss  Petrie  was  near.  Had  she  been  there  nothing  would  have  been 
said  beyond  the  shortest  farewell  greeting.  But  Miss  Petrie  was  afar 
off,  electrifying  <-ome  Italian  by  the  vehemence  of  her  sentiment.^;,  and 
the  audacious  volubility  of  a  language  in  which  all  arbitrary  restric- 
tions were  ignored.     "  Are  you  going  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Well ; — I  believe  I  am.  Since  I  saw  you  last  I've  encountered 
Miss  Petrie  again,  and  I'm  rather  depressed." 

"Ah; — you  don't  know  her.  If  you  did  j'ou  wouldn't  laugh 
at  her." 

"  Laugh  at  her  !  Indeed  I  do  not  do  tbat  ;  but  when  I'm  told  that 
I'm  to  be  thrown  into  the  oven  and  burned  because  I'm  such  a  worn- 
out  old  institution " 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  mind  that !" 

"  Not  much,  when  it  comes  up  in  the  ordinary  cotn'sc  of  conversa- 
tion ;  but  it  palls  upon  one  when  it  is  asserted  for  the  fourth  or  fifth 
time  in  an  evening." 

"Alas,  alas  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Spalding,  with  mock  energy. 

"And  why,  alas?" 

"  Because  it  is  so  impossible  to  make  the  oil  and  vinegar  of  the  old 
world  and  of  the  new  mix  together  and  suit  each  other." 

"  You  think  it  is  impossible,  Miss  Spalding  ?" 

"  I  fear  so.  We  are  so  terribly  tender,  and  you  are  always  pinch- 
ing us  on  our  most  tender  spot.  And  Ave  never  meet  you  without 
treading  on  your  gouty  toes." 

"  I  don't  think  my  toes  are  gouty,"  said  he. 

"  I  apologise  to  your  own,  individually,  IJr.  Glascock ;  but  I  must 
assert  that  nationally  you  arc  subject  to  the  gout." 

"  That  is,  when  I'm  told  over  and  over  again  that  I'm  to  be  cut 
down  and  thrown  into  the  oven " 

"Never  mind  the  oven  now,  Mr.  Glascock.  If  my  friend  has  been 
ovcr-zcalous  I  will  beg  pardon  for  her.     But  it  does  seem  to  luo, 


50  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS   KTGIIT. 

indeed  it  does,  with  all  the  reverence  and  partiality Iliavc  for  every- 
thing European," — the  word  European  was  an  oflfence  to  him,  and  ho 
shewed  that  it  was  so  by  his  countenance, — "  that  the  idiosyncrasies  of 
you  and  of  us  are  so  radically  diifcrent,  that  we  cannot  be  made  to  amal- 
gamate and  sympathise  with  each  other  thoroughly." 

He  paused  for  some  seconds  before  he  ansAvercd  her,  but  it  was  so 
evident  by  his  manner  that  he  Avas  going  to  speak,  that  she  could 
neither  leave  him  nor  interrupt  him.  "  I  had  thought  that  it  might 
have  been  otherwise,"  he  said  at  last,  and  the  tone  of  his  voice  was 
so  changed  as  to  make  her  know  that  he  was  in  earnest. 

But  she  did  not  change  her  voice  by  a  single  note.  "  I'm  afraid  it 
cannot  be  so,"  she  said,  speaking  after  her  old  fashion — half  in  earnest, 
half  in  banter.  "  We  may  make  up  our  minds  to  be  very  civil  to 
each  other  when  we  meet.  The  threats  of  the  oven  may  no  doubt  be 
dropped  on  our  side,  and  j'OU  may  abstain  from  expressing  in  words 
your  sense  of  our  inferioritj'." 

"  I  never  expressed  anything  of  the  kind,"  he  said,  quite  in  anger. 

"  I  am  taking  you  simply  as  the  sample  Englishman,  not  as  Mr. 
Glascock,  who  helped  me  and  my  sister  over  the  mountains.  Siich 
of  us  as  have  to  meet  in  society  may  agree  to  be  very  courteous  ; 
but  courtesy  and  cordiality  are  not  only  not  the  same,  but  they  are 
incompatible." 

"  Why  so  ?  " 

"  Courtesy  is  an  effort,  and  cordiality  is  free.  I  must  be  allowed 
to  contradict  the  friend  that  I  love  ;  but  I  assent, — too  often  falsely, 
• — to  what  is  said  to  mo  by  a  passing  acquaintance.  In  spite  of  what 
the  Scripture  says,  I  think  it  is  one  of  the  greatest  privileges  of  a 
brother  that  he  may  call  his  brother  a  fool." 

"  Shall  you  desire  to  call  your  husband  a  fool  ?  " 

"  My  husband  !  " 

"  He  will,  I  suppose,  be  at  least  as  dear  to  you  as  a  brother  ?  " 

*'  I  never  had  a  brother." 

*'  Your  sister,  then  !     It  is  the  same,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  If  I  were  to  have  a  husband,  I  hope  he  would  be  the  dearest 
to  me  of  all.  Unless  he  were  so,  he  certainly  would  not  be  my  hus- 
band. Bat  between  a  man  and  his  wife  there  does  not  spring  up 
that  playful,  violent  intimacy  admitting  of  all  liberties,  which  comes 
from  early  nursery  associations  ;  and,  then,  there  is  the  diffei'ence  of 


sex." 


"  I  should  not  like  my  wife  to  call  me  a  fool,"  he  said. 

"I  hope  she  may  never  have  occasion  to  do  so,  Mr.  Glascock. 


■Dorothy's  fate,  57 

Marry  an  English  ^vifo  in  your  o-\vn  cliiss, — as,  of  course,  j^ou  Avill, 
— and  then  you  Avill  be  safe." 

"  But  I  Lave  set  my  heart  fast  on  marrying  an  American  wife,"  ho 
saiil. 

"Then  I  can't  toll  what  may  befall  you.  It's  like  enough,  if  j-ou 
do  that,  that  you  may  be  called  by  some  name  you  will  think  hard 
to  bear.  But  you'll  think  better  of  it.  Like  should  pair  with  like, 
Mr.  Glascock.  If  you  were  to  marry  one  of  our  young  women,  you 
would  lose  in  dignity  as  much  as  she  would  lose  in  comfort."  Then 
they  parted,  and  she  went  off  to  say  farewell  to  other  guests.  Tho 
manner  in  which  she  had  answered  what  he  had  said  to  her  had 
certainly  been  of  a  nature  to  stop  any  further  speech  of  the  samo 
kind.  Had  she  been  gentle  with  him,  then  he  Avould  certainly  havo 
told  her  that  she  was  the  American  woman  whom  he  desired  to  tako 
with  him  to  his  home  in  England. 


CHAPTER    LVII. 

DOROTHY'S  FATE. 


TowAKDS  the  end  of  February  Sir  Peter  Mancrudy  declared  Miss 
Stanbury  to  be  out  of  danger,  and  Mr.  Martin  began  to  be  sprightly  on 
the  subject,  taking  to  himself  no  inconsiderable  share  of  the  praise 
accruing  to  the  medical  faculty  in  Exeter  generally  for  the  saving  of  a 
life  so  valuable  to  the  city.  **  Yes,  Mr.  Burgess,"  Sh-  Peter  said  to  old 
Barty  of  the  bank,  "  our  friend  will  get  over  it  this  time,  and  without 
any  serious  damage  to  her  constitution,  if  she  will  only  take  care  of 
herself."  Barty  made  some  inaudible  grunt,  intended  to  indicate  his 
own  indifference  on  tho  subject,  and  expressed  his  opinion  to  tho 
chief  clerk  that  old  Jemima  "Wideawake, — as  he  was  pleased  to  call 
her, — was  one  of  those  tough  customers  who  would  never  die.  "  It 
would  be  nothing  to  us,  Mr.  Barty,  one  way  or  the  other,"  said  tho 
clerk ;  to  which  Barty  Burgess  assented  with  another  grunt. 

Camilla  French  declared  that  she  was  delighted  to  hear  the  newft. 
At  this  time  there  had  been  somo  sort  of  a  reconciliation  between  her 
and  her  lover.  Mrs.  French  had  extracted  from  him  a  promise  that 
ho  would  not  go  to  Natal ;  and  Camilla  had  commenced  tho  prepara- 
tions for  her  wedding.  His  visits  to  Heavitreo  were  as  few  and  far 
between  as  he  could  make  them  with  any  regard  to  decency ;  but  the 
Jilst  of  March  was  coming  on  quickly,  and  as  he  was  to  be  made  a 


58  HK    KKVAV    TIE    V\"AS    niHTIT. 

possession  of  then  for  ever,  it  was  considered  to  Ijc  safe  and  well  t,o 
allow  liim  some  liberty  in  liis  present  condition.  "  My  dear,  if  they 
arc  driven,  there  is  no  knowing  what  they  won't  do,"  Mrs.  French 
said  to  her  daughter.  Camilla  had  submitted  Avith  compressed  lips 
and  a  slight  nod  of  her  head.  She  had  worked  very  hard,  but  her 
day  of  reward  was  coming.  It  was  impossible  not  to  perceive, — both 
for  her  and  her  mother, — that  the  scantiness  of  Mr.  Gibson's  atten- 
tion to  his  future  bride  Avas  caitse  of  some  Aveak  triumph  to  Arabella. 
She  said  that  it  Avas  very  odd  that  he  did  not  come, — and  once  added 
Avith  a  little  sigh  that  he  used  to  come  in  former  days,  alluding  to 
those  happy  days  in  Avhich  another  love  Avas  paramount.  Camilla 
oould  not  endure  this  Avith  an  equal  mind.  "  Bella,  dear,"  she  said, 
"  Ave  knoAV  Avhat  all  that  means.  He  has  made  his  choice,  and  if  I 
am  satisfied  Avith  Avhat  he  does  noAV,  surely  yon  need  not  grumble." 
Miss  Stanbury's  illness  had  undoubtedly  been  a  great  source  of  con- 
tentment to  the  family  at  Heavitrec,  as  they  had  all  been  able  to 
argue  that  her  impending  demise  Avas  the  natural  consequence  of  her 
great  sin  in  the  matter  of  Dorothy's  proposed  marriage.  When, 
hoAVCver,  they  heard  from  Mr.  IMartin  that  she  Avould  certainly 
recover,  that  Sir  Peter's  edict  to  that  eflcct  had  gone  forth,  they  AA'ere 
Avilling  to  acknoAvlcdge  that  Providence,  having  so  far  punished  the 
sinner,  Avas  right  in  staying  its  hand  and  abstaining  from  the  final 
bloAV.  "I'm  sure  Ave  are  delighted,"  said  Mrs.  French,  "for  though 
she  has  said  cruel  things  of  us, — and  so  untrue  too, — yet  of  course  it 
is  our  duty  to  forgive  her.     And  Ave  do  forgive  her." 

Dorothy  had  Avritten  three  or  four  notes  to  Brooke  since  his  depar- 
ture, Avhich  contained  simple  bulletins  of  her  aunt's  liealth.  She 
ahvays  began  her  letters  Avitli  "  My  dear  Mr.  Burgess,"  and  ended 
them  Avith  "  yours  trulA\"  She  never  made  any  allusion  to  Brooke's 
declaration  of  love,  or  gave  the  slightest  sign  in  her  letters  to  shew 
that  she  even  remembered  it.  At  last  she  Avrote  to  say  that  her  aunt 
Avas  convalescent ;  and,  in  making  this  announcement,  she  alloAved 
herself  some  enthusiasm  of  expression.  She  Avas  so  happy,  and  Avas 
so  sure  that  Mr.  Burgess  Avould  be  equally  so  !  And  her  aunt  had 
asked  after  her  "  dear  Brooke,"  expressing  her  great  satisfaction  with 
him,  in  that  he  had  come  down  to  see  her  AA'hen  she  had  been  almost 
too  ill  to  see  anyone.  In  ansAver  to  this  there  came  to  her  a  real 
loA'e-letter  from  Brooke  Burgess.  It  Avas  the  first  occasion  on  Avhich 
he  had  Avritten  to  her.  The  little  bulletins  had  demanded  no  re- 
plies, and  had  received  none.  Perhaps  there  had  been  a  shade  of 
disappointment  on  Dorothy's  side,  in   that    she  had  Avritten    thrico. 


porotiiy's  fate.  59 

Jind  had  been  made  rich  -with  no  word  iu  return.  But,  although  her 
heart  had  palpitated  on  hearing  the  postman's  knock,  and  had  palpi- 
tated in  vain,  she  had  told  herself  that  it  was  all  as  it  should  be. 
She  wrote  to  him,  because  she  possessed  information  which  it  was 
necessary  that  she  should  communicate.  He  did  not  write  to  her, 
because  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  tell.  Then  had  come  the  love- 
letter,  and  in  the  love-letter  there  was  an  imperative  demand  for  a 
reply. 

What  was  she  to  do  ?  To  have  recourse  to  Priscilla  for  advice  was 
her  fii-st  idea  ;  but  she  herself  believed  that  she  owed  a  debt  of 
gratitude  to  her  aunt,  which  Priscilla  would  not  take  into  account, 
— the  existence  of  which  Priscilla  would  by  no  means  admit.  She 
knew  Priscilla's  mind  in  this  matter,  and  was  sure  that  Priscilla's 
advice,  whatever  it  might  be,  would  be  given  without  any  regard  to 
her  aunt's  views.  And  then  Dorothy  was  altogether  ignorant  of  her 
aunt's  views.  Her  aunt  had  been  very  anxious  that  she  should  marry 
Mr.  Gibson,  but  had  clearly  never  admitted  into  her  mind  the  idea 
that  she  might  possiblj-  marry  Brooke  Burgess ;  and  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  herself  would  be  dishonest,  both  to  her  aunt  and  to  her 
lover,  if  she  were  to  bind  this  man  to  herself  without  her  aunt's 
knov/ledge.  He  was  to  bo  her  aunt's  heir,  and  she  was  maintained 
by  her  aunt's  liberality  !  Thinking  of  all  this,  she  at  last  resolved 
that  she  would  take  the  bull  by  the  horns,  and  tell  her  aunt.  She  felt 
that  the  task  would  be  one  almost  beyond  her  strength.  Thrice  she 
went  into  her  aunt's  room,  intending  to  make  a  clean  breast.  Thrice 
her  courage  failed  her,  and  she  left  the  room  with  her  talc  untold, 
excusing  herself  on  various  pretexts.  Her  aunt  had  seemed  to  be 
not  quite  so  well,  or  had  declared  herself  to  be  tired,  or  had  been  a 
little  cross  ; — or  else  Martha  had  come  in  at  the  nick  of  time.  But 
there  was  Brooke  Burgess's  letter  nnanswered, — a  letter  that  vras 
read  night  and  morning,  and  which  was  never  for  an  instant  out  of 
hor  mind.  He  had  demanded  a  reply,  and  he  had  a  right  at  least  to 
that.  The  letter  had  been  with  her  for  four  entire  days  before  she 
had  ventured  to  speak  to  her  aunt  on  the  subject. 

On  the  first  of  March  Miss  Stanbury  came  out  of  her  bed-room  for 
the  fu-st  time.  Dorothy,  on  the  previous  day,  had  decided  on  post- 
poning her  communication  for  this  occasion  ;  but,  when  she  found 
herself  sitting  in  the  little  sitting-room  up-stairs  close  at  her  aunt's 
elbow,  and  perceived  the  signs  of  weakness  which  the  new  move  had 
made  conspicuous,  and  heard  the  invalid  declare  that  the  liltlo 
journey  had  been  almost  too  much  for  her,  her  heart  misgave  hci'. 


C)0  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

She  ought  to  have  tokl  her  talc  Avhile  her  aiuit  was  still  in  heel.  But 
presently  there  came  a  question,  which  put  her  into  such  a  flutter 
that  she  Avas  for  the  time  devoid  of  all  resolution.  "  Has  Brooke 
written  ?  "  said  Miss  Stanhury. 

"Yes, — aunt;  he  has  written." 

"  And  what  did  ho  say  ?  "  Dorothy  was  struck  quite  dumb.  "  Is 
there  anything  wrong  ?  "  And  now,  as  Miss  Stanhury  asked  the 
question,  she  seemed  herself  to  have  forgotten  that  she  had  two 
minutes  before  declared  herself  to  be  almost  too  feeble  to  speak. 
**  I'm  sui'e  there  is  something  wrong.     What  is  it?     I  will  know." 

"  There  is  nothing  wrong,  Aunt  Stanhury." 

"  Where  is  the  letter  ?     Let  me  see  it." 

"  I  mean  there  is  nothing  wrong  about  him." 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

"  He  is  quite  well,  Aunt  Stanbmy." 

"  Show  me  the  letter.  I  will  see  the  letter.  I  know  that  there  is 
something  the  matter.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  won't  shew  me 
Brooke's  letter?" 

There  was  a  moment's  pause  before  Dorothy  answered.  "'  I  will 
shew  you  his  letter  ; — though  I  am  sure  he  didn't  mean  that  I  should 
shew  it  to  anj'one." 

"  He  hasn't  written  evil  of  me  ?  " 

"No;  no;  no.  He  would  sooner  cut  his  hand  off  than  say  a 
word  bad  of  you.  He  never  says  or  writes  anything  bad  of  any- 
body.    But .     Oh,  aunt ;  I'll  tell  you  everything.    I  should  have 

told  you  before,  only  that  you  were  ill." 

Then  Miss  Staubury  was  frightened.  "  What  is  it  ?  "  she  said 
hoarsely,  clasping  the  arms  of  the  great  chair,  each  with  a  thin, 
shrivelled  hand. 

"Aunt  Stanbury,  Brooke, — ^Brooke, — Vv^ants  me  to  be  his — wife  !  " 

"What!" 

"  You  cannot  be  more  surprised  than  I  have  been.  Aunt  Stanbury ; 
and  there  has  been  no  fault  of  mine." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  the  old  woman. 

"  Now  you  may  read  the  letter,"  said  Dorothy,  standing  up.  She 
was  quite  prepared  to  be  obedient,  but  she  felt  that  her  aunt's  manner 
of  receiving  the  information  was  almost  an  insult. 

"  He  must  be  a  fool,"  said  Miss  Stanbury. 

This  was  hard  to  bear,  and  the  colour  went  and  came  rapidly 
across  Dorothy's  cheeks  as  she  gave  herself  a  few  moments  to  prepare 
an  answer.     She  already  perceived  that  her  aunt  would  be  altogether 


o 


M 


H 


o 
o 


dokotiiy's  fate.  G1 

adverse  to  tlio  marriage,  and  that  therefore  the  marriage  could  never 
take  place.  She  had  never  for  a  moment  allowed  herself  to  think  other- 
wise, but,  nevertheless,  the  blow  was  heavy  on  her.  "\Vc  all  know  how 
constantly  hope  and  expectation  will  rise  high  within  our  own  bosoms 
in  opposition  to  our  own  judgment, — how  we  become  sanguine  in  regard 
to  events  which  we  almost  know  can  never  come  to  pass.  So  it  had 
been  with  Dorothy.  Her  heart  had  been  almost  in  a  flutter  of 
happiness  since  she  had  had  Brooke's  letter  in  her  possession,  and  yet 
the  never  ceased  to  declare  to  herself  her  own  conviction  that  that 
letter  could  load  to  no  good  result.  In  regard  to  her  own  wishes  on 
the  subject  she  had  never  asked  herself  a  single  question.  As  it  had 
been  quite  beyond  her  power  to  bring  herself  to  endure  the  idea  of 
man-ying  Mr.  Gibson,  so  it  had  been  quite  impossible  to  her  not  to 
long  to  be  Brooke's  wife  from  the  moment  in  which  a  suggestion  to 
that  cfiect  had  fallen  from  his  lips.  This  was  a  state  of  things  bo 
certain,  so  much  a  matter  of  course,  that,  though  she  had  not  spoken 
a  word  to  him  in  which  she  owned  her  love,  she  had  never  for  a 
moment  doubted  that  he  knew  the  truth, — and  that  everybody  else 
concerned  would  know  it  too.  But  she  did  not  suppose  that  her 
wishes  would  go  for  anything  with  her  aunt.  Brooke  Burgess  was  to 
become  a  rich  man  as  her  aunt's  heir,  and  her  aunt  would  of  course 
have  her  own  ideas  about  Brooke's  advancement  in  life.  She  was 
quite  prepared  to  submit  without  quarrelling  when  her  aunt  should 
tell  her  that  the  idea  must  not  be  entertained.  But  the  order  might 
be  given,  the  prohibition  might  be  pronounced,  without  an  insult  to 
her  o-\vn  feelings  as  a  woman.  "He  must  be  a  fool,"  Miss  Stanbury 
had  said,  and  Dorothy  took  time  to  collect  her  thoughts  before  she 
would  reply.  In  the  meantime  her  aunt  finished  the  reading  of  the 
letter. 

"He  maybe  foolish  in  this,"  Dorothy  said;  "but  I  don't  think 
you  should  call  him  a  fool." 

"  I  shall  call  him  what  I  please.     I  suppose  this  was  going  on  at 
the  time  when  you  refused  Mr.  Gibson." 

"Nothing   was   going   on.     Nothing   has   gone   on   at   all,"    said 
Dorothy,  with  as  much  indignation  as  she  Avas  able  to  assume. 

"  How  can  you  tell  me  that  ?     That  is  an  untruth." 

"It  is  not — an  untruth,"  said  Dorothy,  almost  sobbing,  but  driven 
at  the  same  time  to  much  anger. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  this  is  the  first  you  ever  heard  of  it?'' 
And  she  held  out  the  letter,  shaking  it  in  her  thin  hand. 

"I  have  never  said  so,  Aunt  Stanbury." 


G2  UK  KNEW  in:  was  tiight. 

"Yes,  you  aid." 

"I  Pidd  that  nothing — was — going  ou,  wlien  Mr.  Gibson — was • 

If  you  choose  to  suspect  me,  Aunt  Stanbury,  I'll  go  away.  I  won't 
stay  here  if  you  suspect  me.  When  Brooke  spoke  to  me,  I  told  him 
you  wouldn't  like  it." 

"  Of  course  I  don't  like  it."  But  slic  gave  no  reason  why  slie  did 
not  like  it. 

"  And  there  was  nothing  more  till  this  letter  came.  I  couldn't  help 
his  writing  to  me.     It  wasn't  my  fault." 

"Pshar' 

"If  you  are  augiy,  I  am  very  sorry.  But  you  haven't  a  right  to 
be  angry." 

"Go  on,  Dorothy;  go  on.  I'm  so  weak  that  I  can  hardly  stir 
myself ;  it's  the  first  moment  that  I've  been  out  of  my  bed  for  weeks  ; 
■ — and  of  course  you  can  say  what  you  please.  I  know  what  it  will 
be.  I  shall  have  to  take  to  my  bed  again,  and  then, — in  a  very  little 
time, — you  can  both — make  fools  of  yourselves, — just  as  you  like." 

This  was  an  argument  against  which  Dorothy  of  course  found  it 
to  be  quite  impossible  to  make  continued  combat.  She  could  only 
shuffle  her  letter  back  into  her  pocket,  and  be,  if  possible,  more 
assiduous  than  ever  in  her  attentions  to  the  invalid.  She  knew  that 
she  had  boen  treated  most  unjustly,  and  th^re  would  be  a  question  to 
be  ansv.-ered  as  soon  as  her  aunt  should  be  well  as  to  the  possibility 
of  her  remaining  in  the  Close  subject  to  such  injustice ;  but  let  her 
aunt  say  what  she  might,  or  do  what  she  might,  Dorothy  could  not 
leave  her  for  the  present.  Miss  Stanbury  sat  for  a  considerable  time 
quite  motionless,  Avith  her  eyes  closed,  and  did  not  stir  or  make  signs 
of  life  till  Dorothy  touched  her  arm,  asking  her  whether  she  v/ould 
not  tiike  some  broth  which  had  been  prepared  for  her.  ""Whore's 
Martha?  Why  does  not  Martha  come?"  said  Miss  Stanbury.  This 
was  a  hard  blow,  and  from  that  moment  Dorothy  believed  that  it 
would  be  expedient  that  she  should  return  to  Nuncombo  Putnej". 
The  broth,  however,  was  taken,  while  Dorothy  sat  by  in  silence. 
Only  one  word  further  was  said  that  evening  by  Miss  Stanbuiy  about 
Brooke  and  his  love  affair.  "  There  must  be  nothing  more  about  this, 
Dorothy  ;  remember  that ;  nothing  at  all.  I  won't  have  it."  Dorothy 
made  no  reply.  Brooke's  letter  was  in  her  pocket,  and  it  should  bo 
answered  that  night.  On  the  following  day  she  would  let  her  aunt 
know  what  she  had  said  to  Brooke.  Her  aunt  should  not  see  the 
letter,  but  should  be  made  acquainted  with  its  purport  in  reference  to 
Brooke's  proposal  of  marriage. 


DfiKOrriY's   FATE.  63 

"I  won't  have  it!"  That  had  been  hor  aunt's  command.  What 
right  had  her  aunt  to  give  any  command  upon  the  maitur  ?  Then 
crossed  Dorothy's  mind,  as  she  thought  of  this,  a  glimmering  of  au 
idea  that  no  one  can  he  entitled  to  issue  commands  who  cannot 
enforce  obedience.  If  Brooke  and  she  chose  to  become  man  and  wifo 
by  mutual  consent,  how  could  her  aunt  prohibit  the  marriage  ?  Then 
there  followed  another  idea,  that  commands  are  enforced  by  the 
threateuiug  and,  if  necessary,  by  the  enforcement  of  penalties.  Her 
aunt  had  within  her  hand  no  penalty  of  which  Dorothy  was  afraid  on 
her  own  behalf;  but  she  had  the  power  of  inflicting  a  terrible  punish- 
ment on  Brooke  Burgess.  Now  Dorothy  conceived  that  she  herself 
would  be  the  meanest  creature  alive  if  she  were  actuated  by  fears  as 
to  money  in  her  acceptance  or  rejection  of  a  man  whom  she  loved  as 
she  did  Brooke  Burgess.  Broolce  had  an  income  of  his  own  which 
seemed  to  her  to  be  ample  for  all  purposes.  But  that  which  would 
have  been  sordid  in  her,  did  not  seem  to  her  to  have  any  stain  of 
sordidness  for  him.  He  was  a  man,  and  was  bound  to  be  rich  if  he 
could.  And,  moreover,  what  had  she  to  offer  iu  herself, — such  a  poor 
thing  as  was  she, — to  make  compensation  to  him  for  the  loss  of  fortune  ? 
Her  aunt  could  inflict  this  penalty,  and  therefore  the  power  was  hers, 
and  the  power  must  be  obeyed.  She  vrould  write  to  Brooke  in  a 
manner  that  should  convey  to  him  her  firm  decision.  But  not  the 
less  on  that  account  would  she  let  hor  aunt  knov/  that  she  thought 
herself  to  have  been  ill-used.  It  was  an  insult  to  her,  a  most  ill- 
natared  insult, — that  telling  her  that  Brooke  had  been  a  fool  for  loving 
hor.  And  then  that  accusation  against  her  of  having  been  false,  of 
having  given  one  reason  for  refusing  Mr.  Gibson,  while  there  was 
another  reason  in  her  heart, — of  having  been  cunning  and  then 
untrue,  was  not  to  be  endured.  "What  would  her  aunt  think  of  her  if 
she  Avere  to  bear  such  allegations  Avithout  indignant  protest  ?  She 
would  write  her  letter,  and  speak  her  mind  to  her  aunt  an  soon  as  hor 
aunt  should  be  well  enough  to  hear  it. 

As  she  had  resolved,  she  wrote  her  letter  that  night  before  she  went 
to  bed.  She  wrote  it  with  floods  of  tears,  and  a  bitterness  of  heart 
which  almost  conquered  her.  She  too  had  heard  of  love,  and  had 
been  taught  to  feel  that  the  success  or  failure  of  a  woman's  life 
depended  upon  that, — whether  she  did,  or  whether  she  did  not,  by 
f^uch  gifts  as  God  might  havo  given  to  her,  attract  to  herself  some 
man  strong  enough,  and  good  enough,  and  loving  enough  to  make 
straight  for  hor  hor  paths,  to  boar  for  hor  her  burdens,  to  be  the  father 
of  her  children,  the  btiiff  on  which  she  might  lean,  and  the  wall  against 


C4  Iir:    K^'EW   HE    WAS    KTGHT. 

■wliicli  slic  miglit  grow,  feeling  the  sunsLino,  and  sheltered  from  tho 
wind.  She  had  ever  estimated  her  own  value  so  lowly  as  to  have 
told  herself  often  that  such  success  could  never  come  in  her  way. 
From  her  earliest  years  she  had  regarded  herself  as  outside  the  pale 
within  which  such  joys  are  to  he  found.  She  had  so  strictly  taught 
herself  to  look  forward  to  a  hlank  existence,  that  she  had  learned  to 
do  so  without  active  misery.  But  not  the  less  did  she  know  where 
happiness  lay  ;  and  when  the  good  thing  came  almost  within  her 
reach,  when  it  seemed  that  God  had  given  her  gifts  which  might  have 
sufficed,  when  a  man  had  sought  her  hand  whose  nature  was  such 
that  she  could  have  leaned  on  him  with  a  true  worship,  could  have 
r^rown  against  him  as  against  a  wall  with  perfect  confidence,  could 
have  lain  with  her  head  upon  his  bosom,  and  have  felt  that  of  all 
spots  that  in  the  world  was  the  most  fitting  for  her, — when  this  was 
all  but  grasped,  and  mnst  yet  be  abandoned,  there  came  upon  her 
spirit  an  agony  so  bitter  that  she  had  not  before  known  how  great 
might  be  the  depth  of  human  disappointment.  But  the  letter  was  at 
last  written,  and  when  finished  was  as  follows  : — • 

"The  Close,  Exeter,  March  1,  183—. 
"  Dear  Brooke." 

There  had  been  many  doubts  about  this  ;  but  at  last  they  were 
conquered,  and  the  name  was  written. 

"  I  have  shown  your  letter  to  my  aunt,  as  I  am  sure  you 
will  think  was  best.  I  should  have  answered  it  before,  only  that  I 
thought  that  she  was  not  quite  well  enough  to  talk  about  it.  She 
says,  as  I  was  sure  she  would,  that  what  you  propose  is  quite  out  of 
the  question.  I  am  aware  that  I  am  boimd  to  obey  her  ;  and  as  I 
think  that  you  also  ought  to  do  so,  I  shall  think  no  more  of  what  you 
have  said  to  me  and  have  written.  It  is  quite  impossible  now,  even 
if  it  might  have  been  possible  under  other  circumstances.  I  shall 
always  remember  your  great  kindness  to  me.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  say 
that  I  am  very  grateful  for  the  compliment  you  have  paid  me.  I  shall 
think  of  you  always ; — till  I  die. 

"  Believe  me  to  be, 

*'  Your  very  sincere  friend, 

"Dorothy  Stanbury." 


The  next  day  Miss  Stanbury  again  came  out  of  her  room,  and  on 
the  third  day  she  was  manifestly  becoming  stronger.  Dorothy  had  as 
yet  not  spoken  of  her  letter,  but  was  prepared  to  do  so  as  soon  as  she 


douotiiy's  fatk.  65 

tbouglit  that  a  fitting  opportunity  Lad  come.  Blic  bad  a  word  or  two 
to  say  for  herself ;  but  sbe  must  not  again  subject  herself  to  being  told 
that  she  was  taking  her  will  of  her  aunt  because  her  aunt  was  too  ill 
to  defend  herself.  But  on  th5  third  day  Miss  Stanbury  herself  asked 
the  question.     "  Have  yon  written  anything  to  Brooke  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  have  answered  bis  letter,  Aunt  Stanbury." 

"  And  what  have  you  said  to  him  ?  " 

"  I  have  told  him  that  you  disapproved  of  it,  and  that  nothing  more 
must  be  said  about  it." 

"Yes  ; — of  course  3'ou  made  me  out  to  be  an  ogre." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that,  aunt.  I  am  sui'e  that  I 
told  him  the  truth." 

"May  I  see  the  letter  ?  " 

"It  has  gone." 

"  But  you  have  kept  a  copy,"  said  Miss  Stanbiu-y. 

"Yes  ;  I  have  got  a  copy,"  replied  Dorothy  ;  "  but  I  would  rather 
not  shew  it,     I  told  him  just  what  I  tell  you." 

"Dorothy,  it  is  not  at  all  becoming  that  you  should  have  a  cor- 
respondence with  any  young  man  of  such  a  nature  that  you  should  be 
ashamed  to  shew  it  to  your  aunt." 

"  I  am  not  ashamed  of  anything,"  said  Dorothy  sturdilj-. 

"I  don't  know  what  young  women  in  these  days  have  come  to," 
continued  Miss  Stanbmy.  "  There  is  no  respect,  no  subjection,  no 
obedience,  and  too  often — no  modesty." 

"  Does  that  mean  me,  Aunt  Stanbury  ?  "  asked  Dorothy. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Dorothy,  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  have 
been  receiving  love-letters  from  Brooke  Burgess  when  I  was  lying  ill 
in  bed.  I  didn't  expect  it  of  you.  I  tell  you  fairly  that  I  didn't 
expect  it  of  you." 

Then  Dorothy  spoke  out  her  mind.  "As  you  think  that.  Aunt 
Stanburj^,  I  had  better  go  away.  And  if  you  please  I  will, — when 
you  are  well  enough  to  spare  me." 

"  Pray  don't  think  of  me  at  all,"  said  her  aunt. 

"And  as  for  love-letters, — Mr.  Burgess  has  written  to  me  once.  I 
don't  think  that  there  can  be  anything  immodest  in  opening  a  letter 
when  it  comes  by  the  post.  And  as  soon  as  I  had  it  I  determined  to 
shew  it  to  you.  As  for  what  happened  before,  when  Mr.  Burgess 
spoke  to  me,  which  was  long,  long  after  all  that  about  Mr.  Gibson 
was  over,  I  told  him  that  it  couldn't  be  so  ;  and  I  thought  there  would 
be  no  more  about  it.  You  were  so  ill  that  I  could  not  tell  you.  Now 
you  know  it  all." 

VOL.  II.  D* 


€>G  HE    KNEW    HE    AVAS    RIGHT. 

"  I  have  not  seen  your  letter  to  him." 

"I  shall  never  shew  it  to  .anybody.  But  you  have  said  things, 
Aunt  Stanbuiy,  that  are  very  cruel." 

"  Of  course  !     Everything  I  say  is  -wrong." 

"You  have  told  me  that  I  was  telling  untruths,  and  you  have  called 
me — immodest.     That  is  a  terrible  word." 

"You  shouldn't  deserve  it  then." 

"  I  never  have  deserved  it,  and  I  won't  bear  it.  No  ;  I  won't.  If 
Hugh  heard  mc  called  that  word,  I  believe  he'd  tear  the  house  down." 

"  Hugh,  indeed  !     He's  to  be  brought  in  between  us  ; — is  he  ?  " 

"He's  my  brother,  and  of  course  I'm  obliged  to  think  of  him. 
And  if  you  please,  I'll  go  home  as  soon  as  you  are  well  enough  to 
spare  me." 

Quickly  after  this  there  were  verj'  many  letters  coming  and  going  be- 
tween the  house  in  the  Close  and  tha  ladies  at  Nuncombe  Putney,  and 
Hugh  Stanbury,  and  Brooke  Burgess.  The  correspondent  of  Brooke 
Bm-gess  was  of  course  Miss  Stanbury  herself.  The  letters  to  Hugh 
and  to  Nuncombe  Putney  were  written  by  Dorothy.  Of  the  former 
we  need  be  told  nothing  at  the  present  moment ;  but  the  upshot  of  all 
poor  Dolly's  letters  was,  that  on  the  tenth  of  March  she  was  to  return 
home  to  Nuncombe  Putney,  share  once  more  her  sister's  bed  and 
mother's  poverty,  and  abandon  the  comforts  of  the  Close.  Before  this 
became  a  definite  arrangement  Miss  Stanbury  had  given  way  in  a 
certain  small  degree.  She  had  acknowledged  that  Dorothy  had  in- 
tended no  harm.  But  this  was  not  enough  for  Dorothy,  who  was 
conscious  of  no  harm  either  done  or  intended.  She  did  not  specify 
her  terms,  or  requii-e  specifically  that  her  aunt  should  make  apology 
for  that  word,  immodest,  or  at  least  withdraw  it ;  but  she  resolved 
that  she  would  go  unless  it  was  most  absolutely  declared  to  have  been 
applied  to  her  without  the  slightest  reason.  She  felt,  moreover,  that 
her  aunt's  house  ought  to  be  open  to  Brooke  Burgess,  and  that  it 
could  not  be  open  to  them  both.  And  so  she  went ; — having  resided 
under  her  aunt's  roof  between  nine  and  ten  months. 

"  Good-bye,  Aunt  Stanbury,"  said  Dorothy,  kissing  her  aunt,  witli 
a  tear  in  her  eye  and  a  sob  in  her  throat. 

"  Good-bye,  my  dear,  good-bye."  Amd  Miss  Stanbury,  as  she 
pressed  her  niece's  hand,  left  in  it  a  bank-note. 

"  I'm  much  obliged,  aunt;  I  am  indeed  ;  biit  I'd  rather  not."  And 
the  bank-note  was  left  on  the  parlour  table. 


DoiioTiiy  Ai-  HOME.  67 

CHAPTER    LYIII. 

DOnOTHY  AT  HOME. 

Dorothy  was  received  at  home  with  so  much,  aflfcction  and  such 
exprcKsions  of  esteem  as  to  aflbrd  her  much  consohitiou  in  her  miser}'. 
Both  her  mother  and  her  sister  approved  of  her  conduct.  Mrs. 
Stanhm-y's  approval  was  indeed  accompanied  hy  many  expressions  of 
regret  as  to  the  good  things  lost.  She  was  fully  alive  to  the  fact  that 
hfc  in  the  Close  at  Exeter  was  hettcr  for  her  daughter  than  life  in 
their  little  cottage  at  Nuncomhe  Putney.  The  outward  appearance 
v.hich  Dorothy  hore  on  her  return  home  was  proof  of  this.  Her 
clothes,  the  set  of  her  hair,  her  verj-  gestures  and  motions  had  framed 
themselves  on  town  ideas.  The  faded,  wildored,  washed-out  look, 
the  uncertain,  puqjoseless  hearing  which  had  come  from  her  secluded 
life  and  subjection  to  her  sister  had  vanished  from  her.  She  had 
lived  among  people,  and  had  learned  something  of  their  gait  and 
can-iage.  Money  we  know  will  do  almost  everything,  and  no  doubt 
money  had  had  much  to  do  with  this.  It  is  very  pretty  to  talk  of  the 
alluring  simplicity  of  a  clean  calico  gown  ;  but  poverty  will  shew 
itself  to  be  meagre,  dowdy,  and  draggled  in  a  Avoman's  dress,  let  the 
woman  be  ever  so  simple,  ever  so  neat,  ever  so  independent,  and  ever 
so  high-hearted.  Mrs.  Stanbury  was  quite  alive  to  all  that  her- 
younger  daughter  was  losing.  Had  she  not  received  two  offers  of 
marriage  while  she  was  at  Exeter  ?  There  was  no  possibility  that 
offers  of  marriage  should  be  made  in  the  cottage  at  Nuncomhe  Putney. 
A  man  within  the  walls  of  the  cottage  would  have  been  considered  as 
much  out  of  place  as  a  wild  bull.  It  had  been  matter  of  deep  regret 
to  Mrs.  Stanbury  that  her  daughter  should  not  have  found  herself 
able  to  marry  Mr.  Gil)son.  She  knew  that  there  Avas  no  matter  for 
reproach  in  this,  but  it  was  a  misfortune, — a  great  misfortune.  And 
in  the  mother's  breast  there  had  been  a  sad,  unrepressed  feeling  of 
regret  that  young  people  should  so  often  lose  their  chances  in  the 
world  through  over-fancifiilness,  and  ignorance  as  to  their  own  good. 
Now  when  she  heard  the  story  of  Brooke  Burgess,  she  could  not  but 
think  that  had  Dorothy  remained  at  Exeter,  enduring  patiently  such 
hard  words  as  her  aunt  might  speak,  the  love  affair  might  have  been 
brought  at  some  future  time  to  a  happy  conclusion.  She  did  not  say 
all  this  ;  but  there  came  on  her  a  silent  molanclioly,  made  expressive 
by  constant  little  shakings  of  the  head  and  a  continued  reproachful 


68  HE    KNEW    HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

sadness  of  dcmcanom-,  •vvliicli  was  quite  as  intelligible  to  Priscilla  a3 
would  liave  been  any  spoken  words.  But  Priscilla's  approval  of  her 
sister's  conduct  was  clear,  outspoken,  and  satisfactory.  She  had 
been  quite  sure  that  her  sister  had  been  right  about  Mr.  Gibson ;  and 
was  equally  sure  that  she  was  now  right  about  Brooke  Burgess. 
Priscilla  had  in  her  mind  an  idea  that  if  B.  B.,  as  they  called  him, 
was  half  as  good  as  her  sister  represented  him  to  be, — for  indeed 
Dorothy  endowed  him  with  every  virtue  consistent  with  humanity, — 
he  would  not  be  deterred  from  his  pursuit  either  by  Dolly's  letter  or 
by  Aunt  Stanbury's  commands.  But  of  this  she  thought  it  wise  to 
say  nothing.  She  paid  Dolly  the  warm  and  hitherto  unaccustomed 
compliment  of  equality,  assuming  to  regard  her  sister's  judgment  and 
persistent  independence  to  be  equally  strong  with  her  own ;  and,  as 
she  knew  well,  she  could  not  have  gone  fui'ther  than  this.  "  I  never 
shall  agree  with  you  about  Aunt  Stanbury,"  she  said.  "To  me  she 
seems  to  be  so  imperious,  so  exacting,  and  also  so  unjust,  as  to  be 
unbearable." 

"But  she  is  affectionate,"  said  Dolly. 

"  So  is  the  dog  that  bites  you,  and,  for  aught  I  know,  the  horse 
that  kicks  you.  But  it  is  ill  living  with  biting  dogs  and  kicking 
horses.  But  all  that  matters  little  as  you  are  still  your  owa  mistress. 
How  strange  these  nine  months  have  been,  with  you  in  Exeter,  while 
we  have  been  at  the  Clock  House.  And  here  we  are,  together  again 
in  the  old  way,  just  as  though  nothing  had  happened."  But  Dorothy 
knew  well  that  a  great  deal  had  happened,  and  that  her  life  could 
never  be  as  it  had  been  heretofore.  The  very  tone  in  which  her 
sister  spoke  to  her  was  proof  of  this.  She  had  an  infinitely  greater 
possession  in  herself  than  had  belonged  to  her  before  her  residence 
at  Exeter ;  but  that  possession  was  so  heavily  mortgaged  and  so 
burthened  as  to  make  her  believe  that  the  change  was  to  be  regretted. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  week  there  came  a  letter  from  Aunt  Stanbuiy 
to  Dorothy.  It  began  by  saying  that  Dolly  had  left  behind  her 
certain  small  properties  which  had  now  been  made  up  in  a  parcel  and 
sent  by  the  railway,  carriage  paid.  "  But  they  weren't  mine  at  all," 
said  Dolly,  alluding  to  certain  books  in  which  she  had  taken  delight. 
"  She  means  to  give  them  to  you,"  said  Priscilla,  "  and  I  think  you 
must  take  them."  "And  the  shawl  is  no  more  mine  than  it  is  yours, 
though  I  wore  it  two  or  three  times  in  the  winter."  Priscilla  was  of 
opinion  that  the  shawl  must  be  taken  also.  Then  the  letter  spoke  of 
the  writer's  health,  and  at  last  fell  into  such  a  strain  of  confidential 
gossip  that  Mrs.  Stanbury,  when  she  read  it,  could  not  understand 


DOROTHY    AT   HOME.  GO 

that  there  had  beeu  a  quarrel.  "Martha  says  that  she  saw  Camilla 
French  in  the  street  to-day,  such  a  guy  in  her  new  finery  as  never  was 
seen  before  except  on  May-day."  Then  in  the  postscript  Dorothy  was 
enjoined  to  answer  this  letter  quickly.  "None  of  your  short  scraps, 
my  dear,"  said  Aunt  Staubury. 

"  She  must  mean  you  to  go  back  to  her,"  said  Mrs.  Stanbury. 

"No  doubt  she  does,"  said  Priscilla ;  "but  Dolly  need  not  go 
because  my  aunt  means  it.     "We  arc  not  her  creatui-cs." 

But  Dorothy  answered  her  aunt's  letter  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  had 
been  written.  She  asked  after  her  aunt's  health,  thanked  her  aunt 
for  the  gift  of  the  books, — in  each  of  which  her  name  bad  been 
clearly  written,  protested  about  the  shawl,  sent  her  love  to  Martha 
and  her  kind  regards  to  Jauc,  and  expressed  a  hope  that  C.  F. 
enjoyed  her  new  clothes.  She  described  the  cottage,  and  was  funny 
about  the  cabbage  stumps  in  the  garden,  and  at  last  succeeded  in 
concocting  a  long  epistle.  "I  suppose  there  will  be  a  regular 
correspondence,"  said  Priscilla. 

Two  days  afterwards,  however,  the  correspondence  took  altogether 
another  form.  The  cottage  in  Avhich  tJiey  now  lived  was  supposed  to 
be  beyond  the  beat  of  the  wooden-legged  postman,  and  therefore  it 
was  necessary  that  they  should  call  at  the  post-office  for  theii-  letters. 
On  the  morning  in  question  Priscilla  obtained  a  thick  letter  from 
Exeter  for  her  mother,  and  knew  that  it  had  come  from  her  aunt. 
Her  aunt  could  hardly  have  found  it  necessary  to  correspond  with 
Dorothy's  mother  so  soon  after  that  letter  to  Dorothy  had  been 
written  had  there  not  arisen  some  very  peculiar  cause.  Priscilla, 
after  much  meditation,  thought  it  better  that  the  letter  should  bo 
opened  in  Dorothy's  absence,  and  in  Dorothy's  absence  the  following 
letter  was  read  both  by  Priscilla  and  her  mother. 

"  The  Close,  Marcli  19,  186—. 
"De.vr  Sister  Staxbury, 

"After  much  consideration,  I  think  it  best  to  send  under 
cover  to  you  the  enclosed  letter  from  Mr.  Brooke  Burgess,  intended 
for  youi-  daughter  Dorothy.  You  will  see  that  I  have  opened  it  and 
read  it, — as  I  was  clearly  entitled  to  do,  tho  letter  having  been 
addi-essed  to  my  niece  while  she  was  supposed  to  bo  under  my  care. 
I  do  not  like  to  destroy  tho  letter,  though,  perhaps,  that  would  bo 
best;  but  I  would  advise  you  to  do  so,  if  it  be  possible,  without 
shewing  it  to  Dorothy.  I  have  told  Mr.  Brooke  Burgess  what  I  have 
done. 


70  HK  KNi:w  n];  avas  kigiit. 

"I  have  also  told  him  that  I  cannot  sanction  a  marriage  between 
him  and  your  davigbtcr.  There  are  many  reasons  of  old  date, — not 
to  speak  of  present  reasons  also, — which  vvould  make  such  a  marriage 
highly  inexpedient.  I\Ir.  Brooke  Burgess  is,  of  course,  his  ov/u 
master,  but  your  daughter  understands  completely  how  the  matter 
stands. 

"Yours  truly, 

"  .TiaiiMA  Stanbury." 

"  What  a  wicked  old  woman !  "  said  Priscilla.  Then  there  arose 
a  question  M'hether  they  should  read  Brooke's  letter,  or  whether  they 
should  give  it  unread  to  Dorothy.  Priscilla  denounced  her  aunt  in 
the  strongest  language  she  could  use  for  having  broken  the  seal. 
"'Clearly  entitled,' — because  Dorothy  had  been  living  v.ith  her  I " 
exclaimed  Priscilla.  "  She  can  have  no  proper  conception  of  honour 
or  of  honesty.  She  had  no  more  right  to  open  Dorothy's  letter  than 
she  had  to  take  her  monc}^"  Mrs.  Stanbury  was  very  anxious  to 
read  Brooke's  letter,  alleging  that  they  would  then  be  able  to  judge 
whether  it  should  be  handed  over  to  Dorothy.  But  Priscilla's  sense 
of  right  would  not  admit  of  this.  Dorothy  must  receive  the  lottor 
from  her  lover  with  no  further  stain  from  unauthorised  eyes  than 
that  to  which  it  had  been  already  subjected.  She  was  called  in, 
therefore,  from  the  kitchen,  and  the  whole  packet  vras  given  to 
her.  "Your  aunt  has  read  the  enclosure,  Dolly;  but  we  have  not 
opened  it." 

Dorothy  took  the  packet  without  a  word  and  sat  herself  down. 
She  first  read  her  aunt's  letter  very  slowly.  "I  understand  per- 
fectly," she  said,  folding  it  up,  almost  listlessly,  while  Brooke's  letter 
lay  still  unopened  on  her  lap.  Then  she  took  it  up,  and  held  it 
awhile  in  both  hands,  while  her  mother  and  Priscilla  v^•atched  her. 
"Priscilla,"  she  said,  "  do  you  read  it  first." 

Priscilla  was  immediately  at  her  side,  kissing  her.  "  No,  my 
darling;  no,"  she  said;  "  it  is  for  you  to  read  it."  Then  Dorothy 
took  the  precious  contents  from  the  envelope,  and  opened  the  folds  of 
the  paper.  Yv'hen  she  had  read  a  dozen  words,  her  eyes  were  so  suf- 
fused with  tears,  that  she  could  hardly  make  herself  mistress  of  the 
contents  of  the  letter  ;  but  she  knew  that  it  contained  renewed  assur- 
ances of  her  lover's  love,  and  assurance  on  his  part  that  he  vrould 
take  no  refusal  from  her  based  on  any  other  ground  than  that  of  her 
own  indifference  to  him.  He  had  written  to  Miss  Stanbury  to  the 
same  efioct ;  but  he  had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  explain  tliis  to 


])<)UOTHY   AT   HOMF:.  71 

Dorothy  ;  nor  did  Miss  Stanburj-  in  her  letter  tell  thorn  that  she  had 
received  any  communication  from  him.  "Shall  I  read  it  now?" 
said  Priscilla,  as  soon  as  Dorothy  again  allowed  the  letter  to  fall  into 
ber  lap. 

Both  Priscilla  and  Mrs.  Staubury  read  it,  and  for  awhile  they  sat 
with  the  two  letters  among  them  without  much  speech  about  them. 
Mrs.  Staubury  was  endeavouring  to  make  herself  believe  that  her 
sister-in-law's  opposition  might  be  overcome,  and  that  then  Dorothy 
might  be  married.  Priscilla  was  inquiring  of  herself  whether  it 
would  be  well  that  Dorothy  should  defy  her  aunt, — so  much,  at  any 
rate,  v.-ould  be  well, — and  marry  the  man,  even  to  his  deprivation  of 
the  old  woman's  fortune.  Priscilla  had  her  doubts  about  this,  being 
vciy  strong  in  her  ideas  of  self-denial.  That  her  sister  should  put  up 
with  the  bitterest  disappointment  rather  than  injure  the  man  she 
loved  was  right ; — but  then  it  would  also  be  so  extremely  right  to 
defy  Aunt  Stanbury  to  her  teeth  !  But  Dorothy,  in  whose  character 
was  mixed  with  her  mother's  softness  much  of  the  old  Stanbury 
strength,  had  no  doubt  in  her  mind.  It  was  very  sweet  to  be  so 
loved.  ''ATiat  gratitude  did  she  not  owe  to  a  man  who  was  so  true  to 
her :  "What  was  she  that  she  should  stand  in  his  way  ?  To  lay  her- 
self down  that  she  might  be  crushed  in  his  path  was  no  more  than  she 
owed  to  him.     Mrs.  Stanbury  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  I  suppose  he  is  a  very  good  yoiing  man,"  she  said. 

**  I  am  sure  he  is  ; — a  noble,  true-hearted  man,"  said  Priscilla. 

"  And  why  shouldn't  he  marry  whom  he  pleases,  as  long  as  she  is 
respectable?"  said  Mrs.  Staubury. 

"  In  some  people's  eyes  poverty  is  more  disreputable  than  vice," 
said  Priscilla. 

"  Your  aunt  has  been  so  fond  of  Dorothy,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Stanbury. 

"  Just  as  she  is  of  her  servants,"  said  Priscilla. 

But  Dorothy  said  nothing.  Ilor  heart  was  too  full  to  enable  her  to 
defend  her  aunt ;  nor  at  the  present  moment  was  she  strong  enough 
to  make  her  mother  understand  that  no  hope  was  to  be  entertained. 
In  the  course  of  the  day  she  Vv'alked  out  with  her  sister  on  the  road 
towards  Bidleigh,  and  there,  standing  among  the  rocks  and  ferns, 
looking  down  upon  the  river,  with  the  buzz  of  the  little  mill  within 
her  ears,  she  explained  the  feelings  of  her  heart  and  her  many  thoughts 
V.  ith  a  flow  of  words  stronger,  as  Priscilla  thought,  than  she  had  ever 
used  before. 

"It  is  not  what  ho  woi;ld  suffer  now,  Pris,  or  what  ho  would  feel, 
but  what  he  would  foci  ton,  twenty  yours   hence,  when   he   would 


72  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

know  that  Lis  cluldreu  would  liave  been  all  provided  for,  had  ho  not 
lost  his  fortune  by  marrying  mo." 

"He  must  be  the  only  judge  whether  he  prefers  you  to  the  old 
woman's  money,"  said  Priscilla. 

"No,  dear;  not  the  only  judge.  And  it  isn't  that,  Pris, — not 
which  he  likes  best  now,  but  which  it  is  best  for  him  that  he  should 
have.     What  could  I  do  for  him  ?  " 

"You  can  love  him." 

a  Yes  ; — I  can  do  that."  And  Dorothy  paused  a  moment,  to  think 
how  exceedingly  well  she  could  do  that  one  thing.  "  But  what  is  that  ? 
As  you  said  the  other  day,  a  dog  can  do  that.  I  am  not  clever.  I 
can't  play,  or  talk  French,  or  do  things  that  men  like  their  wives  to 
do.  And  I  have  lived  here  all  my  life  ;  and  what  am  I,  that  for  me 
he  should  lose  a  great  fortune  ?  " 

"  That  is  his  look  out." 

••  No,  dearest : — it  is  mine,  and  I  will  look  out.  I  shall  be  able,  at 
any  rate,  to  remember  always  that  I  have  loved  him,  and  have  not 
injured  him.  He  may  be  angry  "SNdth  me  now," — and  there  was  a 
feeling  of  pride  at  her  heart,  as  she  thought  that  he  would  be  angry 
with  her,  because  she  did  not  go  to  him, — "  but  he  will  know  at  last 
that  I  have  been  as  good  to  him  as  I  knew  how  to  be." 

Then  Priscilla  wound  her  arms  round  Dorothy,  and  kissed  her. 
"  My  sister,"  she  said  ;  "  my  owai  sister  !"  They  walked  on  fuiiher, 
discussing  the  matter  in  all  its  bearings,  talking  of  the  act  of  self- 
denial  which  Dorothy  was  called  on  to  perform,  as  though  it  were 
some  abstract  thing,  the  performance  of  which  was,  or  perhaps  was 
not,  imperatively  demanded  by  the  laws  which  should  govern 
humanity ;  but  with  no  idea  on  the  mind  of  either  of  them  that  there 
was  any  longer  a  doubt  as  to  this  special  matter  in  hand.  They 
were  away  from  home  over  three  hours ;  and,  when  they  returned, 
Dorothy  at  once  wrote  her  two  letters.  They  were  very  simple,  and 
very  short.  She  told  Brooke,  whom  she  now  addi-essed  as  "Dear 
Mr.  Burgess,"  that  it  could  not  be  as  he  would  have  it ;  and  she  told 
her  aunt, — with  some  terse  independence  of  expression,  which  Miss 
Stanbury  quite  imderstood, — that  she  had  considered  the  matter,  and 
had  thought  it  right  to  refuse  Mr.  Burgess's  offer. 

"  Don't  you  think  she  is  very  much  changed  ?"  said  Mrs.  Stanbury 
to  her  eldest  daughter. 

"  Not  changed  in  the  least,  mother ;  but  the  sun  has  opened  the 
bud,  and  now  we  see  the  fruit." 


CHAPTER  LIX. 


JIR.  BOZZLE  AT  HOME. 


T  had  now  come  to  pass  that  Trcvclyuu 
'I  b:ul  not  a  friend  iu  the  world  to  whom 
ho  could  apply  in  the  matter  of  his 
wife  and  family.  In  the  last  com- 
munication which  he  had  received  from 
Lady  Milborough  she  had  scolded  him, 
in  terms  that  Avere  for  her  severe, 
because  he  had  not  returned  to  his 
wife  and  taken  her  off  with  him  to 
Naples.  Mr.  Bide  awhile  had  found 
himself  obliged  to  decline  to  move  in 
the  matter  at  all.  With  Hugh  Stanbury 
Trevelyan  had  had  a  direct  quarrel. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Outhouse  he  regarded  as 
bitter  enemies,  who  had  taken  the  part 
of  his  wife  without  any  regard  to  the 
decencies  of  life.  And  now  it  had  come  to  pass  that  his  sole  remain- 
ing ally,  Mr.  Samuel  Bozzle,  the  ex-policeman,  was  becoming 
weary  of  his  service.  Trevelyan  remained  in  the  north  of  Italy  up 
to  the  middle  of  March,  spending  a  fortune  in  sending  telegrams  to 
Bozzle,  instigating  Bozzle  by  all  the  means  in  his  power  to  obtain 
possession  of  the  child,  desiring  him  at  one  time  to  pounce  down 
upon  the  parsonage  of  St.  Diddulph"s  with  a  battalion  of  policemen 
armed  to  the  teeth  with  the  law's  authority,  and  at  another  time  sug- 
gesting to  him  to  find  his  way  by  stratagem  into  Mr.  Outhouse's 
castle  and  carry  off  the  child  in  his  arms.  At  last  he  sent  word  io 
say  that  he  himself  would  be  in  England  before  the  end  of  I\Iarch, 
and  would  see  that  the  majesty  of  the  law  should  be  vindicated  iu 
his  favoui-, 

Bozzle  had  in  truth  made  but  one  personal  application  for  tlu^  cliild 
at    St.  l)iddulph's.     In    iiiakiiig    this    he    had    expected    no   success, 
vol-.  11.  K 


74  HE    KNKW    HE    "WAS    KTOHT. 

thout^'li,  iVoui  tho  energetic  nature  of  his  dis))ositi<)n,  lie  had  mado 
the  attempt  Avith  some  zeal.  But  he  had  never  applied  again  at  the 
parsonage,  disregarding  the  letters,  the  telegrams,  and  even  the 
promises  which  had  come  to  him  from  his  employer  with  such 
frequency.  The  truth  was  that  Mrs.  Bozzle  was  opposed  to  the  pro- 
posed separation  of  the  mother  and  the  child,  and  that  Bozzle  was  a 
man  who  listened  to  the  words  of  his  wife.  Mrs.  Bozzle  was  quite 
prepared  to  admit  that  Madame  T., — as  Mrs.  Trevelyan  had  come  to 
be  called  at  No.  55,  Stony  Walk,- — was  no  better  than  she  should  be. 
Mrs.  Bozzle  was  disposed  to  think  that  ladies  of  quality,  among 
whom  Madame  T.  was  entitled  in  her  estimation  to  take  rank,  were 
seldom  better  than  they  ought  to  be,  and  she  was  quite  willing  that 
her  husband  should  earn  his  bread  by  watching  the  lady  or  the  lady's 
lover.  She  had  participated  in  Bozzle's  triumph  when  he  had  dis- 
covered that  the  Colonel  had  gone  to  Devonshire,  and  again  when  he 
had  learned  that  the  Lothario  had  been  at  St.  Diddulph's.  And  had 
the  case  been  brought  before  the  judge  ordinary  by  means  of  her 
husband's  exertions,  she  would  have  taken  pleasure  in  reading  every 
word  of  the  evidence,  even  though  her  husband  should  have  been 
ever  so  roughly  handled  by  the  lawyers.  But  now,  when  a  demand 
was  made  upon  Bozzle  to  violate  the  sanctity  of  the  clergyman's 
house,  and  withdraAV  the  child  by  force  or  stratagem,  she  began  to 
perceive  that  the  palmy  days  of  the  Trevelyan  aifair  were  over  for 
them,  and  that  it  would  be  wise  on  her  husband's  part  gradually  to 
back  out  of  the  gentleman's  employment.  "  Just  put  it  on  the  fire- 
back,  Bozzle,"  she  said  one  morning,  as  her  husband  stood  befoi'e  her 
reading  for  the  second  time  a  somewhat  lengthy  epistle  which  had 
reached  him  from  Italy,  while  he  held  the  baby  over  his  shoulder 
with  his  left  arm.  He  had  just  washed  himself  at  the  sink,  and 
though  his  face  was  clean,  his  hair  was  rough,  and  his  shirt  sleeves 
were  tucked  up. 

"  That's  all  very  v/ell,  Maryanne  ;  but  when  a  party  has  took  a 
gent's  money,  a  party  is  bound  to  go  through  with  the  job." 

"  Gammon,  Bozzle." 

"  It's  all  very  well  to  say  gammon  ;  but  his  money  has  been  took, — - 
and  there's  more  to  come." 

"  And  ain't  you  worked  for  the  money, — ^down  to  Hexeter  one 
time,  across  the  water  pretty  well  day  and  night  watching  that  ere 
clerg}'man's  'ouse  like  a  cat  ?  What  more  'd  he  have  ?  As  to  the  child, 
I  won't  hear  of  it,  B.  The  child  shan't  come  here.  We'd  all  bo 
shewed  up  in  the  papers  as  that  black,  that  they'd  hoot  us  along  tho 


PUT    IT    ON    TinC    riRE-BACK,    BOZZLE. 


MK.     ItOZZLK    AT    IIOMP:.  75 

streets.  It  aiut  the  roj^ular  lino  of  Imsincss.  Uoz/lc ;  ftiul  there. 
ain't  no  good  to  be  got,  never,  by  going  otV  the  regular  line." 
"NVbereupon  Bozzle  scratched  his  head  and  again  read  the  letter.  A 
distinct  promise  of  a  hundred  pounds  was  made  to  him,  if  he  -won}  • 
have  the  child  ready  to  hand  over  to  Trevelyan  on  Trevelyau's  arrival 
in  England. 

•'It  ain't  to  1)0  done,  you  know,"  said  Bozzle. 

''  Of  course  it  ain't,"  said  Mrs.  Bozzle. 

"  It  ain't  to  be  done  anyways  ; — not  in  my  way  of  business.  Why 
didn't  he  go  to  Skint,  as  I  told  him,  when  his  own  lawyer  was  too 
dainty  for  the  job  ?  The  paternal  parent  has  a  right  to  his  hinfants, 
no  doubt."     That  was  Bozzle's  law. 

''I  don't  believe  it,  B." 

"  ]^ut  he  have,  I  tell  you." 

"He  can't  suckle  'em; — can  he?  I  don't  believe  a  bit  of  his 
lights." 

"  When  a  married  woman  has  followers,  and  the  hiisband  don't  go 
the  wrong  side  of  the  post  too,  or  it  ain't  proved  again  him  that  he 
do,  they'll  never  let  her  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  children.  It's 
been  before  the  court  a  hundred  times.  He'll  get  the  child  fast 
enough  if  he'll  go  before  the  court." 

''  An^'^ays  it  ain't  your  business,  Bozzle,  and  don't  you  meddlo 
nor  make.  The  money's  good  money  as  long  as  it's  honest  earned  ; 
but  when  you  come  to  rampaging  and  breaking  into  a  gent's  house, 
then  I  say  money  may  be  had  a  deal  too  hard."  In  this  special 
letter,  which  had  now  come  to  hand,  Bozzle  was  not  instructed  to 
•'  rampage.''  He  was  simply  desired  to  make  a  further  official  requi- 
sition for  the  boy  at  the  parsonage,  and  to  explain  to  Mr.  Outhouse, 
Mrs.  Outhouse,  and  Mrs.  Trevelyan,  or  to  as  many  of  them  as  he  could 
contrive  to  see,  that  Mr.  Trevelyan  was  immediately  about  to  return 
to  London,  and  that  he  would  put  the  law  into  execution  if  his  son 
were  not  given  up  to  him  at  once.  "  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  B.. 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Bozzle,  "  it's  my  belief  as  he  ain't  quite  right  up 
here  ;"  and  Mrs.  Bozzle  touched  her  forehead. 

"  It's  love  fur  her  as  has  done  it  then,''  said  Bozzle,  shaking  his 
head. 

''  I'm  not  a  taking  of  her  part,  B.  A  woman  as  has  a  husband  as 
finds  her  with  her  wittels  regular,  and  with  what's  decent  and  com- 
fortable beside,  ought  to  be  contented.  I've  never  said  no  other  than 
that.  I  ain't  no  patience  with  your  saucy  madames  as  can't  reincjin- 
bcr  as  they're  eating  an  honest  man's  bread.     Drat  'em  all ;  what  m 


76  HE    KNKW    IIK    WAS    RU;HT. 

it  tbey  wants  '?  Tlicy  dou't  know  what  they  wants.  It's  just 
liidkniess, — cause  there  ain't  a  ha'poith  for  'cm  to  do.     It's  that  as 

makes  "em ,   I  won't    say  what.      But  as   for   this   here    child, 

B." ."     At  that  moment  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door.     Mrs. 

Boz'/Ae  going  into  the  passage,  opened  it  herself,  and  saw  a  strange 
gentleman.  Bozzlc,  who  had  stood  at  the  inner  door,  saw  that  the 
gentleman  was  Mr.  Trevelj'an. 

The  letter,  which  Avas  still  in  the  ex-policeman's  hand,  had  reached 
Stony  Walk  on  the  previous  day ;  but  the  master  of  the  house  had 
been  absent,  finding  out  facts,  following  up  his  profession,  and  earn- 
ing an  honest  penny.  Trevelyan  had  followed  his  letter  quicker  than 
he  had  intended  when  it  w^as  written,  and  was  now  with  his  prime 
minister,  before  his  prime  minister  had  been  able  to  take  any  action 
on  the  last  instruction  received.  "Does  one  Mr.  Samuel  Bozzle  live 
here?"  asked  Trevelyan.  Then  Bozzle  came  forward  and  introduced 
his  wife.  There  was  no  one  else  present  except  the  baby,  and  Bozzle 
intimated  that  let  matters  be  as  delicate  as  they  might,  they  could  bo 
discussed  with  perfect  security  in  his  wife's  presence.  But  Trevelyan 
w-as  of  a  difierent  opinion,  and  he  was  disgusted  and  revolted, — most 
unreasonably, — by  the  appearance  of  his  minister's  domestic  arrange- 
ments. Bozzle  had  always  waited  upon  him  with  a  decent  coat,  and 
a.  well-brushed  hat,  and  clean  shoes.  It  is  very  much  easier  for  such 
men  as  Mr.  Bozzle  to  carry  decency  of  appearance  about  with  them 
than  to  keep  it  at  home.  Trevelyan  had  never  believed  his  ally  to  be 
more  than  an  ordinaiy  ex-policeman,  but  he  had  not  considered  how 
unattractive  might  be  the  interior  of  a  private  detective's  private  resi- 
dence. Mrs.  Bozzle  had  set  a  chair  for  him,  but  ho  had  declined  to 
sit  down.  The  room  was  dirty,  and  very  close, — as  though  no  breath 
of  air  was  ever  allowed  to  find  entrance  there.  "Perhaps  you  could 
put  on  your  coat,  and  walk  out  with  me  for  a  few  minutes,"  said 
Trevelyan.  Mrs.  Bozzle,  who  well  understood  that  business  was 
business,  and  that  wives  were  not  business,  felt  no  anger  at  this,  and 
handed  her  husband  his  best  coat.  The  well-brushed  hat  was  fetched 
from  a  cupboard,  and  it  was  astonishing  to  see  how  easily  and  how 
quickly  the  outer  respectability  of  Bozzle  was  restored. 

"Well?"  said  Trevelyan,  as  soon  as  they  were  together  in  the 
middle  of  Stony  Walk. 

"  There  hasn't  been  nothing  to  be  done,  sir,"  said  Bozzle. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  Trevelyan  could  perceive  at  once  that  the  authority 
which  he  had  once  respected  had  gone  from  the  man.  Bozzle  away 
from  his  own  home,  out  on  business,  with  his  coat  buttoned  over  his 


MR.  BOZZLK    AT    HOMK.  7< 

breast,  and  his  best  hat  in  his  hand,  was  aware  that  he  commaudcd 
respect, — and  ho  could  carry  himself  accordingly.  He  know  himself 
to  be  somebody,  and  could  bo  easy,  self-coufidcut,  coulidontial,  severe, 
authoritative,  or  even  arrogant,  as  the  circumstances  of  the  moment 
might  demand.  But  he  had  been  fomid  with  his  coat  oft",  and  a  baby 
in  his  arms,  and  ho  could  not  recover  himself.  "  I  do  not  suppose 
that  anybody  will  question  my  right  to  hti\e  the  care  of  my  own 
child,"  said  Trevelyan. 

"  If  you  would  have  gone  to  Mr.  Skint,  sir — ,"  suggested  Bozzle. 
*•  Thuro  aint  no  smarter  gent  in  all  the  profession,  sir,  than  Mr, 
Skint."' 

Mr.  Trevelyan  made  no  reply  to  this,  but  walked  on  in  silence, 
with  his  minister  at  his  elbow.  He  was  very  wretched,  understand- 
ing well  the  degradation  to  which  he  was  subjecting  himself  in  discus- 
sing his  wife's  conduct  with  this  man ; — but  with  whom  else  could  liu 
discuss  it  ?  The  man  seemed  to  be  meaner  now  than  he  had  been 
before  ho  had  been  seen  in  his  own  home.  And  Trevelyan  was  con- 
scious too  that  he  himself  was  not  in  outward  appearance  as  he  used 
to  be  ; — that  he  was  ill-dressed,  and  haggard,  and  worn,  and  visibly 
a  wretched  being.  How  can  r.ny  man  care  to  dress  himself  with 
attention  who  is  always  alone,  and  always  miserable  when  alone  ? 
During  the  months  which  had  passed  over  him  since  he  had  sent  his 
wife  away  from  him,  his  very  nature  had  been  altered,  and  he  himself 
was  aware  of  the  change.  As  he  went  about,  his  eyes  w'ore  ever  cast 
downwards,  and  he  walked  Avith  a  quick  shuffling  gait,  and  he  sus- 
pected others,  feeling  that  he  himself  was  suspected.  And  all  work 
had  ceased  with  him.  Since  she  had  left  him  he  had  not  read  a 
single  book  that  was  worth  the  reading.  And  he  kncAV  it  all.  Ho 
was  conscious  that  he  was  becoming  disgraced  and  degraded.  He 
Avould  sooner  have  shot  himself  than  have  walked  into  his  clul),  or 
even  have  allowed  himself  to  be  seen  by  daylight  in  Pall  Mall,  or 
Piccadill}-.  He  had  taken  in  his  misery  to  drinking  little  drops  of 
brandy  in  the  morning,  although  ho  knew  Avell  that  there  was  no 
shorter  road  to  the  de\il  than  that  opened  by  such  a  liabit.  Ho 
looked  up  for  a  moment  at  Bozzle,  and  then  asked  liiiu  a  question. 
••  Where  is  he  now  ?  " 

"You  mean  the  Colonel,  sir.     He's  up  in  toAvn,  sir,  a  minding  of 
his  parliamentary  duties,     lie  have  been  up  all  this  month,  sir." 

"  They  haven't  met  ?  " 

Bozzle  paused  a  nioiuent  before  ho  replied,  and  then  smiled  as  ho 
spoko.      "  It  is  so  hard  to  say,  sir.     Ladies  is  bo  cute  and  cunning. 


78  Hli    KNEW    Hi:    WAS    RIGHT. 

I've  watched  as  sharp  as  watching  can  go,  pretty  near.  I've  put  a 
youngster  on  at  each  hend,  and  both  of  'em  'd  hear  a  mouse  stirring 
in  his  sleep.  I  ain't  got  no  evidence,  Mr.  Trevelyan.  But  if  you  ask 
mc  my  opinion,  why  in  course  they've  been  together  somewhere.  It 
stands  to  reason,  Mr.  Trevelyan  ;  don't  it  ?  "  And  Bozzle  as  he  said 
this  smiled  almost  aloud. 

"  D n  and  b 1  it  all  for  ever  !  "  said  Trevelyan,  gnashing  his 

teeth,  and  moving  away  into  Union  Street  as  fast  as  he  could  walk. 
And  he  did  go  away,  leaving  Bozzle  standing  in  the  middle  of  Stony 
Walk. 

"  He's  disturbed  in  his  mind, — quite  'oirid,"  Bozzle  said  when  he 
got  back  to  his  wife.  "  Ho  cursed  and  swore  as  made  even  mc  feci 
bad." 

"  B.,"  said  his  wife,  ''  do  you  listen  to  mc.  Get  in  what's  a  howing, 
and  don't  you  have  nothing  more  to  do  Avith  it," 


CHAPTER  LX. 

JNOTHER  STRUGGLE. 


Sir  Marmaduke  and  Lady  Rowley  were  to  reach  England  about 
the  end  of  March  or  the  beginning  of  April,  and  both  Mrs.  Trevelyan 
and  Nora  Rowley  were  almost  sick  for  their  arrival.  Both  their  uncle 
and  aunt  had  done  very  much  for  them,  had  been  true  to  them  in 
their  need,  and  had  submitted  to  endless  discomforts  in  order  that 
their  nieces  might  have  respectable  shelter  in  theii'  great  need  ;  but 
nevertheless  their  conduct  had  not  been  of  a  kind  to  produce  either 
love  or  friendship.  Each  of  the  sisters  felt  that  she  had  been  much 
1  letter  ofi"  at  Nuucombe  Putney,  and  that  either  the  weakness  of  Mrs. 
Stanbury,  or  the  hardness  of  Priscilla,  was  preferable  to  the  repul- 
sive forbearance  of  their  clerical  host.  He  did  not  scold  them.  He 
never  threw  it  in  Mrs.  Trevelyan's  teeth  that  she  had  been  separated 
from  her  husband  by  her  own  fault  ;  he  did  not  tell  them  of  his  own 
discomfort.  But  he  showed  it  in  every  gesture,  and  spoke  of  it  in 
every  tone  of  his  voice ; — so  that  Mrs.  Trevelyan  could  not  refrain 
from  apologising  for  the  misfortune  of  her  presence. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  things  can't  be  pleasant  and  unpleasant  at 
the  same  time.  You  were  quite  right  to  come  here.  I  am  glad  for 
all  our  sakes  that  Sir  Marmaduke  will  bo  with  us  so  soon."' 

She  had  almost  given  up  in  her  mind  the  hope  that  she  had  long 


A>OTHKK    RTmfJClF.  79 

<bcrishc(l,  that  she  might  some  day  be  able  to  live  again  with  ber 
busband.  Every  step  wbicb  be  now  took  in  reference  to  her  seemed 
to  be  promjited  by  so  bitter  an  bostility,  tbat  sbe  could  not  but  believe 
that  sbe  was  bateful  to  him.  How  was  it  possible  that  a  husband 
and  his  wile  should  again  come  together,  when  there  had  been  between 
th»m  such  an  emissary  as  a  detective  policeman  ?  Mrs.  Trevolyan 
had  gradually  come  to  loarn  that  Bozzlo  had  been  at  Nuncombe 
Putney,  watching  her,  and  to  be  aware  that  she  was  still  under  the 
surveillance  of  his  eye.  For  some  months  past  now  she  had  neither 
seen  Colonel  Osborne,  nor  beard  from  him.  He  had  certainly  by  his 
folly  done  much  to  produce  the  ruin  which  had  fallen  ui)ou  her  ;  but 
it  never  occurred  to  her  to  blame  him.  Indeed  she  did  not  know  tbat 
he  was  liable  to  blame.  Mr.  Outhouse  always  spoke  of  him  with 
indiirnant  sconi,  and  Nora  had  learned  to  think  that  much  of  their 
misery  was  due  to  his  imprudence.  But  Mrs.  Trevelyan  would  not 
see  this,  and,  not  seeing  it,  was  more  widely  separated  from  her 
husband  than  she  would  have  been  had  she  acknowledged  that  any 
excuse  for  his  misconduct  had  been  afforded  by  the  vanity  and  folly 
of  the  other  man. 

Lady  Rowley  had  written  to  have  a  furnished  house  taken  for  them 
from  the  first  of  April,  and  a  house  had  been  secured  in  Manchester 
Street.  The  situation  in  question  is  not  one  Avhich  is  of  itself  very 
charming,  nor  is  it  supposed  to  be  in  a  high  degree  fashionable  ;  but 
Nora  looked  forward  to  ber  escape  from  St.  Diddulph's  to  Man- 
chester Street  as  though  Paradise  Avere  to  be  re-opened  to  her  as  soon 
as  she  should  be  there  with  her  father  and  mother.  She  was  quite 
clear  now  as  to  her  course  about  Hugh  Stanbury.  She  did  not  doubt 
but  that  she  could  so  argue  the  matter  as  to  get  the  consent  (»f  her 
father  and  mother.  She  felt  herself  to  be  altogether  altered  in  her  views 
of  life,  since  experience  had  come  upon  her,  first  at  Nuncombe  Putney, 
and  after  that,  much  more  heavily  and  seriously,  at  St.  Diddulph's. 
She  looked  back  as  though  to  a  childish  dream  to  the  ideas  which 
had  prevailed  with  her  when  she  had  told  herself,  as  she  used  to  do 
so  frequently,  that  she  was  unfit  to  be  a  poor  man's  wife.  AVhy 
should  she  be  more  unfit  for  such  a  position  than  another  ?  Of  course 
there  were  many  thoughts  in  her  mind,  much  of  memory  if  nothing 
of  regret,  in  regard  to  Mr.  Glascock  and  the  splendour  that  had  been 
offered  to  her.  She  had  had  her  chance  of  being  a  rich  man's  wife, 
and  had  rejected  it, — bad  rejected  it  twice,  with  her  eyes  open. 
Iteaders  will  say  that  if  she  loved  Hugh  Stanbury  witli  all  her  heart, 
tliere    could    be   nothing  of   regret   in   her   reflections.     ];ut  we  are 


80  in:  KNKW  iii;  was  right. 

porliiips  accustomed  in  judging  for  ourselves  and  of  otliors  to  draw 
the  lines  too  sharply,  and  to  say  that  on  this  side  lie  vice,  foil}',  heart- 
lessncss,  and  greed, — and  on  the  other  honour,  love,  truth,  and 
wisdom, — the  good  and  the  bad  each  in  its  own  domain.  But  the 
good  and  the  bad  mix  themselves  so  thoroughly  in  our  thoughts,  even 
in  our  aspirations,  that  "\vc  must  look  for  excellence  rather  in  over- 
coming evil  than  in  freeing  ourselves  from  its  influence.  There  had 
been  many  moments  of  regret  with  Nora  ; — but  none  of  remorse.  At 
the  very  moment  in  "which  she  had  sent  Mr.  Glascock  away  from  her, 
and  had  felt  that  he  had  now  been  sent  away  for  always,  she  had 
been  full  of  regret.  Since  that  there  had  been  many  hours  in  which 
she  had  thought  of  her  own  self-lesson,  of  that  teaching  by  which  she 
had  striven  to  convince  herself  that  she  could  never  fitly  become  a 
poor  man's  wife.  But  the  upshot  of  it  all  was  a  healthy  pride  in  what 
she  had  done,  and  a  strong  resolution  that  she  would  make  shirts  and 
hem  towels  for  her  husband  if  he  required  it.  It  had  been  given  her 
to  choose,  and  she  had  chosen.  She  had  found  herself  ixnable  to  tell 
a  man  that  she  loved  him  when  she  did  not  love  him, — and  equally 
unable  to  conceal  the  love  Avhich  she  did  feel.  '-If  he  wheeled  <a 
barrow  of  turnips  about  the  street,  I'd  marry  him  to-morrow,"  she 
said  to  her  sister  one  afternoon  as  they  were  sitting  together  in  tho 
I'oom  which  ought  to  have  been  her  uncle's  study. 

"  If  he  wheeled  a  big  barrow,  j'ou'd  have  to  wheel  a  little  one,"  said 
her  sister. 

"  Then  I'd  do  it.  I  shouldn't  mind.  There  has  been  this  advan- 
tage in  St.  Diddulph's,  that  nothing  can  be  triste,  nothing  dull, 
nothing  ugly  after  it." 

"  It  may  be  so  with  you,  Nora  ; — that  is  in  imagination." 

"  What  I  mean  is  that  living  here  has  taught  me  much  that  I  never 
could  have  learned  in  Curzon  Street.  I  used  to  think  myself  such  a 
fine  young  w^oman, — but,  upon  my  word,  I  think  myself  a  finer  ono 
now." 

"  I  don't  quite  know  what  you  mean." 

"  I  don't  quite  know  myself;  but  I  nearly  know.  I  do  know  this, 
that  I've  made  up  my  OAvn  mind  about  what  I  mean  to  do." 

"You'll  change  it,  dear,  when  mamma  is  here,  and  things  are 
comfortable  again.  It's  my  belief  that  Mr.  Glascock  would  como 
to  you  again  to-morrow  if  you  would  let  him."  Mrs.  Ti-evelyan  was, 
naturally,  in  complete  ignorance  of  the  experience  of  transatlantic 
excellence  which  Mr.  Glascock  had  encountered  in  Italy. 

"  But  I  certainly  should  not  let  him.  How  would  it  be  possible 
after  what  I  wrote  to  Hugh  ?" 


AXOTIIEIl    STRUGGLE.  J^l 

"All  that  might  pass  away,"  said  Mrs.  Trcvelyau, — slowly,  after  a 
long  pause. 

''AH  what  might  pass  away?  Have  I  not  given  him  a  distinct 
promise  ?  Have  I  not  told  him  that  I  loved  him,  and  sworn  that  I 
would  bo  true  to  him  ?  Can  that  be  made  to  pass  away, — even  it' 
one  wished  it '?' 

"  Of  course  it  can.  Nothing  need  be  fixed  for  yon  till  you  have 
stood  at  the  altar  with  a  man  and  Ihhu  made  his  wife.  You  may 
choose  still.     I  can  never  choose  again." 

"  I  never  will,  at  any  rate,"  said  Nora, 

Then  there  was  another  pause.  "  It  seems  strange  to  me,  Nora," 
said  the  elder  sister,  '"that  after  what  you  have  seen  you  should  be 
so  keen  to  be  married  to  any  one." 

"What  is  a  girl  to  do?" 

"Better  drown  herself  than  do  as  I  have  done.  Only  think  what 
there  is  before  me.  What  I  have  gone  through  is  nothing  to  it.  Of 
course  I  must  go  back  to  the  Islands.  Where  else  am  I  to  live  ? 
Who  else  will  take  me  ?" 

"  Come  to  us,"  said  Nora. 

"  Us,  Nora !  "WTio  are  the  us  ?  But  in  no  way  would  that  be 
possible.  Papa  will  bo  here,  perhaps,  for  six  months."  Nora  thought 
it  quite  possible  that  she  might  have  a  home  of  her  own  before  six 
months  Avere  passed, — even  though  she  might  be  wheeling  the  smaller 
l)aiTow, — but  she  would  not  say  so.  "  And  1.}-  that  time  everything 
must  be  decided." 

"  I  suppose  it  must." 

"  Of  com'se  papa  and  mamma  must  go  back,"  said  Mrs.  Trevelyan. 

"  Papa  might  take  a  pension.     He's  entitled  to  a  pension  now." 

"  He'll  never  do  that  as  long  as  he  can  have  employment.  They'll 
go  back,  and  I  must  go  "with  them.     Who  else  would  take  me  in  ?" 

'•  I  know  who  Avould  take  you  in,  Emily.'' 

'•  ^ly  darling,  that  is  romance.  As  for  myself,  I  should  not  care 
where  I  went.     If  it  were  even  to  remain  here,  I  could  bear  it." 

"I  could  not,"  said  Nora,  decisively. 

"It  is  so  diflerent  with  you,  dear.  I  don't  suppose  it  is  possible  I 
should  take  my  boy  with  me  to  the  Islands ;  and  how — am  I — to  go 
— anywhere — without  him?"  Then  she  broke  down,  and  fell  into  a 
paroxysm  of  sobs,  and  was  in  very  truth  a  broken-hearted  woman. 

Nora  was  silent  for  some  minutes,  but  at  last  she  spoke.  "  Why 
do  you  not  go  back  to  liim.  lOniiiy  ?" 

"How  am  I  to  go  liack  to  him?     What  am  I  to  do  to  make  him 


<S"2  UK    KMW    HE    WAS    IllOHT. 

take  me  back?"     At  this  very  moment  Trevelyan  was  in  the  house, 
but  they  did  not  know  it. 
"  Write  to  liim,"  said  Nora, 

"  Wliat  am  I  to  say  ?  In  very  truth  I  do  believe  that  he  is  mad. 
It  I  write  to  him,  should  I  defend  myself  or  accuse  myself?  A  dozen 
times  I  have  striven  to  write  such  a  letter, — not  that  I  might  send  it, 
but  that  I  might  find  what  I  could  say  should  I  ever  wish  to  send  it. 
And  it  is  impossible.  I  can  only  tell  him  how  unjust  he  has  been, 
how  cruel,  how  mad,  how  wicked  !  " 

"  Could  you  not  say  to  him  simply  this? — 'Let  us  be  together, 
wherever  it  may  be  ;  and  let  bygones  be  bygones.'  " 

"  While  he  is  watching  me  with  a  policeman?     While  he  is  still 
thinking  that  I  entertain  a — lover  ?     While  he  believes  that  I  am  the 
base  thing  that  he  has  dared  to  think  me  ?" 
"  He  has  never  believed  it." 

"  Then  how  can  he  be  such  a  villain  as  to  treat  me  like  this  ?  I 
could  not  go  to  him,  Nora ; — not  unless  I  went  to  him  as  one  who 
was  known  to  be  mad,  over  whom  in  his  wretched  condition  it  would 
be  my  duty  to  keep  watch.  In  no  other  way  could  I  overcome  my 
abhorrence  of  the  outrages  to  which  he  has  subjected  me." 
"  But  for  the  child's  sake,  Emily." 

"  Ah,  yes  !  If  it  wei*e  simply  to  grovel  in  the  dust  before  him  it 
should  be  done.  If  humiliation  w^ould  suffice, — or  any  self-abasement 
that  were  possible  to  me  !  But  I  should  be  false  if  I  said  that  I  look 
forward  to  any  such  possibility.  How  can  he  wish  to  have  me  back 
again  after  what  he  has  said  and  done  ?  I  am  his  wife,  and  he  has 
disgraced  me  before  all  men  by  his  own  words.  And  what  have  I 
done,  that  I  should  not  have  done  ; — what  left  undone  on  his  behalf 
that  I  should  have  done  ?  It  is  hard  that  the  foolish  workings  of  a 
weak  man's  mind  should  be  able  so  completely  to  ruin  the  prospects 
of  a  woman's  life  !  " 

Nora  was  beginning  to  answer  this  by  attempting  to  shew  that  the 
husband's  madness  was,  perhaps,  only  temporary,  -when  there  came  a 
knock  at  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Outhouse  was  at  once  in  the  room.  It 
will  be  well  that  the  reader  should  know  what  had  taken  place  at  the 
parsonage  while  the  two  sisters  had  been  together  up-stairs,  so  that 
the  nature  of  Mrs.  Outhouse's  mission  to  them  may  explain  itself. 
Mr.  Outhouse  had  been  in  his  closet  down-stairs,  when  the  maid- 
servant brought  word  to  him  that  Mr.  Trevelyan  Avas  in  the  parlour, 
and  was  desirous  of  seeing  him. 

"Mr.  Trevelyan!"    said   the  unfortunate    clergyman,  holding   up 


ANornKij  srKr(;(.i,i-:.  85 

both  his  hiuuls.  The  servant  understood  tlu  tra^'ic  importanfe  of  the 
occasion  quite  as  well  as  did  her  master,  and  simply  shook  her  head. 
"Has  your  mistress  seen  him?"  said  the  master.  The  pirl  a;,'aiu 
shook  her  head.  "Ask  your  mistress  to  come  to  me,"  said  the  (•lerj,'y- 
mau.  Then  the  girl  disappeared ;  and  in  a  iew  minutes  Mrs.  Out- 
house, equally  imbued  with  the  tragic  elements  of  the  day,  was  with 
her  husband. 

Mr.  Outhouse  began  by  declaring  that  no  consideration  should 
induce  him  to  see  Trevelyan,  and  commissioned  his  wife  to  go  to  the 
man  and  tell  him  that  he  must  leave  the  house.  When  the  unfortu- 
nate woman  expressed  an  opinion  that  Trevelyan  had  some  legal 
rights  upon  which  he  might  probably  insist,  Mr.  Outhouse  asserted 
roundly  that  he  could  have  no  legal  right  to  remain  in  that  parsonage 
against  the  will  of  the  rector.  "If  he  wants  to  claim  his  wife  and 
child,  he  must  do  it  by  law, — not  by  force  ;  and  thank  God,  Sir 
Marmaduke  will  be  here  before  he  can  do  that."'  "  Ihit  I  can't  make 
liini  go,"  said  Mrs.  Outhouse.  "  Tell  him  that  you'll  send  for  i\ 
policeman,"  said  the  clergyman. 

It  had  come  to  pass  that  there  had  been  messages  backwards  and 
forwards  between  the  visitor  and  the  master  of  the  house,  all  carried 
by  that  unfortunate  lady.  Trevelyan  did  not  demand  that  his  wife 
and  child  should  be  given  up  to  him  ; — did  not  even,  on  this. occasion, 
demand  that  his  boy  should  be  surrendered  to  him, — now,  at  once. 
He  did  say,  very  repeatedly,  that  of  course  he  must  have  his  boy, 
but  seemed  to  imply  that,  under  certain  circumstances,  he  would  be 
Avilling  to  take  his  wife  to  live  with  him  again.  This  appeared  to 
Mrs.  Outhouse  to  be  so  manifestly  the  one  thing  that  was  desirable, — 
to  be  the  only  solution  of  the  dilficulty  tliat  could  be  admitted  as  a 
solution  at  all, — that  she  went  to  work  on  that  hint,  and  ventured  to 
entertain  a  hope  that  a  reconciliation  might  be  eflected.  She  implored 
her  husband  to  lend  a  hand  to  the  work  ;■ — by  which  she  intended  to 
imply  that  he  should  not  only  see  Trevelyan,  but  consent  to  meet  the 
sinner  on  irii  iidly  terms.  But  Mr.  Outhouse  was  on  the  occasion 
even  more  than  customarily  obstinate.  His  wife  might  do  what  she 
liked.  He  Avould  neither  meddle  nor  make.  He  would  not  wil- 
lingly see  Mr.  Trevelyan  in  his  own  house ; — unless,  indeed,  ^rr. 
Trevelyan  should  attempt  to  force  his  way  up  into  the  nursery.  Then 
he  said  that  which  left  no  doubt  on  his  wife's  mind  that,  should  any 
violence  be  attempted,  her  husband  would  manfully  join  the  melee. 

But  it  soon  became  evident  that  no  such  attempt  was  to  be  made 
on  that  day.      Trevelyan    was   lachrymose,   heartbroken,   and  a   sight 


81  HE    KNEW    UK    WAS    RIGHT. 

piliublc  tu  bcliolil.  When  Mrs.  Outhouse  h)U(lly  asserted  that  his  wifo 
had  not  sinned  against  him  in  the  least, — "  not  in  a  tittle,  Mr.  Trc- 
velyan,"  she  repeated  over  and  over  again, — he  began  to  assert  him- 
self, declaring  that  she  had  seen  the  man  in  Devonshire,  and  corre- 
sponded "with  him  since  she  had  been  at  St.  Diddulph's  ;  and  when  the 
lady  had  declared  that  the  latter  assertion  was  untrue,  he  had  shaken 
his  head,  and  had  told  her  that  perhaps  she  did  not  know  all.  But 
the  misery  of  the  man  had  its  eflect  upon  her,  and  at  last  she  pro- 
posed to  be  the  bearer  of  a  message  to  his  wife.  He  had  demanded 
to  see  his  child,  offering  to  promise  that  he  would  not  attempt  to 
take  the  boy  by  force  on  this  occasion, — saying,  also,  that  his  claim 
by  law  was  so  good,  that  no  force  could  be  necessary.  It  was  pro- 
posed by  Mrs.  Outhouse  that  he  should  first  see  the  mother, — and  to 
this  he  at  last  assented.  How  blessed  a  thing  would  it  be  if  these 
two  persons  could  be  induced  to  forget  the  troubles  of  the  last  twelve 
months,  and  once  more  to  love  and  trust  each  other !  "  But,  sir," 
said  Mrs.  Outhouse,  putting  her  hand  upon  his  arm  ; — "  j^ou  mi;st 
not  upbraid  lier,  for  she  will  not  bear  it."  "  She  knows  nothing  of 
what  is  due  to  a  husband,"  said  Trevelyan,  gloomily.  The  task  was 
not  hopeful ;  but,  nevertheless,  the  poor  woman  resolved  to  do  her 
best. 

And  now  Mrs.  Outhouse  was  in  her  niece's  room,  asking  her  to  go 
down  and  see  her  husband.  Little  Louis  had  at  the  time  been  with 
the  nurse,  and  the  very  moment  that  the  mother  heard  that  the 
child's  father  was  in  the  house,  she  jumped  up  and  rushed  away  to 
get  possession  of  her  treasure.  "Has  he  come  for  baby?"  Nora 
asked  in  dismay.  Then  Mrs.  Outhouse,  anxious  to  obtain  a  convert 
to  her  present  views,  boldly  declared  that  Mr.  Trevelyan  had  no  such 
intention.  Mrs.  Trevelyan  came  back  at  once  with  the  boy,  and  then 
listened  to  all  her  aunt's  arguments.  "  But  I  will  not  take  baby  with 
me,"  she  said.  At  last  it  was  decided  that  she  should  go  down 
alone,  and  that  the  child  should  afterwards  be  taken  to  his  father  in 
the  drawing-room  ;  Mrs.  Outhouse  pledging  herself  that  the  whole 
household  should  combine  in  her  defence  if  Mr.  Trevelyan  should 
uttempt  to  take  the  child  out  of  that  room.  "But  what  am  I  to  say 
to  him  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Say  as  little  as  possible,"  said  Mrs.  Outhouse, — "  except  to  make 
him  understand  that  he  has  been  in  error  in  imputing  fault  to  you." 

"He  will  never  understand  that,"  said  Mrs.  Trevelyan. 

A  considerable  time  elapsed  after  that  before  she  could  bring  her- 
self to  descend  the  stairs.     Now  that  her  husband  was  so  near  hei", 


ANOMir.R    STRUGGLK.  85 

nntl  that  her  aunt  Lad  assured  Lor  tLat  she  migLt  reinstate  herself  in 
Ltr  position,  if  sLe  couki  onlj'  aLstain  from  saying  Lard  words  to 
Lim,  she  wisLed  tLat  Lo  "svas  away  from  lior  again,  in  Italy.  SLe 
knew  tLat  sLe  could  not  refrain  from  Lard  words.  How  was  it  pos- 
siLle  that  sLc  sLould  vindicate  Lor  own  Lonour,  witLout  asserting  witL 
all  Ler  strongtL  tLat  sLe  Lad  Leon  ill-used  ;  and,  to  speak  trutL  on 
the  matter,  her  love  for  the  man,  wLicL  Lad  once  Leon  true  and 
eager.  Lad  Lccn  quelled  by  the  treatment  she  had  received.  She  had 
clung  to  her  love  in  some  shape,  in  spite  of  the  accusations  made 
against  her,  till  she  had  heard  that  the  policeman  Lad  been  set  upon 
Ler  Leels.  Could  it  Le  possible  tLat  any  woman  sLould  love  a  man, 
or  at  least  tLat  any  wife  sLouId  love  a  Lusbaud,  after  sucL  usage  as 
tLat '?  At  last  sLe  crept  gently  down  tLe  stairs,  and  stood  at  tLe 
parlour-door.  SLe  listened,  and  could  Lear  Lis  steps,  as  Lc  paced 
backwards  and  forwards  tLrougL  tLe  room.  SLe  looked  back,  and 
could  see  tLe  face  of  the  servant  peering  round  from  the  kitchen- 
staii-s.  She  could  not  endure  to  be  watched  in  her  misery,  and,  thus 
driven,  sLe  opened  tLc  parlour-door.  "Louis,"  sLc  said,  walking 
into  tLe  room,  "  Aunt  Mary  Las  desired  me  to  come  to  you." 

"  Emily  !  "  Le  exclaimed,  and  ran  to  Ler  and  embraced  Ler.  SLe 
did  not  seek  to  stop  Lim,  but  sLe  did  not  return  tLe  kiss  wLicL  Lc 
gave  Ler.  TLen  Le  Leld  Ler  by  Ler  Lands,  and  looked  into  Ler  face, 
and  sLe  could  see  Low  strangely  Le  was  altered.  SLe  tLougLt  that 
she  would  hardly  have  known  him,  had  she  not  been  sure  that  it  was 
he.  She  herself  was  also  changed.  "Who  can  bear  sorroAv  without 
such  change,  till  ago  has  fixed  the  lines  of  the  face,  or  till  care  has 
made  them  hard  and  unmalleable  ?  But  the  effect  on  her  was  as 
nothing  to  that  which  grief,  remorse,  and  desolation  Lad  made  on 
Lim.  He  Lad  Lad  no  cLild  witL  Lim,  no  sister,  no  friend.  Bozzle 
Lad  Leeu  Lis  only  refuge, — a  refuge  not  adapted  to  make  life  easier  to 
sncL  a  man  as  Trevelyan  ;  and  Le, — in  spite  of  tLe  accusations  made 
by  Limself  against  Lis  wife,  witLin  Lis  own  breast  Lourly  since  Le 
Lad  left  Ler, — Lad  found  it  to  Lc  very  difficult  to  satisfy  Lis  own  con- 
science. He  told  Limself  from  Lour  to  Lour  tLat  he  knew  that  ho  was 
right ; — but  in  very  truth  Le  was  ever  doubting  Lis  own  conduct. 

"You  Lave  Leen  ill,  Louis,"  sLe  said,  looking  at  Lim. 

"  111  at  ease,  Emily ; — very  ill  at  ease  !  A  sore  Leart  will  make  tLe 
face  tLin,  as  well  as  fever  or  ague.  Since  \\c  parted  I  Lave  not  had 
nmcL  to  comfort  me." 

"  Nor  Lave  I, — nor  any  of  us,"  said  sLe.  "  How  was  comfort  to 
come  from  sucL  a  parting  ?" 


SC)  UK  km:\v  hi;  was  RUiirr. 

Then  thoy  both  stood  silent  together.  He  was  still  holding  her  by 
the  hand,  but  she  was  careful  not  to  return  his  pressure.  She  would 
not  take  her  hand  away  from  him  ;  but  she  would  show  him  no  sign 
of  softness  till  he  should  have  absolutely  acquitted  her  of  the  accusa- 
tion he  had  made  against  her.  "  We  are  man  and  wife,"  he  said 
after  awhile.  "  In  spite  of  all  that  has  come  and  gone  I  am  yours, 
and  you  arc  mine." 

"  You  should  have  remembered  that  always,  Louis." 

"  I  have  never  forgotten  it, — never.  In  no  thought  have  I  been 
untrue  to  you.  My  heart  has  never  changed  since  first  I  gave  it 
you."  There  came  a  bitter  frown  upon  her  face,  of  which  she  was 
so  conscious  herself,  that  she  turned  her  face  away  from  him.  She 
still  remembered  her  lesson,  that  she  Avas  not  to  anger  him,  and. 
therefore,  she  refrained  from  answermg  him  at  all.  But  the  answer 
was  there,  hot  within  her  bosom.  Had  he  loved  her, — and  yet  sus- 
pected that  she  was  false  to  him  and  to  her  vows,  simply  because  she 
had  been  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  an  old  friend  ?  Had  he  loved  her. 
and  yet  turned  her  from  his  house  '?  Had  he  loved  her, — and  set  a 
policeman  to  watch  her  ?  Had  he  loved  her,  and  yet  spoken  evil  of 
her  to  all  their  friends  '?  Had  he  loved  her,  and  yet  striven  to  rob 
her  of  her  child  ?      "  Will  you  come  to  me  ?"  he  said. 

*'  I  suppose  it  will  be  better  so,"  she  answered  slowly. 

"Then  you  will  promise  me "     He  paused,  and  attempted  to 

turn  her  towards  him,  so  that  he  might  look  her  in  the  face. 

'•  Promise  what  ?"  she  said,  quickly  glancing  round  at  him,  and 
drav/ing  her  hand  away  from  him  as  she  did  so. 

"  That  all  intercourse  with  Colonel  Osborne  shall  be  at  an  end." 

"  I  will  make  no  promise.  You  come  to  me  to  add  one  insult  to 
another.  Had  you  been  a  man,  you  would  not  have  named  him  to 
me  after  what  you  have  done  to  me." 

"  That  is  absurd.  I  have  a  right  to  demand  from  you  such  a 
pledge.     I  am  willing  to  believe  that  you  have  not " 

"  Have  not  what  ?" 

"  That  you  have  not  utterly  disgraced  me." 

"God  in  heaven,  that  I  should  hear  this!"  she  exclaimed. 
"  Louis  Trevelyan,  I  have  not  disgraced  you  at  all, — in  thought,  in 
Avord,  in  deed,  in  look,  or  in  gesture.  It  is  you  that  have  disgraced 
yourself,  and  ruined  me,  and  degraded  even  your  own  child." 

"  Is  this  the  way  in  which  you  welcome  me  ?" 

"  Certainly  it  is, — in  this  way  and  in  no  other  If  you  speak  to  mo 
of  what   is    past,   without    acknowledging   your   error."     Her   brov,' 


AN()iiii;i{  siurooi.R.  R7 

bccaiuc  blacker  and  Macker  as  slio  contiimod  to  speak  to  hiia.  '•  It 
would  be  best  that  nothing  should  be  said, — not  a  word.  That  it 
•all  should  be  regarded  as  an  ugly  dream.    ]?ut,  when  you  come  to  me 

and  at  once  go  back  to  it  all,  and  ask  mc  for  a  promise " 

"  Am  I  to  understand  then  that  all  idea  of  submission  to  your 
husband  is  to  be  at  an  end  ?" 

"  I  will  submit  to  no  imputation  on  my  honour^ — even  from  you. 
One  would  have  thought  that  it  would  have  been  for  you  to  preserve 
it  untarnished." 

"  And  you  will  give  me  no  assurance  as  to  your  future  life  ?" 

"  None  ; — certainly  none.  If  you  want  promises  from  me,  there 
tan  be  no  hope  for  the  future.  What  am  I  to  promise '?  That  I  will 
not  have — a  lover '?  What  respect  can  I  enjoy  as  your  wife  if  such  a 
promise  be  needed  ?  If  you  should  choose  to  fancy  that  it  had  been 
broken  you  would  set  your  policeman  to  watch  me  again  !  Louis. 
we  can  never  live  together  again  ever  with  comfort,  unless  you 
acknowledge  in  your  own  heart  that  you  have  used  me  shamefully." 

'*  Were  you  right  to  see  him  in  Devonshire  ?" 

•'  Of  course  I  was  right.  "Why  should  I  not  see  him, — or  aiiv 
one?" 

**  And  you  will  sec  him  again  ?" 

••  When  papa  conies,  of  course  I  shall  see  him." 

*'  Then  it  is  hopeless,"  said  he,  turning  away  from  her. 

*'  If  that  man  is  to  be  a  source  of  disquiet  to  you,  it  is  hopeless," 
she  answered.  "If  you  cannot  so  school  yourself  that  he  shall  be 
the  same  to  you  as  other  men,  it  is  quite  hopeless.  You  must  still 
be  mad, — as  you  have  been  mad  hitherto." 

He  walked  about  the  room  restlessly  for  a  time,  while  she  stood 
with  assumed  composure  near  the  window.  "  Send  me  my  child," 
he  said  at  last. 

"He  shall  come  to  you,  Louis, — for  a  little  ;  but  he  is  not  to  be 
taken  out  from  hence.     Is  that  a  promise  ?" 

"  You  are  to  exact  i^romises  from  me,  where  my  own  rights  arc 
concenied,  while  you  refuse  to  give  me  any,  though  I  am  entitled  to 
demand  them  !  I  order  you  to  send  the  boy  to  me.  Is  he  not  my 
own?" 

"Is  he  not  mine  too  ?    And  is  he  not  all  that  you  have  left  to  mo  ?" 

He  paused  again,  and  then  gave  the  promise.  "  Let  him  be 
brought  to  me.  He  shall  not  be  removed  now.  I  intend  to  have 
him.  I  tell  you  so  fairly.  He  shall  be  taken  from  you  unless  you 
come  back  to  me  with  such  assurances  as  to  your  future  conduct  as  I 


88  HE   KNEW   IIK    WAS    RIGHT, 

have  aright  to  clcmand.  There  is  much  that  the  law  cannot  give 
me.  It  cannot  procure  wife-like  submission,  love,  gratitude,  or  even 
decent  matronly  conduct.  But  that  which  it  can  give  me,  I  will 
have." 

She  walked  oft"  to  the  door,  and  then  as  she  was  quitting  the  room 
she  spoke  to  him  once  again.  "  Alas,  Louis,"  she  said,  "neither 
can  the  law,  nor  medicine,  nor  religion,  restore  to  you  that  fine  intel- 
lect which  foolish  suspicions  have  destroyed."  Then  she  left  him 
and  returned  to  the  room  in  which  her  aunt,  and  Nora,  and  the  child 
were  all  clustered  together,  waiting  to  learn  the  efi"ects  of  the  inter- 
view. The  two  women  asked  their  questions  with  their  eyes,  rather 
than  with  spoken  words.  "It  is  all  over,"  said  Mrs.  Trevelyan. 
"  There  is  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  go  back  to  papa.  I  only  hear  the 
same  accusations,  repeated  again  and  again,  and  make  myself  subject 
to  the  old  insults."  Then  Mrs.  Outhouse  kncAV  that  she  could  inter- 
fere no  further,  and  that  in  truth  nothing  could  be  done  till  the 
return  of  Sir  Marmaduke  should  relieve  her  and  her  husband  from 
all  further  active  concern  in  the  matter. 

But  Trevelyan  was  still  down- stairs  waiting  for  the  child.  At  last 
it  was  arranged  that  Nora  should  take  the  boy  into  the  drawing-room, 
and  that  Mrs.  Outhouse  should  fetch  the  father  up  from  the  parlour 
to  the  room  above  it.  Angry  as  was  Mrs.  Trevelyan  with  her  hus- 
band, not  the  less  Avas  she  anxious  to  make  the  boy  good-looking  and 
seemly  in  his  father's  eyes.  She  washed  the  child's  face,  put  on  him 
a  clean  frill  and  a  pretty  ribbon  ;  and,  as  she  did  so,  she  bade  him 
kiss  his  papa,  and  speak  nicely  to  him,  and  love  him.  "  Poor  papa  is 
imhappy,"  she  said,  "  and  Louey  must  be  very  good  to  him."  The 
boy,  child  though  he  was,  understood  much  more  of  what  was  passing 
around  him  than  his  mother  knew.  How  Avas  he  to  love  papa  when 
mamma  did  not  do  so  ?  In  some  shape  that  idea  had  framed  itself 
in  his  mind ;  and,  as  he  was  taken  down,  he  knew  it  was  impos- 
sible that  he  should  speak  nicely  to  his  papa.  Nora  did  as  she  was 
bidden,  and  went  down  to  the  first-floor,  Mrs.  Outhouse,  promising 
that  even  if  she  were  put  out  of  the  room  by  Mr,  Trevelyan  she  would 
not  stir  from  the  landing  outside  the  door,  descended  to  the  parlour 
and  quickly  returned  with  the  unfortunate  father,  Mr,  Outhouse,  in 
the  meantime,  was  still  sitting  in  his  closet,  tormented  with  curiosity, 
but  yet  determined  not  to  be  seen  till  the  intruder  should  have  left 
his  house. 

"I  hope  you  are  well,  Nora,"  he  said,  as  he  entered  the  room  with 
Mrs.  Outhouse. 


ANOTHER   SrUUGGLE.  S9 

•'  Quito  Avell,  thank  you,  Louis." 

"lam  sorry  that  our  troubles  should  have  deprived  you  of  the 
Lome  you  had  been  taught  to  expect."  To  this  Nora  made  no  reply, 
but  escaped,  and  went  up  to  her  sister.  "  My  poor  little  boy,"  said 
Trevelyan,  taking  the  child  and  placing  it  on  his  kneo.  "I  suppose 
you  have  forgotten  your  unfortunate  father."  The  child,  of  course, 
said  nothing,  but  just  allowed  himself  to  be  kissed. 

"He  is  looking  very  •well,"  said  Mrs.  Outhouse. 

"  Is  he  ?  I  dare  say  he  is  well.  Louoy,  my  boy,  arc  you  happy  ?" 
The  question  was  asked  in  a  voice  that  was  dismal  beyond  compare, 
and  it  also  remained  unanswered.  He  had  been  desired  to  speak 
nicely  to  his  papa ;  but  how  was  it  possible  that  a  child  should  speak 
nicely  under  such  a  load  of  melancholy  ?  "  He  will  not  speak  to  me," 
said  Trevelyan.  "I  suppose  it  is  what  I  might  have  expected."  Then 
the  child  was  put  off  his  knee  on  to  the  floor,  and  began  to  whimper. 
"A  few  months  since  he  would  sit  there  for  hours,  with  his  head 
upon  my  breast,"  said  Trevelyan. 

"A  few  months  is  a  long  time  in  the  life  of  such  an  infant,"  said 
Mrs.  Outhouse. 

"  He  may  go  away,"  said  Trevelyan.  Then  the  child  was  led  out 
of  the  room,  and  sent  up  to  his  mother. 

"Emily  has  done  all  she  can  to  make  the  child  love  your  memory," 
said  Mrs.  Outhouse. 

"  To  love  my  memory !  What ; — as  though  I  were  dead.  I  will 
teach  him  to  love  me  as  I  am,  Mrs.  Outhouse.  I  do  not  think  that  it 
is  too  late.  Will  you  tell  your  husband  from  mo,  with  my  compli- 
ments, that  I  shall  cause  him  to  be  served  with  a  legal  demand  for  the 
restitution  of  my  child  ?  " 

"  But  Sir  Marmaduke  will  be  here  in  a  few  days." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  that.  Sir  Marmaduke  is  nothing  to  me  now. 
My  child  is  my  own, — and  so  is  my  wife.  Sir  Marmaduke  has  no 
authority  over  cither  one  or  the  other.  I  find  my  child  here,  and  it 
is  hero  that  I  must  look  for  him.  I  am  sorry  that  you  should  be 
troubled,  but  the  fault  docs  not  rest  with  me.  Mr.  Outhouse  has 
refused  to  give  me  up  my  own  child,  and  I  am  di-iven  to  take  such 
steps  for  his  recovery  as  the  law  has  put  within  my  reach." 

"  Why  did  you  turn  your  wife  out  of  doors,  Mr.  Trevelyan  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Outhouse  boldly. 

"I  did  not  turn  her  out  of  doors.  I  provided  a  fitting  shuUer  for 
her.     I  gave  her  everything  that  slie  could  want.     You  know  what 

VOL.  11.  K  * 


0'}  HE    KNE'SV    ]1K    WAS    KK.HT. 

li:if  pcncfl.  That  man  went  down  and  was  received  there.  I  defy 
you,  Mrs.  Outhouse,  to  say  that  it  was  my  fault." 

Sirs.  Outhouse  did  attempt  to  show  him  that  it  was  his  fault ;  hut 
while  she  was  doing  so  he  left  the  hoiise.  "  I  don't  think  she  could 
go  back  to  him,"  said  Mrs.  Outhouse  to  her  husband.  "He  is  quite 
insane  upon  this  matter." 

"  I  shall  be  insane,  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Outhouse,  "  if  Sir  Marma- 
duke  does  not  come  home  very  quickl}^"  Nevertheless  he  quite 
ignored  any  legal  power  that  might  be  brought  to  bear  against  him  as 
to  the  restitution  of  the  child  to  its  father. 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

TJIiKEFi'S  HOTEL,  JfOn'/JBAY  STBEET. 

Within  a  week  of  the  occurrence  which  is  related  in  the  last  chapter, 
there  came  a  telegram  from  Southampton  to  the  parsonage  at  St. 
Diddulph's,  saying  that  Sir  Marmaduke  and  Lady  Rowley  had  reached 
England.  On  the  evening  of  that  day  they  were  to  lodge  at  a  smali 
family  hotel  in  Baker  Street,  and  both  Mrs.  Trevelyan  and  Nora  were 
to  be  with  them.  The  leave-taking  at  the  parsonage  was  painful,  as 
on  both  sides  there  existed  a  feeling  that  affection  and  sympathy  were 
wanting.  The  uncle  and  aunt  had  done  their  duty,  and  both  Mrs. 
Trevelyan  and  Nora  felt  that  they  ought  to  have  been  demonstrative 
and  cordial  in  their  gratitude  ; — but  they  found  it  impossible  to  become 
so.  And  the  rector  could  not  pretend  but  that  he  was  glad  to  be  rid 
of  his  guests.  There  were,  too,  some  last  words  about  money  to  be 
spoken,  which  were  grievous  thorns  in  the  poor  man's  flesh.  Two 
bank  notes,  however,  were  put  upon  his  table,  and  he  knew  that 
unless  he  took  them  he  could  not  pay  for  the  provisions  which  his 
unwelcome  visitors  had  consumed.  Surely  there  never  was  a  man 
so  cruelly  ill-used  as  had  been  Mr.  Outhouse  in  all  this  matter. 
"Another  such  winter  as  that  would  put  me  in  my  grave,"  he  said, 
when  his  wife  tried  to  comfort  him  after  they  were  gone.  "I  know 
that  they  have  both  been  very  good  to  us,"  said  Mrs.  Trevelyan,  as 
she  and  her  sister,  together  with  the  child  and  the  nurse,  hurried 
away  towards  Baker  Street  in  a  cab,  "  but  I  have  never  for  a  moment 
felt  that  they  were  glad  to  have  us."  "  But  how  could  they  have 
been  glad  to  have  us,"  she  added  afterwards,  "when  we  brought  such 
trouble  with  us  ?  "     But  they  to  whom  they  were  going  now  W(Uild 


pakkf.h'.s  ii()Ti:i,  >[oaviiiiay  sireki'.  VI 

receive  her  \vitli  joy  ; — would  make  her  welcome  with  all  her  loail  of 
sorrows,  would  give  to  her  n  sj-mpathy  v.hich  it  was  impossible  that 
she  should  receive  from  others.  Though  t^he  might  uot  be  happy 
now, — for  iu  truth  how  could  she  be  ever  really  happy  again, — there 
would  be  a  joy  to  her  in  placing  her  child  iu  her  mother's  arms,  and 
in  receiving  her  father's  warm  caresses.  That  her  father  Avmdd  be 
very  vehement  in  his  anger  against  her  husband  she  knew  well, — for 
Sir  JIarmaduke  was  a  vehement  man.  lint  there  would  be  some 
support  for  her  in  the  verj'  violence  of  his  wrath,  and  at  this  moment 
it  was  such  support  that  she  most  needed.  As  they  joui-neyed  together 
iu  the  cab,  the  married  sister  seemed  to  be  in  the  higher  sj'irits  of 
the  two.  She  was  sure,  at  any  rate,  that  those  to  -whom  she  was 
going  would  place  themselves  on  her  side.  Nora  had  her  own  story 
to  tell  about  Hugh  Staubury,  and  was  by  no  means  so  sure  that  her 
tale  would  be  received  with  cordial  agreement.  "  Let  me  tell  them 
myself,"  she  whispered  to  her  sister.  "  Not  to-night,  because  they 
will  have  so  much  to  say  to  you ;  but  I  shall  tell  mamma  to-morrow." 

The  train  by  which  the  Rowleys  were  to  reach  London  was  due  at 
the  station  at  7.30  p.m.,  and  the  two  sisters  timed  theii*  despatch 
from  St.  Diddulph's  so  as  to  enable  them  to  reach  the  hotel  at  eight. 
"  We  shall  be  there  now  before  mamma,"  said  Nora,  "because  they 
will  have  so  much  luggage,  and  so  many  things,  and  the  trains  are 
always  late."  "When  they  started  from  the  door  of  the  parsonage, 
Mr.  Outhouse  gave  the  direction  to  the  cabman,  "  Gregg's  Hotel, 
Baker  Street."  Then  at  once  he  began  to  console  himself  in  that 
they  were  gone. 

It  was  a  long  drive  from  St.  Diddulph's  in  the  cast,  to  Marylebonc 
in  the  west,  of  London.  None  of  the  party  in  the  cab  knew  anything 
of  the  region  through  which  they  passed.  The  cabman  took  the 
line  by  the  back  of  the  bank,  and  Finsbury  Square  and  the  City  Road, 
thinking  it  best,  probably,  to  avoid  the  crush  at  Holborn  Hill,  though 
at  the  expense  of  something  of  a  circuit.  Rut  of  this  Mrs.  Trevclyan 
and  Nora  knew  nothing.  Had  their  way  taken  them  along  Picca- 
dilly, or  through  Mayfair,  or  across  Grosvenor  Square,  they  would 
have  known  where  they  were  ;  but  at  present  they  were  not  thinking 
of  those  once  much-loved  localities.  The  cab  passed  the  Angel,  and 
up  and  down  the  hill  at  Pcntonvillo,  and  by  the  King's  Cross  stations, 
and  through  Euston  Square, — and  then  it  turned  up  Gower  Street. 
Surely  the  man  should  have  gone  on  along  the  New  Road,  now  that 
he  had  come  so  far  out  of  his  way.  But  of  this  the  two  ladies  knew 
nothing, — nor  did  the  nurse.     It  was  a  dark,  windy  night,  but  the 


92  UK    KNEW   HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

lamps  ill  the  streets  had  given  them  light,  so  that  they  had  not  noticed 
the  night.  Nor  did  they  notice  it  now  as  the  streets  became  narroAvev 
and  darker.  They  were  hardly  thinking  that  their  journey  was  yet 
at  an  end,  and  the  mother  was  in  the  act  of  covering  her  boy's  face  as 
he  lay  asleep  on  the  nurse's  lap,  when  the  cab  was  stopped.  Nora 
looking  out  through  the  window,  saw  the  word  "  Hotel "  over  a  door- 
way, and  was  satisj&ed.  "Shall  I  take  the  child,  ma'am  ?"  said  a 
man  in  black,  and  the  child  was  handed  out.  Nora  was  the  fu-st  to 
follow,  and  she  then  perceived  that  the  door  of  the  hotel  was  not 
open.  Mrs.  Trevelyan  followed  ;  and  then  they  looked  round  them, — 
and  the  child  was  gone.  They  heard  the  rattle  of  another  cab  as  it 
was  carried  away  at  a  gallop  round  a  distant  corner ; — and  then  some 
inkling  of  what  had  happened  came  upon  them.  The  father  had 
•succeeded  in  getting  possession  of  his  child. 

It  was  a  narrow,  dark  street,  very  quiet,  having  about  it  a  certain 
air  of  poor  respectability, — an  obscure,  noiseless  street,  without  even  a 
sign  of  life.  Some  unfortunate  one  had  endeavoured  here  to  keep  an 
hotel; — but  there  was  no  hotel  kept  there  now.  There  had  been 
much  craft  in  selecting  the  place  in  which  the  child  had  been  taken 
from  them.  As  they  looked  around  them,  perceiving  the  terrible 
misfortune  which  had  befallen  them,  there  was  not  a  human  being 
near  them  save  the  cabman,  who  was  occupied  in  unchaining,  or  pre- 
tending to  unchain  the  heavy  mass  of  luggage  on  the  roof.  The 
windows  of  the  house  before  which  they  were  stopping,  were  closed, 
and  Nora  perceived  at  once  that  the  hotel  was  not  inhabited.  The 
cabman  must  have  perceived  it  also.  As  for  the  man  who  had  taken 
the  child,  the  nurse  could  only  say  that  he  was  dressed  in  black,  like 
a  Avaiter,  that  he  had  a  napkin  under  his  arm,  and  no  hat  on  his  head. 
He  had  taken  the  boy  tenderly  in  his  arms, — and  then  she  had  seen 
nothing  further.  The  first  thing  that  Nora  had  seen,  as  she  stood  on 
the  pavement,  was  the  other  cab  moving  off  rapidlv. 

Mrs.  Trevelyan  had  staggered  against  the  railings,  and  was  soon 
screaming  in  her  wretchedness.  Before  long  there  was  a  small  croAvd 
around  them,  comprising  three  or  four  women,  a  few  boys,  an  old 
man  or  two, — and  a  policeman.  To  the  policeman  Nora  had  soon 
told  the  whole  story,  and  the  cabman  was  of  course  attacked.  But 
the  cabman  played  his  part  very  well.  He  declared  that  he  had  done 
just  v/hat  he  had  been  told  to  do.  Nora  was  indeed  sure  that  she 
had  heard  her  uncle  desire  him  to  drive  to  Gregg's  Hotel  in  Baker 
Street.  The  cabman  in  answer  to  this,  declared  that  he  had  not 
clearly  heard  the  old  gentleman's  directions ;  but  that  a  man  whom  he 


PAUKER  S    HOTEL,    MOAVBUAY    STREET.  93 

bad  concoiveil  to  be  a  servant,  bad  very  plainly  told  bim  to  drive  to 
Parker's  Hotel,  Mowbray  Street,  GoAver  Street.  "  I  corned  ever  so 
far  out  of  my  way,"  said  tbe  cabman,  "  to  avoid  tbe  rumpus  witb  tbo 
bomnibuses  at  tbe  bill, — cause  tbe  ladies'  tbings  is  so  beavy  we'd 
never  got  up  if  tbe  *orse  had  once  jibbed."  All  wbieb,  tbougb  it  bad 
notbing  to  do  witb  tbe  matter,  seemed  to  impress  tbe  policeman  witb 
tbe  idea  tbat  tbe  cabman,  if  not  a  true  man,  was  going  to  be  too 
clever  for  tbcm  on  tbis  occasion.  And  tbe  crafty  cabman  went  on  to 
declare  tbat  bis  horse  was  so  tired  witb  tbe  load  tbat  be  could  not  go 
on  to  Baker  Street.  They  must  get  another  cab.  Take  bis  number  ! 
Of  course  they  could  take  bis  number.  There  was  bis  number.  His 
fare  was  four  and  six, — tbat  is  if  the  ladies  wouldn't  pay  him  anything 
extra  for  tbe  terrible  load;  and  be  meant  to  have  it.  It  would  be 
sixpence  more  if  they  kept  him  there  many  minutes  longer.  The 
number  was  taken,  and  another  cab  was  got,  and  the  luggage  was 
transferi'ed,  and  tbe  money  was  paid,  while  the  unhappy  mother  was 
still  screaming  in  hysterics  against  the  railings.  "What  bad  been  done 
was  soon  clear  enough  to  all  those  around  her.  Nora  bad  told  the 
policeman,  and  bad  told  one  of  the  women,  thinking  to  obtain  their 
sympathy  and  assistance.  "It's  the  kid's  dada  as  has  taken  it,"  said 
one  man,  "and  there  ain't  nothing  to  be  done."  There  was  nothing 
to  be  done ; — nothing  at  any  rate  then  and  there. 

Nora  bad  been  very  eager  that  the  cabman  should  be  arrested ;  but 
tbe  policeman  assured  her  tbat  such  an  arrest  was  out  of  the  question, 
and  would  have  been  useless  had  it  been  possible.  The  man  would 
be  forthcoming  if  bis  presence  should  be  again  desired,  but  be  had 
probably, — so  said  the  policeman, — really  been  desired  to  drive  to 
Mowbray  Street.  "  They  knows  •where  to  find  me  if  they  wants  me, — 
only  I  must  be  paid  my  time,"  said  the  cabman  confidently.  And  the 
policeman  was  of  opinion  tbat  as  tbe  boy  bad  been  kidnapped  on 
behalf  of  tbe  father,  no  legal  steps  could  bo  taken  either  for  the 
recovery  of  tbe  child  or  for  tbe  punishment  of  tbe  pei-petrators  of  tbo 
act.  He  got  up,  however,  on  tbe  box  of  tbe  cab,  and  accompanied 
tbe  party  to  the  hotel  in  Baker  Street.  They  reached  it  almost  exactly 
at  the  same  time  with  Sir  Marmaduke  and  Lady  Bowley,  and  tbo 
reader  must  imagine  tbe  confusion,  the  anguish,  and  the  disappoint- 
ment of  that  meeting.  Mrs.  Trevelyan  was  hardly  in  possession  of 
her  senses  when  she  reached  her  mother,  and  could  not  be  induced  to 
bo  tranquil  even  when  she  was  assured  by  her  father  tbat  her  son 
would  suflir  no  immediate  evil  by  being  transferred  to  bis  fatlier's 
bands.     She  in  her  iwiv/.y  declared  tbat  she  would  never  sec  her  littlo 


91  HE    KNENV    liK    WAS    KIGIIT. 

ono  ngain,  and  seemed  to  think  that  the  father  might  not  improbably 
destroy  the  child.  "He  is  mad,  papa,  and  does  not  know  what  he 
docs.  Do  yon  mean  to  say  that  a  madman  may  do  as  he  pleases  ? — 
that  he  may  rob  my  child  from  me  in  the  streets  ? — that  he  may  take 
him  out  of  my  very  arms  in  that  way  ?"  And  she  was  almost  angry 
with  her  father  because  no  attempt  was  made  that  niglit  to  recover 
the  boy. 

Sir  Marmaduke,  who  was  not  himself  a  good  lawyer,  had  been 
closeted  with  the  policeman  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  had  learned 
the  policeman's  views.  Of  course,  the  father  of  the  child  was  the 
person  v.ho  had  done  the  deed.  "V^Tiether  the  cabman  had  been  in 
the  plot  or  not,  was  not  matter  of  much  consequence.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  that  some  one  had  told  the  man  to  go  to  Parker's  Hotel, 
as  the  cab  was  starting ;  and  it  would  probably  be  impossible  to 
punish  him  in  the  teeth  of  such  instructions.  Sir  Marmaduke,  how- 
ever, could  doubtless  have  the  cabman  summoned.  And  as  for  the 
absolute  abduction  of  the  child,  the  policeman  was  of  opinion  that  a 
father  could  not  be  punished  for  obtaining  possession  of  his  sou  by 
such  a  stratagem,  unless  the  custody  of  the  child  had  been  made  over 
to  the  mother  by  some  court  of  law.  The  policeman,  indeed,  seemed 
to  think  that  nothing  could  be  done,  and  Sir  Marmaduke  was  in- 
clined to  agree  with  him.  When  this  was  explained  to  Mrs,  Tre- 
velyan  by  her  mother,  she  again  became  hysterical  in  her  agonj^  and 
could  hardly  be  restrained  from  going  forth  herself  to  look  for  her  lost 
treasure. 

It  need  hardly  be  further  explained  that  Trevelyan  had  planned  the 
stratagem  in  concert  with  Mr.  Bozzle.  Bozzle,  though  strongly 
cautioned  by  his  wife  to  keep  himself  out  of  danger  in  the  matter, 
was  sorely  tempted  by  his  employer's  offer  of  a  hundred  pounds.  He 
positively  refused  to  be  a  party  to  any  attempt  at  violence  at  St. 
Diddulph's  ;  but  when  he  learned,  as  he  did  leai'n,  that  Mrs.  Tre- 
velyan, with  her  sister  and  baby,  were  to  bo  transferred  from  St. 
Diddulph's  in  a  cab  to  Baker  Street,  and  that  the  journey  v/as  luckily 
to  be  made  during  the  shades  of  evening,  his  active  mind  went  to 
work,  and  he  arranged  the  plan.  There  were  many  difficulties,  and 
even  some  pecuniary  difficulty.  He  bargained  that  he  should  have 
his  hundred  pounds  clear  of  all  deduction  for  expenses, — and  then  the 
attendant  expenses  were  not  insignificant.  It  v.'as  necessary  that 
there  should  be  four  men  in  the  service,  all  good  and  true ;  and  men 
require  to  be  well  paid  for  such  goodness  and  truth.  There  v>\as  the 
man,  himself  an  ex-policeman,  who  gave  the  instructions  to  the  first 


Parker's  hotet.,  moavdray  street.  05 

cabman,  as  he  Avas  starting.  The  oahnian  would  not  nndortitkc  the 
job  at  all  unless  be  -wore  so  instructed  on  the  spot,  asscrtinc^  Ibat  in 
this  way  be  would  be  able  to  prove  tbat  tbe  orders  be  obe}-ed  came 
from  tbo  lady's  busband.  And  there  was  the  crafty  pseudo-waiter, 
with  the  napkin  and  no  hat,  who  had  carried  the  boy  to  the  cab  in 
which  his  father  was  sittinff.  And  there  were  the  two  cabmen. 
Bozzlc  planned  it  all,  and  with  some  difficulty  arranged  the  prelimi- 
naries. How  successful  was  the  scheme,  we  have  seen ;  and  Bozzle, 
for  a  month,  was  able  to  assume  a  superiority  over  his  wife,  which 
that  honest  woman  found  to  be  very  disagreeable.  "  There  ain"t  no 
fraudulent  abduction  in  it  at  all,"  Bozzle  exclaimed,  "  because  a  wife 
ain't  got  no  rights  again  her  husband,— not  in  such  a  matter  as 
that."  Mrs.  Bozzle  implied  that  if  her  husband  were  to  take  her 
child  away  from  her  without  her  leave,  she'd  let  him  know  something 
about  it.  But  as  the  husband  had  in  his  possession  the  note  for  a 
hundred  pounds,  realized,  Mrs.  Bozzlc  bad  not  much  to  say  in  sup- 
port of  her  view  of  the  case. 

On  the  morning  after  the  occuri'ence,  while  Sir  Marmaduke  was 
waiting  with  bis  solicitor  upon  a  magistrate  to  find  whether  anything 
could  be  done,  the  following  letter  was  brought  to  Mrs.  Trevclyan  at 
Gregg's  Hotel : — 

"  Our  child  is  safe  with  me,  and  will  remain  so.  If  you  caro 
to  obtain  legal  advice  you  will  find  that  I  as  his  father  have  a  right  to 
keep  him  under  my  protection.  I  shall  do  so  ;  but  will  allow  you  to 
see  him  as  soon  as  I  shall  have  received  a  full  guarantee  that  you 
have  no  idea  of  v.itbdrawing  him  from  my  charge. 

"  A  home  for  yourself  with  me  is  still  open  to  you, — on  condition 
that  you  will  give  me  the  piomise  that  I  have  demanded  from  you ; 
and  as  long  as  I  shall  not  hear  that  you  again  see  or  communicate 
with  the  person  to  whose  acquaintance  I  object.  V/hile  you  remain 
away  from  me  I  will  cause  you  to  be  paid  £50  a  month,  as  I  do  not 
wish  that  you  should  be  a  burden  on  others.  But  this  payment  will 
depend  also  on  your  not  seeing  or  holding  any  communication  with 
the  person  to  v.bom  I  have  alluded. 

**  Your  affectionate  and  oftlndcd  husband, 

"  Louis  Trevklvan. 

*' A  letter  addressed  to  Tho  Acrobats'  Club  will  reach  mc." 

8ir  Rowley  came  home  dispirited  and  unhappy,  and  could  not  give 


96  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS   KIGIIT. 

much  comfort  to  his  daughter.  Tho  magistrate  had  told  him  that 
though  the  cabman  might  probably  bo  punished  for  taking  the  ladies 
otherwise  than  as  directed, — if  the  direction  to  Baker  Street  could 
bo  proved, — nothing  could  be  done  to  punish  the  father.  Tho 
magistrate  explained  that  under  a  certain  Act  of  Parliament  tho 
mother  might  apply  to  the  Court  of  Chancery  for  the  custody  of  any 
children  under  seven  years  of  age,  and  that  the  court  would  probably 
grant  such  custody, — unless  it  were  shewn  that  the  wife  had  left  her 
husband  without  sufficient  cause.  The  magistrate  could  not  under- 
take to  say  whether  or  no  sufficient  cause  had  here  been  given ; — or 
whether  the  husband  was  in  fault  or  tho  wife.  It  w^as,  however, 
clear  that  nothing  could  be  done  without  application  to  the  Court  of 
Chancery.  It  appeared, — so  said  the  magistrate, — that  the  husband 
had  offered  a  home  to  his  wife,  and  that  in  offering  it  he  had  attempted 
to  impose  no  conditions  which  could  be  shewn  to  be  cruel  before  a 
judge.  The  magistrate  thought  that  Mr.  Trevelyan  had  done  nothing 
illegal  in  taking  the  child  from  the  cab.  Sir  Marmaduke,  on  hearing 
this,  was  of  opinion  that  nothing  could  be  gained  by  legal  interference. 
His  private  desire  was  to  get  hold  of  Trevelyan  and  pull  him  limb  from 
limb.  Lady  Rowley  thought  that  her  daughter  had  better  go  back  to 
her  husband,  let  the  future  consequences  be  what  they  might.  And 
the  poor  desolate  mother  herself  had  almost  brought  herself  to  offer 
to  do  so,  having  in  her  bram  some  idea  that  she  would  after  a  while 
be  able  to  escape  with  her  boy.  As  for  love  for  her  husband,  cer- 
tainly there  was  none  now  left  in  her  bosom.  Nor  could  she  teach 
herself  to  think  it  possible  that  she  should  ever  live  with  him  again 
on  friendly  terms.  But  she  would  submit  to  anything  with  the  object 
of  getting  back  her  boy.  Three  or  four  letters  were  written  to  Mr. 
Trevelyan  in  as  many  days  from  his  wife,  from  Lady  RoAvley,  and 
from  Nora ;  in  which  various  overtures  were  made.  Trevelyan  wrote 
once  again  to  his  wife.  She  knew,  he  said,  already  the  terms  on 
which  she  might  come  back.  These  terms  were  still  open  to  her. 
As  for  the  boy,  he  certainly  should  not  leave  his  father.  A  meeting 
might  be  planned  on  condition  that  he,  Trevelyan,  were  provided 
Avith  a  written  assurance  from  his  wife  that  she  would  not  endeavour 
to  remove  the  boy,  and  that  he  himself  should  be  present  at  the 
meeting. 

Thus  the  first  week  was  passed  after  Sir  Marmaduke' s  return, — • 
and  a  most  wretched  time  it  was  for  all  the  party  at  Gregg's  Hotel. 


CKAPTER   LXII. 
L.iDT  rOWLEY  MAKES  AX  ATTEMPT. 


lOTHIXG-  could  be  more  uncomfort- 
able than  tbe  state  of  Sir  Marma- 
ra duke  Eowley's  family  for  the  first 
ten  days  after  the  arrival  in  London 
of  the  Governor  of  the  Mandarin 
Islands.  Lady  Rowley  had  brought 
"with  her  two  of  her  gu'ls, — the  third 

and  fourth, — and,  as  we  know,  had 

V   •'r~""^^^-Ji  |i^l|7-^Trf'  j    been  joined  by  the  two  eldest,  so  that 

"  '       there  was  a  large  family  of  ladies 

jjHilr^'Cr  ''~":^i  |1P|K\  -       gathered  together,   A  house  had  been 

J^%i^ ^^L^  -  llillilMl!  __"  taken  in  Manchester  Street,  to  which 

they  had  intended  to  transfer  them- 
selves after  a  single  night  passed 
at  Gregg's  Hotel.  But  the  trouble 
and  sorrow  inflicted  upon  them  by 
the  abduction  of  Mrs.  Trevclyan's  child,  and  the  consequent  labours 
thrust  upon  Sir  Marmaduke's  shoulders  had  been  so  heavy,  that  they 
had  slept  six  nights  at  the  hotel,  before  they  w^ere  able  to  move  them- 
selves into  the  house  prepared  for  them.  By  that  time  all  idea  had 
been  abandoned  of  recovering  the  child  by  any  legal  means  to  be 
taken  as  a  conscfjuence  of  the  illegality  of  the  abduction.  The  boy 
was  with  his  father,  and  the  lawyers  seemed  to  think  that  the  father's 
rights  were  paramount, — as  he  had  offered  a  home  to  his  wife  without 
any  conditions  which  a  court  of  law  would  adjudge  to  be  cruel.  If 
she  could  shew  that  ho  had  driven  her  to  live  apart  fi'om  him  by  his 
own  bad  conduct,  then  probably  the  custody  of  her  boy  might  bo 
awarded  to  her,  until  the  child  should  bo  seven  years  old.  But  when 
the  circumstances  of  the  case  were  explained  to  Sir  Marmaduke's  lawjer 
by  Lady  Rowley,  that  gentleman  shook  liis  head.  Mrs.  Trcvclyan  had, 
he  said,  no  case  with  which  she  could  go  into  court.    Then  by  degrees 

VOL.  II.  F 


98  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

there  were  words  whispered  as  to  the  husband's  madness.  The  lawyer 
said  that  that  was  a  matter  for  the  doctors.  If  a  certain  amount  of 
medical  evidence  could  be  obtained  to  show  that  the  husband  was  in 
truth  mad,  the  wife  could,  no  doubt,  obtain  the  custody  of  the  child. 
When  this  was  reported  to  Mrs,  Trevelyan,  she  declared  that  conduct 
such  as  her  husband's  must  suffice  to  prove  any  man  to  be  mad  ;  but 
at  this  Sir  Jlarmaduke  shook  his  head,  and  Lady  Rowley  sat,  sadly 
silent,  with  her  daughter's  hand  within  her  own.  They  would  not 
dare  to  tell  her  that  she  could  regain  her  child  by  that  plea. 

During  those  ten  days  they  did  not  learn  whither  the  boy  had  been 
carried,  nor  did  they  know  'even  where  the  father  might  be  found. 
Sir  Marmaduke  followed  up  the  address  as  given  in  the  letter,  and 
learned  from  the  porter  at  ''The  Acrobats"  that  the  gentleman's 
letters  were  sent  to  No.  55,  Stony  Walk,  Union  Street,  Borough.  To 
this  uncomfortable  locality  Sir  Marmaduke  travelled  more  than  once. 
Thrice  he  went  thither,  intent  on  finding  his  son-in-law's  residence. 
On  the  two  first  occasions  he  saw  no  one  but  Mrs.  Bozzle  ;  and  the 
discretion  of  that  lady  in  declining  to  give  any  information  was  most 
admirable.  "  Trewillian  !  "  Yes,  she  had  heard  the  name  certainly. 
It  might  be  that  her  husband  had  business  engagements  with  a  gent  of 
that  name.  She  would  not  say  even  that  for  certain,  as  it  was  not  her 
custom  ever  to  make  any  inquiries  as  to  her  husband's  business  engage- 
ments. Her  husband's  business  engagements  were,  she  said,  much 
too  important  for  the  "likes  of  she"  to  know  anything  about  them. 
When  was  Bozzle  likely  to  be  at  home  ?  Bozzle  was  never  likely  to 
be  at  home.  According  to  her  showing,  Bozzle  was  of  all  husbands 
the  most  erratic.  He  might  perhaps  come  in  for  an  hour  or  two  in 
the  middle  of  the  day  on  a  Wednesday,  or  perhaps  would  take  a  cup 
of  tea  at  home  on  Friday  evening.  But  anything  so  fitful  and  uncer- 
tain as  were  Bozzle's  appearances  in  the  bosom  of  his  family  was  not 
to  be  conceived  in  the  mind  of  woman.  Sir  Marmaduke  then  called 
in  the  middle  of  the  day  on  Wednesday,  but  Bozzle  was  reported  to 
be  away  in  the  provinces.  His  wife  had  no  idea  in  which  of  the  pro- 
vinces he  was  at  that  moment  engaged.  The  persevering  governor 
from  the  islands  called  again  on  the  Friday  evening,  and  then,  by 
chance,  Bozzle  was  found  at  home.  But  Sir  Marmaduke  succeeded  in 
gaining  very  little  information  even  from  Bozzle.  The  man  acknow- 
ledged that  he  was  employed  by  Mr.  Trevelyan.  Any  letter  or  parcel 
left  with  him  for  Mr.  Trevelyan  should  be  duly  sent  to  that  gentle- 
man. If  Sir  Marmaduke  wanted  Mr.  Trevelyan's  address,  he  could 
■write  to  Mr.  Trevelyan  and  ask  for  it.     If  Mr.  Trevelyan  declined 


LADY   ROWLEY   MAKES   AN    ATTEMPT.  99 

to  give  it,  Avas  it  likely  that  ho,  Bozzle,  sliould  betray  it  ?  Sir  Marma- 
duke  explained  who  he  was  at  some  length.  Bozzle  with  a  smllo 
assured  the  govei-nor  that  he  knew  very  well  who  he  was.  He  let 
di-op  a  few  words  to  show  that  he  was  intimately  acquainted  with  the 
whole  course  of  Sir  Marmaduko's  family  affixirs.  He  knew  all  about 
the  Mandarins,  and  Colonel  Osborne,  and  Gregg's  Hotel, — not  that  ho 
said  anything  about  Parker's  Hotel, — and  the  Colonial  Office.  Ho 
spoke  of  Miss  Nora,  and  even  knew  the  names  of  the  other  two 
young  ladies,  Miss  Sophia  and  Miss  Lucy.  It  was  a  wealmess  with 
.Bozzle, — that  of  displaying  his  information.  He  would  have  much 
liked  to  be  able  to  startle  Sir  Marmaduke  by  describing  the  Govern- 
ment House  in  the  island,  or  by  telling  him  something  of  his  old 
carriage-horses.  But  of  such  information  as  Sir  Marmaduke  desired. 
Sir  Marmaduke  got  none. 

And  there  were  other  troubles  which  fell  very  heavily  upon  the 
poor  governor,  who  had  come  home  as  it  were  for  a  holiday,  and  who 
was  a  man  hating  work  naturally,  and  who,  from  the  circumstances  of 
his  life,  had  never  been  called  on  to  do  much  work.  A  man  may 
govern  the  Mandarins  and  yet  live  in  comparative  idleness.  To  do 
such  governing  work  well  a  man  should  have  a  good  presence,  a  flow 
of  words  which  should  mean  nothing,  an  excellent  temper,  and  a  love 
of  hospitality.  With  these  attributes  Sii-  Rowley  was  endowed ;  for, 
though  his  disposition  was  by  nature  hot,  for  governing  purposes  it 
had  been  brought  by  practice  under  good  control.  He  had  now  been 
summoned  home  through  the  machinations  of  his  dangerous  old 
friend  Colonel  Osborne,  in  order  that  he  might  give  the  results  of  his 
experience  in  governing  before  a  committee  of  the  House  of  Commons. 
In  coming  to  England  on  this  business  he  had  thought  much  more  of 
his  holiday,  of  his  wife  and  children,  of  his  daughters  at  home,  of  his 
allowance  per  day  while  he  was  to  be  away  from  his  government,  and 
of  his  salary  to  be  paid  to  him  entire  during  his  absence,  instead  0/ 
being  halved  as  it  would  be  if  he  were  away  on  leave, — he  had  thought 
much  more  in  coming  home  on  these  easy  and  pleasant  matters,  than 
he  did  on  the  work  that  was  to  be  required  from  him  when  he  arrived. 
And  then  it  came  to  pass  that  he  felt  himself  almost  injured,  when 
the  Colonial  Office  demanded  his  presence  from  day  to  day,  and  when 
clerks  bothered  him  with  questions  as  to  which  they  expected  ready 
replies,  but  in  replying  to  which  Sir  I\rarmiiduke  was  by  no  means 
ready.  The  working  men  at  the  Colonial  Office  had  not  quite  thought 
that  Sir  Marmaduke  was  the  most  fitting  man  for  the  job  in  hand. 
There  was  a  certain  Mr.  Thomas  Smith  at  another  set  of  islands  in 

f2 


100  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

quite  another  part  of  the  world,  wlio  was  supposed  by  these  working 
men  at  home  to  be  a  very  paragon  of  a  governor.  If  he  had  been 
had  home, — so  said  the  working  men,— no  Committee  of  the 
House  woukl  have  been  able  to  make  anything  of  him.  They  might 
have  asked  him  questions  week  after  week,  and  he  would  have 
answered  them  all  fluently  and  would  have  committed  nobody.  He 
knew  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  governing, — did  Mr.  Thomas  Smith, — 
and  was  a  match  for  the  sharpest  Committee  that  ever  sat  at  West- 
minster. Poor  Sir  Marmaduke  was  a  man  of  a  very  different  sort ; 
all  of  which  was  known  by  the  working  men ;  but  the  Parliamen- 
tary interest  had  been  too  strong,  and  here  was  Sir  Marmaduke  at 
home.  But  the  working  men  were  not  disposed  to  make  matters  sa 
pleasant  for  Sir  Marmaduke,  as  Sir  Marmaduke  had  expected.  The 
Committee  would  not  examine  Sir  Marmaduke  till  after  Easter,  in  the 
middle  of  April ;  but  it  was  expected  of  him  that  he  should  read 
blue-books  without  number,  and  he  was  so  catechised  by  the  working 
men  that  he  almost  began  to  wish  himself  back  at  the  Mandarins.  In 
this  way  the  new  establishment  in  Manchester  Street  was  not  at  first 
in  a  happy  or  even  in  a  contented  condition. 

At  last,  after  about  ten  days.  Lady  Kowley  did  succeed  in  obtain- 
ing an  interview  with  Trevelyan.  A  meeting  was  arranged  through 
Bozzle,  and  took  place  in  a  very  dark  and  gloomy  room  at  an  inn  in 
the  City.  Why  Bozzle  should  have  selected  the  Bremen  Coffee 
House,  in  Poulter's  Alley,  for  this  meeting  no  tit  reason  can  surely  be 
given,  unless  it  was  that  he  conceived  himself  bound  to  select  the 
most  dreary  locality  within  his  knowledge  on  so  melancholy  an  occa- 
sion. Poulter's  Alley  is  a  narrow  dark  passage  somewhere  behind 
the  Mansion  House  ;  and  the  Bremen  Coffee  House, — why  so  called 
no  one  can  now  tell, — is  one  of  those  strange  houses  of  public  resort 
in  the  City  at  which  the  guests  seem  never  to  eat,  never  to  drink, 
never  to  sleep,  but  to  come  in  and  out  after  a  mysterious  and  almost 
ghostly  fashion,  seeing  their  friends, — or  perhaps  their  enemies,  in  nooks 
and  corners,  and  carrying  on  their  conferences  in  low  melancholy 
whispers.  There  is  an  aged  waiter  at  the  Bremen  Coffee  House ;  and 
there  is  certainly  one  private  sitting-room  up-stairs.  It  was  a 
dingy,  ill-furnished  room,  with  an  old  large  mahogany  table,  an  old 
horse-hair  sofa,  six  horse-hair  chairs,  two  old  round  mirrors,  and  an 
old  mahogany  press  in  a  corner.  It  was  a  chamber  so  sad  in  its 
appearance  that  no  wholesome  useful  work  could  have  been  done 
within  it ;  nor  could  men  have  eaten  there  with  any  appetite,  or  have 
drained  the  flo%\'ing  bowl  with  any  touch  of  joviality.  It  was  gene- 
rally used  for  such  purposes  as  that  to  which  it  was  now  appro- 


LADY    KOWLEY    MAKES    AN    ATTEMrT.  101 

priated,  ami  no  doubt  had  been  taken  by  Bo/.zle  on  more  than  oiia 
previous  occasion.  Here  Lady  Rowley  arrived  precisely  at  the  hour 
fixed,  and  was  told  that  the  gentleman  was  waiting  up-stairs  for  her. 

There  had,  of  com-se,  been  many  family  consultations  as  to  the 
manner  in  which  this  meeting  should  be  arranged.  Should  Sir  Mar- 
maduke  accompany  his  wife  ; — or,  perhaps,  should  Sir  Marmadukc  go 
alone  ?  Lady  Rowley  had  been  very  much  in  favour  of  meeting  Mr. 
Trevelyan  without  any  one  to  assist  her  iu  the  confei'cnce.  As  for 
Sir  Marmaduke,  no  meeting  could  be  concluded  between  him  and  his 
son-in-law  without  a  personal,  and  probably  a  violent  quarrel.  Of 
that  Lady  Rowley  had  been  quite  sui'e.  Sir  Marmaduke,  since  he  had 
been  home,  had,  in  the  midst  of  his  various  troubles,  been  driven  into 
so  vehement  a  state  of  indignation  against  his  son-in-law^  as  to  be  unable 
to  speak  of  the  WTetched  man  without  strongest  terms  of  opprobrium. 
Nothing  was  too  bad  to  be  said  by  him  of  one  who  had  ill-treated  his 
dearest  daughter.  It  must  be  admitted  that  Sir  Marmaduke  had 
heard  only  one  side  of  the  question.  He  had  questioned  his  daughter, 
and  had  constantly  seen  his  old  friend  Osborne.  The  colonel's 
journey  down  to  Devonshire  had  been  made  to  appear  the  most 
natural  proceeding  in  the  world.  The  correspondence  of  which 
Trevelyan  thought  so  much  had  been  shown  to  consist  of  such  notes 
as  might  pass  between  any  old  gentleman  and  anj''  young  woman. 
The  promise  which  Trevelyan  had  endeavoured  to  exact,  and  which 
Mrs.  Trevelyan  had  declined  to  give,  appeared  to  the  angry  father  to 
be  a  monstrous  insult.  He  knew  that  the  colonel  was  an  older  man 
than  himself,  and  his  Emily  was  still  to  him  only  a  young  girl.  It 
was  incredible  to  him  that  anybody  should  have  regarded  his  old 
comrade  as  his  daughter's  lover.  He  did  not  believe  that  anybody 
had,  in  truth,  so  regarded  the  man.  The  t;de  had  been  a  monstrous 
invention  on  the  part  of  the  husband,  got  up  because  he  had  become 
tired  of  his  young  Avife.  According  to  Sir  Marmaduke's  way  of  think- 
ing, Trevelyan  should  either  be  thrashed  within  an  inch  of  his  life,  or 
else  locked  up  in  a  mad-house.  Colonel  Osborne  shook  his  head,  and 
expressed  a  conviction  that  the  poor  man  was  mad. 

But  Lady  Rowley  was  more  hopeful.  Though  she  was  as  con- 
fident about  her  daughter  as  was  the  father,  she  was  less  confident 
about  the  old  friend.  She,  probably,  was  alive  to  the  fact  that  a  man 
of  fifty  might  put  on  the  airs  and  assume  the  character  of  a  young 
lover;  and  acting  on  that  suspicion,  entertaining  also  some  hope  that 
bad  as  matters  now  were  they  might  be  mended,  she  had  taken  care 
that  Colonel  Osborne  and  Mrs.  Trevelyan  should  not  be  brought 
together.      Sir  Marmadukc  had  fumed,  but  Lady  Rowley  had  been 


102  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS    KIGHT. 

firm.  "If  you  tliink  so,  mamma,"  Mrs.  Trcvclyan  Lad  said,  willi 
something  of  scorn  in  her  tone, — "  of  course  let  it  be  so."  Lady 
Rowley  had  said  that  it  would  be  better  so  ;  and  the  two  had  not 
scon  each  other  since  the  memorable  visit  to  Nuncombe  Putney.  And 
now  Lady  Rowley  w'as  about  to  meet  her  son-in-law  with  some  slight 
hope  that  she  might  arrange  affairs.  She  was  quite  aware  that  pre- 
sent indignation,  though  certainly  a  gratification,  might  be  indulged  in 
at  much  too  great  a  cost.  It  would  be  better  for  all  reasons  that 
Emily  should  go  back  to  her  husband  and  her  home,  and  that  Tre- 
velyan  should  be  forgiven  for  his  iniquities. 

Bozzle  was  at  the  tavern  during  the  inter\dew,  but  he  was  not  seen 
by  Lady  Rowley.  He  remained  seated  down-stairs,  in  one  of  the 
dingy  corners,  ready  to  give  assistance  to  his  patron  should  assistance 
be  needed.  "When  Lady  Rowley  was  shoMoi  into  the  gloomy  sitting- 
room  by  the  old  waiter,  she  found  Trevelyan  alone,  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  and  waiting  for  her.  "This  is  a  sad  occasion," 
he  said,  as  he  advanced  to  give  her  his  hand, 

"A  very  sad  occasion,  Louis." 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  maj'^  have  heard  of  what  has  occurred, 
Lady  Rowley.  It  is  natural,  however,  to  suppose  that  you  must  have 
heard  me  spoken  of  with  censure." 

"I  think  my  child'has  been  ill  used,  Louis,"  she  replied. 

"  Of  com-se  you  do.  I  could  not  expect  that  it  should  be  otherwise. 
"When  it  was  arranged  that  I  should  meet  you  here,  I  was  quite  aware 
that  you  would  have  taken  the  side  against  me  before  you  had  heard 
my  story.  It  is  I  that  have  been  ill  used, — cruelly  misused ;  but  I 
do  not  expect  that  you  should  believe  me.  I  do  not  wish  you  to  do. 
I  would  not  for  worlds  separate  the  mother  from  her  daughter." 

"  But  why  have  you  separated  your  owm  wife  from  her  child  ?  " 

"  Because  it  was  my  duty.  What !  Is  a  father  not  to  have  the 
charge  of  his  own  son.  I  have  done  nothing,  Lady  Rowley,  to  justify 
a  separation  which  is  contrary  to  the  laws  of  nature." 

"  WTiere  is  the  boy,  Louis  ?" 

"Ah; — that  is  just  what  I  am  not  prepared  to  tell  anyone  who  has 
taken  my  wife's  side  till  I  know  that  my  wife  has  consented  to  pay 
to  me  that  obedience  which  I,  as  her  husband,  have  aright  to  demand. 
If  Emily  will  do  as  I  request  of  hor, — as  I  command  her," — as 
Trevelyan  said  this,  he  spoke  in  a  tone  which  was  intended  to  give 
the  highest  possible  idea  of  his  own  authority  and  dignity, — "  tlicn 
she  may  see  her  child  without  delay." 

"  What  is  it  you  request  of  my  daughter  ?" 


LADY    ROWLEY   MAKES    AN    ATTEMPT.  103 

"  Obedience  ; — simply  that.     Submission  to  my  will,  wliich  is  surely 
a  wife's  duty.     Let  her  beg  my  pardon  for  what  has  occurred, — " 

"  She  cannot  do  that,  Louis." 

"And  solemnly  promise  me,"  continued  Trevelyan,  not  deigning  to 
notice  Lady  Rowley's  interruption,  "that  she  will  hold  no  further 
intercourse  with  that  snake  in  the  grass  who  wormed  his  way  into  my 
house, — let  her  be  humble,  and  penitent,  and  affectionate,  and  then 
she  shall  be  restored  to  her  husband  and  to  her  child."  He  said  this 
walking  up  and  do^^•n  the  room,  and  waving  his  hand,  as  though  he 
were  making  a  speech  that  was  intended  to  be  eloquent, — as  though 
he  had  conceived  that  he  was  to  overcome  his  mother-in-law  by  the 
weight  of  his  words  and  the  magnificence  of  his  demeanour.  And  yet 
his  demeanour  was  ridiculous,  and  his  words  would  have  had  no 
weight  had  they  not  tended  to  show  Lady  Rowley  how  little  prospect 
there  was  that  she  should  be  able  to  heal  this  breach.  He  himself, 
too,  was  so  altered  in  appearance  since  she  had  last  seen  him,  bright 
Avith  the  hopes  of  his  young  married  happiness,  that  she  would  hardly 
have  recognised  him  had  she  met  him  in  the  street.  He  was  thin, 
and  pale,  and  haggard,  and  mean.  And  as  ho  stalked  up  and  down 
the  room,  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  very  character  of  the  man  was 
changed.  She  had  not  previously  known  him  to  be  pompous,  un- 
reasonable, and  absurd.  She  did  not  answer  him  at  once,  as  she  per- 
ceived that  he  had  not  finished  his  address ; — and,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  he  continued.  "Lady  Rowley,  there  is  nothing  I  would  not 
have  done  for  your  daughter, — for  my  wife.  All  that  I  had  was  hers. 
I  did  not  dictate  to  her  any  mode  of  life  ;  I  reqiiired  from  her  no 
f  acrifices  ;  I  subjected  her  to  no  caprices  ;  but  I  was  determined  to  bo 
master  in  my  own  house." 

"  I  do  not  think,  Louis,  that  she  has  ever  denied  your  right  to  be 
master." 

"To  be  master  in  my  own  house,  and  to  be  paramount  in  my  influ- 
ence over  her.     So  much  I  had  a  right  to  demand." 

"  Who  has  denied  your  right  ?  " 

"She  has  submitted  herself  to  the  counsels  and  to  the  influences 
of  a  man  who  has  endeavoured  to  undermine  mo  in  her  affection. 
In  saying  that  I  make  my  accusation  as  light  against  her  as  is  possible. 
I  might  make  it  much  heavier,  and  yet  not  sin  against  the  truth." 

"This  is  an  illusion,  Louis." 

"All ; — well.  No  doubt  it  becomes  you  to  defend  your  child.  Was 
it  an  illusion  when  ho  went  to  Devonshire  ?  Was  it  an  illusion  when  he 
corresponded  with  her, — contrary  to  my  express  orders, — both  before 


104  HE    KNEW    TIE    WAS    RIGHT. 

:md  after  that  unhallowed  journey  ?  Lady  Rowley,  there  must  be  no 
more  such  illusions.  If  my  wife  means  to  come  back  to  me,  and  to 
have  her  child  in  her  own  hands,  she  must  be  penitent  as  regards  the 
past,  and  obedient  as  regards  the  future." 

There  was  a  wicked  bitterness  in  that  word  penitent  which  almost 
iniiddeucd  Lady  Rowley.  She  had  come  to  this  meeting  believing 
that  Trevclyan  would  be  rejoiced  to  take  back  his  wife,  if  details 
could  be  arranged  for  his  doing  so  which  should  not  subject  him  to 
the  necessity  of  crying,  peccavi ;  but  she  found  him  speaking  of  his 
wife  as  though  he  would  be  doing  her  the  greatest  possible  favour  in 
allowing  her  to  come  back  to  him  dressed  in  sackcloth,  and  with 
ashes  on  her  head.  She  could  understand  from  what  she  had  heard 
that  his  tone  and  manner  were  much  changed  since  he  obtained  pos- 
session of  the  child,  and  that  he  now  conceived  that  he  had  his  wife 
within  his  power.  That  he  should  become  a  tyrant  because  he  had 
the  power  to  tyrannise  was  not  in  accordance  with  her  former  concep- 
tion of  the  man's  character  ; — but  then  he  was  so  changed,  that  she 
felt  that  she  knew  nothing  of  the  man  who  now  stood  before  her.  "  I 
cannot  acknowledge  that  my  daughter  has  done  anything  that  requires 
penitence,"  said  Lady  Rowley. 

"  I  dare  say  not ;— but  my  view  is  different." 

"  She  cannot  admit  herself  to  be  wrong  when  she  knows  herself  to 
be  right.  You  would  not  have  her  confess  to  a  fault,  the  very  idea  of 
which  has  always  been  abhorrent  to  her?" 

"  She  must  be  crushed  in  spirit,  Lady  Rowley,  before  she  can 
again  become  a  pure  and  happy  woman." 

"  This  is  more  than  I  can  bear,"  said  Lady  Rowley,  now,  at  last, 
worked  up  to  a  fever  of  indignation.  "  My  daughter,  sir,  is  as  pure 
a  woman  as  you  have  ever  knovra,  or  are  likely  to  know.  You,  who 
should  have  protected  her  against  the  world,  will  some  day  take  blame 
to  yourself  as  you  remember  that  you  have  so  cruelly  maligned  her." 
Then  she  walked  away  to  the  door,  and  would  not  listen  to  the  words 
^vhich  he  was  hurling  after  her.  She  went  down  the  stairs,  and  out 
(-f  the  house,  and  at  the  end  of  Poulter's  Alley  found  the  cab  which 
was  waiting  for  her. 

Trevelyan,  as  soon  as  he  was  alone,  rang  the  bell,  and  sent  for 
Bozzle.  And  while  the  waiter  was  coming  to  him,  and  until  his 
myrmidon  had  appeared,  he  continued  to  stalk  up  and  down  the 
I'oom,  waving  his  hand  in  the  air  as  though  he  were  continuing  his 
speech.  "Bozzle,"  said  he,  as  soon  as  the  man  had  closed  the  door, 
"  I  have  changed  my  mind." 


LADY    RO-WI.EY   MAKES   AN   ATTEMPT.  105 

«*  As  how,  Mr.  Trcwillian  ?  " 

"I  shall  make  no  further  attempt.  I  have  done  all  that  man  can 
<lo,  and  have  done  it  in  vain.  Her  father  and  mother  uphold  her  in 
her  conduct,  and  she  is  lost  to  me, — for  ever." 

"But  the  hoy,  Mr.  T.  ?" 

"  I  have  my  child.  Yes, — I  have  my  child.  Poor  infant.  Bozzle, 
I  look  to  you  to  see  that  none  of  them  learn  our  retreat." 

"  As  for  that,  Mr.  Trewillian, — why  facts  is  to  he  come  at  by  one 
l)arty  pretty  well  as  much  as  by  another.  Now,  suppose  the  things 
was  changed,  wicey  warsey, — and  as  I  was  hacting  for  the  Colonel's 
party." 

"  D the  Colonel !  "  exclaimed  Trevclyau. 

"  Just  so,  Mr.  TrewiUian  ;  but  if  I  was  hacting  for  the  other  party, 
and  they  said  to  me,  *  Bozzle, — where's  the  boy  ? '  why,  in  three  days 
I"d  be  down  on  the  facts.  Facts  is  open,  Mr.  Trewillian,  if  you 
knows  where  to  look  for  them." 

"  I  shall  take  him  abroad, — at  once." 

"  Think  twice  of  it,  Mr.  T.  The  boy  is  so  young,  you  see,  and  a 
mother's  'art  is  softer  and  lovinger  than  anj'thiug.  I'd  think  twice  of 
it,  Mr.  T.,  before  I  kept  'em  apart."  This  was  a  line  of  thought 
which  Mr.  Bozzle's  conscience  had  not  forced  him  to  entertain  to  the 
prejudice  of  his  professional  arrangements  ;  but  now,  as  he  conversed 
with  his  employer,  and  became  by  degrees  aware  of  the  failure  of 
Trevelyan's  mind,  some  shade  of  remorse  came  upon  him,  and  made 
him  say  a  word  on  behalf  of  the  "  other  partj'." 

"  Am  I  not  always  thinking  of  it?  What  else  have  they  left  me 
to  think  of?  That  will  do  for  to-day.  You  had  better  come  down 
to  me  to-morrow  afternoon."  Bozzle  promised  obedience  to  these 
instructions,  and  as  soon  as  his  patron  had  started  he  paid  the  bill, 
and  took  himself  home. 

Lady  Rowley,  as  she  travelled  back  to  her  house  in  Manchester 
Street,  almost  made  up  her  mind  that  the  separation  between  her 
daughter  and  her  son-in-law  had  better  be  continued.  It  was  a  very 
sad  conclusion  to  which  to  come,  but  she  could  not  believe  that  any 
high-spirited  woman  could  long  continue  to  submit  herself  to  the 
caprices  of  a  man  so  unreasonable  and  dictatorial  as  he  to  Avhom  she 
had  just  been  listening.  Were  it  not  for  the  boy,  there  would,  she 
felt,  be  no  doubt  upon  the  matter.  And  now,  as  matters  stood,  she 
thought  that  it  should  be  their  great  object  to  regain  possession  of  the 
child.  Then  she  endeavoured  to  calculate  what  would  be  the  result 
to  her  daughter,  if  in  very  truth  it  should  be  found  that  the  wretched 


106  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

man  was  mad.  To  Lope  for  such  a  result  seemed  to  her  to  be  very 
Vv-icked ; — and  yet  she  hardly  knew  how  not  to  hope  for  it. 

"Well,  mamma,"  said  Emily  Trevelyan,  with  a  faint  attempt  at  a 
smile,  "  you  saw  him  ?  " 

"Yes,  dearest,  I  saw  him.  I  can  only  say  that  he  is  a  most 
unreasonable  man." 

"  And  he  would  tell  you  nothing  of  Louey  ?" 

"  No  dear, — not  a  word." 


CHAPTEK   LXm. 
SIR  MARMADrXE  AT  HOME. 


XoRA  Rowley  had  told  her  lover  that  there  was  to  be  no  further 
communication  between  them  till  her  father  and  mother  should  be  in 
England ;  but  iu  telling  him  so,  had  so  frankly  confessed  her  own 
affection  for  him  and  had  so  sturdily  promised  to  be  true  to  him,  that 
no  lover  could  have  been  reasonably  aggrieved  by  such  an  inter- 
diction. Nora  was  quite  conscious  of  this,  and  was  aware  that  Hugh 
Stanbury  had  received  such  encouragement  as  ought  at  any  rate  to 
bring  him  to  the  new  Rowley  establishment,  as  soon  as  he  should 
learn  where  it  had  fixed  itself.  But  v\'-hen  at  the  end  of  ten  days  he 
had  not  shown  himself,  she  began  to  feel  doubts.  Could  it  be  that  he 
had  changed  his  mind,  that  he  was  unwilling  to  encounter  refusal 
from  her  father,  or  that  he  had  found,  on  looking  into  his  o^^•n  affairs 
more  closely,  that  it  would  be  absurd  for  him  to  propose  to  take  a 
wife  to  himself  while  his  means  were  so  poor  and  so  precarious  ?  Su- 
Marmaduke  during  this  time  had  been  so  unhappy,  so  fretful,  so 
indignant,  and  so  much  worried,  that  Nora  herself  had  become  almost 
afi-aid  of  him  ;  and,  without  much  reasoning  on  the  matter,  had 
taught  herself  to  believe  that  Hugh  might  be  actuated  by  similar 
fears.  She  had  intended  to  tell  her  mother  of  what  had  occurred 
between  her  and  Stanbury  the  first  moment  that  she  and  Lady 
Rowley  were  together;  but  then  there  had  fallen  upon  them  that 
terrible  incident  of  the  loss  of  the  child,  and  the  whole  family  had 
become  at  once  so  wrapped  up  in  the  agony  of  the  bereaved  mother, 
and  so  full  of  rage  against  the  unreasonable  father,  that  there  seemed 
to  Nora  to  be  no  possible  opportunity  for  the  telling  of  her  o^\^l  love- 
stoiy.  Emily  herself  appeared  to  have  forgotten  it  in  the  midst  of 
her  own  misery,  and  had  not  mentioned  Hugh  Stanbury's  name  since 


SIR   MARMADl-KK    AT    HOME.  107 

they  had  been  in  MaucLcstcr  Street.  We  have  all  felt  how  on  occa- 
sions our  o^\^l  hopes  and  fears,  nay,  almost  our  own  individuality, 
become  absorbed  in  and  obliterated  by  the  more  pressing  cares  and 
louder  voices  of  those  around  us.  Nora  hardly  dared  to  allude  to 
herself  while  her  sister's  grief  was  still  so  prominent,  and  v.-hilc  her 
father  was  daily  complaining  of  his  own  personal  annoyances  at  the 
Colonial  Office.  It  seemed  to  her  that  at  such  a  moment  she  could 
not  introduce  a  new  matter  for  dispute,  and  perhaps  a  new  subject  of 
dismay. 

Nevertheless,  as  the  days  passed  by,  and  as  she  saw  nothing  of 
Hugh  Stanbury,  her  heart  became  sore  and  her  spirit  vexed.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  if  she  were  now  deserted  by  him,  all  the  world 
would  be  over  for  her.  The  Glascock  episode  in  her  life  had  passed 
by, — that  episode  which  might  have  been  her  history,  which  might 
have  been  a  history  so  prosperous,  so  magnificent,  and  probably  so 
happy.  As  she  thought  of  herself  and  of  circumstances  as  they  had 
happened  to  her,  of  the  resolutions  which  she  had  made  as  to  her 
own  career  when  she  first  came  to  London,  and  of  the  way  in  which 
she  had  thrown  all  those  resolutions  away  in  spite  of  the  wonderful 
success  which  had  come  in  her  path,  she  could  not  refrain  from 
thinking  that  she  had  brought  herself  to  shipwi*eck  by  her  own  inde- 
cision. It  must  not  be  imagined  that  she  regretted  what  she  had 
done.  She  knew  very  well  that  to  have  acted  otherwise  than  she  did 
when  Mr.  Glascock  came  to  her  at  Nuncombe  Putney  would  have 
proved  her  to  be  heartless,  selfish,  and  unwomanly.  Long  before  that 
time  she  had  determined  that  it  was  her  duty  to  marry  a  rich  man, — 
and,  if  possible,  a  man  in  high  position.  Such  a  one  had  come  to 
her, — one  endowed  with  all  the  good  things  of  the  world  beyond  her 
most  sanguine  expectation, — and  she  had  rejected  him  !  She  knew 
that  she  had  been  right  because  she  had  allowed  herself  to  love  the 
other  man.  She  did  not  repent  what  she  had  done,  the  circum- 
stances being  as  they  were,  but  she  almost  regretted  that  she  had 
been  so  soft  in  heart,  so  susceptible  of  the  weakness  of  love,  so 
little  able  to  do  as  she  pleased  with  herself.  Of  what  use  to  her  was 
it  that  she  loved  this  man  with  all  her  strength  of  afi'cction  when  he 
never  came  to  her,  although  the  time  at  v.hich  he  had  been  told  that 
he  might  come  was  now  ten  days  past  ? 

She  was  sitting  one  afternoon  in  the  drawing-room  listlessly  reading, 
or  pretending  to  read,  a  novel,  when,  on  a  sudden,  Hugh  Stanbury 
v/as  announced.  The  circumstances  of  the  moment  were  most  unfor- 
tunate for  such   a  visit.      Sir  Marmaduke,  who  hud  been  down  at 


108  HE   KNEW    HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

"VVliitehall  in  the  morning,  and  from  thence  had  made  a  journey  to 
St.  Diddulph's-in-the-East  and  back,  was  exceedingly  cross  and  out 
of  temper.  They  had  told  him  at  his  office  that  they  feared  he  would 
not  suffice  to  carry  through  the  purpose  for  which  he  had  been 
brought  home.  And  his  brother-in-law,  the  parson,  had  expressed  to 
him  an  opinion  that  he  was  in  great  part  responsible  for  the  misfor- 
tune of  his  daughter,  by  the  encouragement  which  he  had  given  to 
such  a  man  as  Colonel  Osborne.  Sir  Marmadukc  had  in  consequence 
quax-relled  both  with  the  chief  clerk  and  with  Mr.  Outhouse,  and  had 
come  home  surly  and  discontented.  Lady  Rowley  and  her  eldest 
daughter  were  away,  closeted  at  the  moment  with  Lady  Milborough, 
with  whom  they  were  endeavouring  to  arrange  some  plan  by  which 
the  boy  might  at  any  rate  be  given  back.  Poor  Emily  Trevelyan  was 
humble  enough  now  to  Lady  Milborough, — was  prepared  to  be 
humble  to  any  one,  and  in  any  circumstances,  so  that  she  should  not 
be  required  to  acknowledge  that  she  had  entertained  Colonel  Osborne 
as  her  lover.  The  two  younger  gu-ls,  Sophy  and  Lucy,  were  in  the 
room  when  Stanbmy  was  announced,  as  were  also  Sir  Marmaduke, 
who  at  that  very  moment  was  uttering  angry  growls  at  the  obstinacy 
and  Avant  of  reason  with  which  he  had  been  treated  by  Mr.  Outhouse. 
Now  Sir  Marmaduke  had  not  so  much  as  heard  the  name  of  Hugh 
Stanbury  as  yet ;  and  Nora,  though  her  listlessness  was  all  at  an 
end,  at  once  felt  how  impossible  it  would  be  to  explain  any  of  the 
circumstances  of  her  case  in  such  an  interview  as  this.  While,  how- 
ever, Hugh's  dear  steps  were  heard  upon  the  stairs,  her  feminine 
mind  at  once  went  to  work  to  ascertain  in  what  best  mode,  with  what 
most  attractive  reason  for  his  presence,  she  might  introduce  the  young 
man  to  her  father.  Had  not  the  girls  been  then  present,  she  thought 
that  it  might  have  been  expedient  to  leave  Hugh  to  tell  his  own  story 
to  Sir  Marmaduke.  But  she  had  no  opportunity  of  sending  her  sisters 
away  ;  and,  unless  chance  should  remove  them,  this  could  not  be  done. 

"  He  is  son  of  the  lady  we  were  with  at  Nuncombe  Putney,"  she 
whispered  to  her  father  as  she  got  up  to  move  across  the  room  to 
welcome  her  lover.  Now  Sir  Marmaduke  had  expressed  gi-eat  dis- 
approval of  that  retreat  to  Dartmoor,  and  had  only  understood 
respecting  it  that  it  had  been  arranged  between  Trevelyan  and  the 
family  in  whose  custody  his  two  daughters  had  been  sent  away  into 
banishment.  He  'was  not  therefore  specially  disposed  to  welcome 
Hugh  Stanbury  in  consequence  of  this  mode  of  introduction. 

Hugh,  v/ho  had  asked  for  Lady  Rowley  and  Mrs.  Trevelyan  and 
had  learned  that  they  were  out  before  he  had  mentioned  Miss  Rowley's 


SIR    MAUMADUKE    AT    HOME.  109 

name,  was  almost  prepared  to  take  bis  sweetheart  into  his  arms.  In 
that  half-miniitc  he  had  taught  himself  to  expect  that  he  would  meet 
her  alone,  and  had  altogether  forgotten  Sir  Marmadukc.  Young  men 
when  they  call  at  four  o'clock  in  the  day  never  expect  to  find  papas 
at  home.  And  of  Sophia  and  Lucy  he  had  cither  heard  nothing  or 
had  forgotten  what  he  had  heard.  He  repressed  himself  however  in 
time,  and  did  not  commit  either  Nora  or  himself  by  any  very  vehe- 
ment demonstration  of  aflection.  But  he  did  hold  her  hand  longer 
than  he  should  have  done,  and  Sir  Marmadukc  saw  that  he  did  so. 

"  This  is  papa,"  said  Nora.  "  Papa,  this  is  our  friend,  Mr.  Hugh 
Stanbury."  The  introduction  was  made  in  a  manner  almost  absurdly 
formal,  but  poor  Nora's  difficulties  lay  heavy  upon  her.  Sir  Marma- 
dukc muttered  something ; — but  it  was  little  more  than  a  grunt. 
"Mamma  and  Emily  are  out,"  continued  Nora.  "I  dare  say  they 
will  be  in  soon."  Sir  Marmadukc  looked  round  sharply  at  the  man. 
"\Miy  was  he  to  be  encouraged  to  stay  till  Lady  Rowley  should  rctui-n? 
Lady  Rowley  did  not  want  to  see  him.  It  seemed  to  Sir  Marmaduke, 
in  the  midst  of  his  troubles,  that  this  was  no  time  to  be  making  new 
acquaintances.  "These  are  my  sisters,  Mr.  Stanbury,"  continued 
Nora.  "  This  is  Sophia,  and  this  is  Lucy."  Sophia  and  Lucy  would 
have  been  thoroughly  willing  to  receive  their  sister's  lover  with  genial 
kindness  if  they  had  been  properly  instructed,  and  if  the  time  had 
been  opportune ;  but,  as  it  was,  they  had  nothing  to  say.  They, 
also,  could  only  mutter  some  little  sound  intended  to  be  more  cour- 
teous than  their  father's  grunt.     Poor  Nora  ! 

"  I  hope  you  are  comfortable  here,"  said  Hugh. 

"The  house  is  all  very  well,"  said  Nora,  "but  we  don't  like  the 
neighbourhood." 

Hugh  also  felt  that  conversation  was  difficult.  He  had  soon 
come  to  perceive, — before  he  had  been  in  the  room  half  a  minute, — 
that  the  atmosphere  was  not  favourable  to  his  mission.  There  was 
to  be  no  embracing  or  permission  for  embracing  on  the  present  occa- 
sion. Had  he  been  left  alone  with  Sir  Marmaduke  he  would  pro- 
bably have  told  his  business  plainly,  let  Sir  Marmaduke's  manner  to 
him  have  been  what  it  might ;  but  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  do 
this  with  three  young  ladies  in  the  room  with  him.  Seeing  that  Nora 
was  embarrassed  by  her  difficulties,  and  that  Nora's  father  was  cross 
and  silent,  he  endeavoured  to  talk  to  the  other  girls,  and  asked  them 
concerning  their  journey  and  the  ship  in  which  they  had  come.  But  it 
was  very  up-hill  work.  Lucy  and  Sophy  could  talk  as  glibly  as  any 
young  ladies  home  from  any  colony, — and  no  higher  degree  of  fluency 


110  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    III  GUT. 

can  be  expressed ; — but  now  they  were  cowed.  Their  elder  sister 
Avas  shamefully  and  most  undeservedly  disgraced,  and  this  man  had 
had  something, — they  knew  not  what, — to  do  with  it.  "  Is  Priscilla 
quite  weir?"  Nora  asked  at  last. 

"  Quite  well.  I  heard  from  her  yesterday.  You  know  they  have 
left  the  Clock  House." 

"  I  had  not  heard  it." 

"  Oh  yes  ; — and  they  are  living  in  a  small  cottage  just  outside  the 
village.     And  what  else  do  3'ou  think  has  happened  ?  " 

"  Nothing  bad,  I  hope,  Mr.  Stanbury." 

"  My  sister  Dorothy  has  left  her  aunt,  and  is  living  with  them  again 
at  Nuncombe." 

"Has  there  been  a  quarrel,  Mr.  Stanbury?" 

"Well,  yes; — after  a  fashion  there  has,  I  suppose.  But  it  is  a 
long  story  and  would  not  interest  Sir  Marmaduke.  The  wonder  is 
that  Dorothy  should  have  been  able  to  stay  so  long  with  my  aunt.  I 
xA\l  tell  it  you  all  some  day."  Sir  Marmaduke  could  not  understand 
v/hy  a  long  story  about  this  man's  aunt  and  sister  should  be  told  to 
his  daughter.  He  forgot, — as  men  always  do  in  such  circumstances 
forget,— that,  while  he  was  living  in  the  Mandarins,  his  daughter, 
living  in  England,  would  of  course  pick  up  new  interest  and  become 
intimate  with  new  histories.  But  he  did  not  forget  that  pressnre 
of  the  hand  which  he  had  seen,  and  he  determined  that  his  daughter 
Nora  could  not  have  any  worse  lover  than  the  ffiend  of  his  elder 
daughter's  husband. 

Stanbury  had  just  determined  that  he  must  go,  that  there  was  no 
possibility  for  him  either  to  say  or  do  anything  to  promote  his  cause 
at  the  present  moment,  when  the  circumstances  were  all  changed  by 
the  return  home  of  Lady  Rowley  and  Mrs.  Trevelyan.  Lady  Rowley 
knew,  and  had  for  some  days  known,  miich  more  of  Stanbury  than 
had  come  to  the  ears  of  Sir  Marmaduke.  She  understood  in  the  first 
place  that  the  Stanburys  had  been  very  good  to  her  daughter,  and  she 
was  aware  that  Hugh  Stanbury  had  thoroughly  taken  her  daughter's 
part  against  his  old  friend  Trevelyan.  She  would  therefore  have  been 
prepared  to  receive  him  kindly  had  he  not  on  this  very  morning  been 
the  subject  of  special  conversation  between  her  and  Emily.  But,  as 
it  had  happened,  Mrs.  Trevelyan  had  this  very  day  told  Lady  Rowley 
the  whole  story  of  Nora's  love.  The  elder  sister  had  not  intended  to 
be  treacherous  to  the  younger ;  but  in  the  thorough  confidence  which 
mutual  grief  and  close  conference  had  created  between  the  mother 
and  daughter,  everything  had  at  last  come  out,  and  Lady  Rowley  had 


SIR    MARMADUKK    AT    HOME.  Ill 

learned  the  story,  not  only  of  Hugh  Stanbury's  courtship,  but  of 
those  rich  offers  Avhich  luicl  been  made  by  the  heir  to  the  barony  of 
Peterborough. 

It  must  be  acknowledged  that  Lady  Rowley  was  greatly  grieved 
and  thoroughly  disma3'cd.  It  was  not  only  that  Mr.  Glascock  was 
the  eldest  son  of  a  peer,  but  that  he  was  represented  by  the  poor 
suflfering  wife  of  the  ill-tempered  man  to  be  a  man  blessed  with  a  dis- 
position sweet  as  an  angel's.  "And  she  would  have  liked  him," 
Emily  had  said,  "  if  it  had  not  been  for  this  unfortunate  young  man." 
Lady  Rowley  was  not  worse  than  arc  other  mothers,  not  more 
ambitions,  or  more  heartless,  or  more  worldly.  She  was  a  good 
mother,  loving  her  children,  and  thoroughly  anxious  for  their  welfare. 
But  she  would  have  liked  to  be  the  mother-in-law  of  Lord  Peter- 
borough, and  she  would  have  liked,  dearly,  to  see  her  second  daughter 
removed  from  the  danger  of  those  rocks  against  which  her  eldest 
child  had  been  shipwrecked.  And  when  she  asked  after  Hugh  Stan- 
bury,  and  his  means  of  maintaining  a  wife,  the  statement  which  Mrs. 
Trevelyan  made  was  not  comforting.  "  He  writes  for  a  penny  news- 
paper,— and,  I  believe,  writes  very  well,"  Mrs.  Trevelyan  had  said. 

"  For  a  penny  newspaper  !     Is  that  respectable  ?  " 

"  His  aunt.  Miss  Stanbury,  seemed  to  think  not.  But  I  suppose 
men  of  education  do  write  for  such  things  now.  He  says  himself  that 
it  is  very  precarious  as  an  employment." 

"It  must  be  precarious,  Emily.     And  has  he  got  nothing?" 

"  Not  a  penny  of  his  own,"  said  Mrs.  Trevelyan. 

Then  Lady  Rowley  had  thought  again  of  Mr.  Glascock,  and  of  the 
family  title,  and  of  Markhams.  And  she  thought  of  her  present 
troubles,  and  of  the  Mandarins,  and  the  state  of  Sir  Marmaduke's 
balance  at  the  bankers ; — and  of  the  other  gii-ls,  and  of  all  there 
was  before  her  to  do.  Here  had  been  a  very  Apollo  among 
suitors  kneeling  at  her  child's  feet,  and  the  foolish  girl  had  sent 
him  away  for  the  sake  of  a  young  man  avLo  %\Tote  for  a  penny 
newspaper !  Was  it  worth  the  while  of  any  woman  to  bring  up 
daughters  with  such  results  ?  Lady  Rowley,  therefore,  when  she 
was  first  introduced  to  Hugh  Stanbury,  was  not  prepared  to  receive 
him  with  open  arms. 

On  this  occasion  the  task  of  introducing  him  fell  to  Mrs.  Trevelyan, 
and  was  done  with  much  graciousness.  Emily  knew  that  Hugh 
Stanbury  was  her  friend,  and  would  sympathise  "svith  her  respectiufr 
her  child.  "  You  have  heard  what  has  happened  to  me  ?  "  she  said. 
Stanbury,  however,  had  heard  nothing  of  that  kidnapping  of  the  child. 


112  HE    KNEW   IIE    WAS   RIGHT. 

Though  to  the  Rowleys  it  seemed  that  such  a  deed  of  iniquity,  done 
in  the  middle  of  London,  must  have  heen  known  to  all  the  world,  he 
had  not  as  yet  been  told  of  it ; — and  now  the  story  was  given  to  him. 
Mrs.  Trevelyan  herself  told  it,  with  many  tears  and  an  agony  of  fresh 
grief;  but  still  she  told  it  as  to  one  whom  she  regarded  as  a  sure 
friend,  and  from  whom  she  knew  that  she  would  receive  sympathy. 
Sir  Marmaduke  sat  by  the  while,  still  gloomy  and  out  of  humour. 
Why  was  their  family  sorrow  to  be  laid  bare  to  this  stranger  ? 

"It  is  the  cruellest  thing  I  ever  heard,"  said  Hugh. 

**  A  dastardly  deed,"  said  Lady  Rowley. 

**  But  we  all  feel  that  for  the  time  he  can  hardly  know  what  he 
does,"  said  Nora. 

"  And  where  is  the  child  ?"  Stanbury  asked. 

"We  have  not  the  slightest  idea,"  said  Lady  Rowley.  "I  have 
seen  him,  and  he  refuses  to  tell  us.  He  did  say  that  my  daughter 
should  see  her  boy  ;  but  he  now  accompanies  his  offer  with  such 
conditions  that  it  is  impossible  to  listen  to  him." 

"  And  where  is  he  ?  " 

"  We  do  not  know  where  he  lives.  We  can  reach  him  only  through 
a  certain  man " 

"  Ah,  I  know  the  man,"  said  Stanbury ;  "  one  who  was  a  policeman 
once.     His  name  is  Bozzle." 

"  That  is  the  man,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke.     "  I  have  seen  him." 

"  And  of  course  he  will  tell  us  nothing  but  what  he  is  told  to  tell 
us,"  continued  Lady  Rowley.  "  Can  there  be  anything  so  horrible 
as  this, — that  a  wife  should  be  bound  to  communicate  with  her  own 
husband  respecting  her  own  child  through  such  a  man  as  that  ?  " 

"  One  might  possibly  find  out  where  he  keeps  the  child,"  said  Hugh. 

"  If  you  could  manage  that,  Mr.  Stanbury  !  "  said  Lady  Rowley. 

"  I  hardly  see  that  it  would  do  much  good,"  said  Hugh.  "  Indeed 
I  do  not  know  why  he  should  keep  the  place  a  secret.  I  suppose 
he  has  a  right  to  the  boy  until  the  mother  shall  have  made  good 
her  claim  before  the  court."  He  promised,  however,  that  he  would 
do  his  best  to  ascertain  where  the  child  was  kept,  and  where 
Trevelyan  resided,  and  then, — having  been  nearly  an  hour  at  the 
house, — he  was  forced  to  get  up  and  take  his  leave.  He  had  said 
not  a  word  to  any  one  of  the  business  that  had  brought  him  there. 
He  had  not  even  whispered  an  assurance  of  his  affection  to  Nora. 
Till  the  two  elder  ladies  had  come  in,  and  the  subject  of  the  taking  of 
the  boy  had  been  mooted,  he  had  sat  there  as  a  perfect  stranger.  He 
thought  that  it  was  manifest  enough  that  Nora  had  told  her  secret  ta 


SIR   MARMADUKE   AT   HOME.  113 

no  one.  It  seemed  to  him  that  Mrs.  Trevclyan  must  have  forgotten 
it ; — that  Nora  herself  must  have  forgotten  it,  if  such  forgetting  could 
be  possible  !  Ho  got  up,  however,  and  took  his  leave,  and  was 
comforted  in  some  slight  degi'ee  by  seeing  that  there  wajs  a  tear  in 
Kora's  eye. 

"  ^^'ho  is  he?"  demanded  Sir  Marmadukc,  as  soon  as  the  door 
was  closed. 

"He  is  a  j'oung  man  who  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Louis's," 
answered  Mrs.  Trevelyan  ;  "  but  he  is  so  no  longer,  because  he  sees 
how  infatuated  Louis  has  been." 

"  And  why  does  he  come  here  ?  " 

"  We  linow  him  very  well,"  continued  Mrs.  Trevelyan.  "  It  was 
he  that  arranged  our  journey  down  to  Devonshire.  He  was  very 
kind  about  it,  and  so  were  his  mother  and  sister.  We  have  every 
reason  to  be  grateful  to  Mr.  Stanbury."  This  was  all  very  well,  but 
Nora  nevertheless  felt  that  the  interview  had  been  anything  but 
successful. 

*'  Has  he  any  profession  ?  "  asked  Sir  Marmaduke. 

"  He  wTites  for  the  press,"  said  Mrs.  Trevelyan. 

"  "NMiat  do  you  mean  ; — books  ?  " 

"  No  ; — for  a  newspaper." 

"For  a  penny  newspaper,"  said  Nora  boldly; — "for  the  Daily 
Record." 

'•  Then  I  hope  he  won't  come  here  any  more,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke. 
Nora  paused  a  moment,  striving  to  find  words  for  some  speech  which 
might  be  true  to  her  love  and  yet  not  unseemly, — but  finding  no  such 
words  ready,  she  got  up  from  her  seat  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 
"  ^Miat  is  the  meaning  of  it  all  ?  "  asked  Sir  Marmaduke.  There  was 
a  silence  for  a  while,  and  then  he  repeated  his  question  in  another 
form.     "  Is  there  any  reason  for  his  coming  here, — about  Nora  ?  " 

"I  think  he  is  attached  to  Nora,"  said  Mrs.  Trevelyan. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Lady  Rowley,  "  perhaps  we  had  better  not  speali 
about  it  just  now." 

"  I  suppose  he  has  not  a  penny  in  the  world,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke. 

"  He  has  what  he  earns,"  said  Mrs.  Trevelyan. 

"  If  Nora  understands  her  duty  she  will  never  let  me  hear  his  name 
again,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke.  Then  there  was  nothing  more  said, 
and  as  soon  as  they  could  escape,  both  Lady  Rowley  and  Mrs. 
Trevelyan  left  the  room. 

"I  should  have  told  you  everything,"  said  Nora  to  her  mother 
that  night.     "  I  had  no  intention  to  keep  anything  a  secret  from  you. 

VOL.  11.  »• 


114  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

But  we  have  all  been  so  unhappy  about  Louey,  that  we  have  had  no 
heart  to  talk  of  anything  else." 

"  I  understand  all  that,  my  darling." 

"  And  I  had  meant  that  you  should  tell  papa,  for  I  supposed  that 
he  would  come.  And  I  meant  that  he  should  go  to  papa  himself. 
He  intended  that  himself, — only,  to-day, — as  things  turned  out " 

"Just  so,  dearest; — but  it  does  not  seem  that  he  has  got  any 
income.     It  would  be  very  rash, — wouldn't  it  ?  " 

"  People  must  be  rash  sometimes.  Everybody  can't  have  an 
income  without  earning  it.  I  suppose  people  in  professions  do  marry 
without  having  fortunes." 

"When  they  have  settled  professions,  Nora." 

"  And  why  is  not  his  a  settled  profession  ?  I  believe  he  receives 
quite  as  much  at  seven  and  twenty  as  Uncle  Oliphant  does  at  sixty." 

"  But  your  Uncle  Oliphant's  income  is  permanent." 

"  Lawyers  don't  have  permanent  incomes,  or  doctors,  —  or 
merchants." 

"But  those  professions  are  regular  and  sure.  They  don't  marry, 
without  fortunes,  till  they  have  made  their  incomes  sure." 

"Mr.  Stanbury's  income  is  sure.  I  don't  know  why  it  shouldn't 
be  sure.  He  goes  on  writing  and  writing  eveiy  day,  and  it  seems  to 
me  that  of  all  professions  in  the  world  it  is  the  finest.  I'd  much 
sooner  write  for  a  newspaper  than  be  one  of  those  old  musty,  fusty 
lawyers,  who'll  say  anything  that  they're  paid  to  say." 

"  My  dearest  Nora,  all  that  is  nonsense.  You  know  as  well  as  I 
do  that  you  should  not  marry  a  man  when  there  is  a  doubt  whether 
he  can  keep  a  house  over  your  head  ; — that  is  his  position." 

"  It  is  good  enough  for  me,  mamma." 

"  And  what  is  his  income  from  writing  ?  " 

"It  is  quite  enough  for  me,  mamma.  The  truth  is  I  have 
promised,  and  I  cannot  go  back  from  it.  Dear,  dear  mamma,  you 
won't  quarrel  with  us,  and  oppose  us,  and  make  papa  hard  against 
us.  You  can  do  what  you  like  "nath  papa.  I  know  that.  Look  at 
poor  Emily.     Plenty  of  money  has  not  made  her  happy." 

"K  Mr.  Glascock  had  only  asked  you  a  week  sooner,"  said  Lady 
Rowley,  with  a  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

"But  you  see  he  didn't,  mamma." 

"  When  I  think  of  it  I  cannot  but  weep  ;  " — and  the  poor  mother 
burst  out  into  a  full  flood  of  tears — "  such  a  man,  so  good,  so  gentle, 
and  so  truly  devoted  to  you." 

*'  Mamma,  what's  the  good  of  that  now  ?  " 


SIR    MARMADUKE   AT   HOME.  115 

"  Going  down  all  tho  way  to  Dovonsliire  after  you !" 

"So  did  Hugh,  mamma." 

"A  position  that  any  girl  in  England  would  have  envied  yon.  I 
cannot  but  foci  it.  And  Emily  says  she  is  sure  ho  would  come  back, 
if  ho  got  tho  very  slightest  encouragement." 

"  That  is  quito  impossible,  mamma." 

"Why  should  it  be  impossible?  Emily  declares  that  she  never 
saw  a  man  so  much  in  love  in  her  life; — and  she  says  also  that 
she  believes  he  is  abroad  now  simply  because  he  is  broken-hearted 
about  it." 

"  Mr.  Glascock,  mamma,  was  very  nice  and  good  and  all  that;  but 
indeed  he  is  not  the  man  to  suffer  from  a  broken  heart.  And  Emily 
is  quite  mistaken.     I  told  him  the  whole  truth." 

""\Miat  truth?" 

"  That  there  was  somebody  else  that  I  did  love.  Then  he  said 
that  of  course  that  put  an  end  to  it  all,  and  he  wished  me  good-bye 
ever  so  calmly." 

"  How  could  you  be  so  infatuated  ?  Why  should  you  have  cut  tho 
ground  away  from  your  feet  in  that  way  ?" 

"  Because  I  chose  that  there  should  be  an  end  to  it.  Now  there 
has  been  an  end  to  it ;  and  it  is  much  better,  mamma,  that  we  should 
not  think  about  Mr.  Glascock  any  more.  He  will  never  come  again 
to  me, — and  if  he  did,  I  could  only  say  tho  same  thing." 

"  You  mustn't  be  surprised,  Nora,  if  I'm  unhappy  ;  that  is  all.  Of 
course  I  must  feel  it.  Such  a  connection  as  it  would  have  been  for 
j'our  sisters  !  Such  a  homo  for  poor  Emily  in  her  trouble  !  And  as 
for  this  other  man " 

"  Mamma,  don't  speak  ill  of  him." 

"  If  I  say  anything  of  him,  I  must  say  the  truth,"  said  Lady 
Rowley. 

"  Don't  say  anything  against  him,  mamma,  because  he  is  to  be  my 
husband.  Dear,  dear  mamma,  you  can't  change  mo  by  anything  you 
say.  Perhaps  I  have  been  foolish;  but  it  is  settled  now.  Don't 
make  me  wretched  by  speaking  against  the  man  whom  I  mean  to  love 
all  my  life  better  than  all  the  world." 

"Think  of  Louis  Trevelyan." 

"  I  Vr'ill  think  of  no  one  but  Hugh  Stanbury.  I  tried  not  to  love 
him,  mamma.  I  tried  to  think  that  it  was  better  to  make  believe 
that  I  loved  !Mr.  Glascock.  But  ho  got  tho  better  of  mo,  and  con- 
quered mo,  and  I  will  never  rebel  against  him.  You  may  help  me, 
mamma; — but  you  can't  change  me." 


116  HE   KNEW    HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

CEL\I^TEE  LXIV. 

SIE  MARMADVKE  AT  HIS  CLUB. 

Sir  Maeaiadttke  tad  come  away  from  his  brotber-in-law  the  parson  in 
much  anger,  for  Mr.  Outhouse,  with  that  mixture  of  obstinacy  and 
honesty  -which  formed  his  character,  had  spoken  hard  words  of 
Colonel  Osborne,  and  words  which  by  implication  had  been  hard  also 
against  Emily  Trevelyan.  He  had  been  very  staunch  to  his  niece 
when  attacked  by  his  niece's  husband ;  but  when  his  sympathies  and 
assistance  were  invoked  by  Sir  Marmaduke  it  seemed  as  though  he 
had  transferred  his  allegiance  to  the  other  side.  He  pointed  out  to 
the  unhappy  father  that  Colonel  Osborne  had  behaved  with  great 
cruelty  in  going  to  Devonshire,  that  the  Stanburys  had  been  untrue 
to  their  trust  in  allowing  him  to  enter  the  house,  and  that  Emily  had 
been  "  indiscreet  "  in  receiving  him.  When  a  young  woman  is  called 
indiscreet  by  her  friends  it  may  be  assumed  that  her  character  is  very 
seriously  assailed.  Sir  Marmaduke  had  understood  this,  and  on  hear- 
ing the  word  had  become  wroth  with  his  brother-in-law.  There  had 
been  hot  words  between  them,  and  Mr.  Outhouse  would  not  yield  an 
inch  or  retract  a  syllable.  He  conceived  it  to  be  his  duty  to  advise 
the  father  to  caution  his  daughter  with  severity,  to  quarrel  absolutely 
with  Colonel  Osborne,  and  to  let  Trevelyan  know  that  this  had  been 
done.  As  to  the  child,  Mr.  Outhouse  expressed  a  strong  opinion  that  the 
father  was  legally  entitled  to  the  custody  of  his  boy,  and  that  nothing 
could  be  done  to  recover  the  child,  except  what  might  be  done  with 
the  father's  consent.  In  fact,  Mr.  Outhouse  made  himself  exceedingly 
disagreeable,  and  sent  away  Sir  Marmaduke  with  a  very  hea\7-  heart. 
Could  it  really  be  possible  that  his  old  friend  Fred  Osborne,  who  seven 
or  eight- and-twenty  years  ago  had  been  potent  among  young  ladies, 
had  really  been  making  love  to  his  old  friend's  married  daughter? 
Sir  Marmaduke  looked  into  himself,  and  conceived  it  to  be  quite  out 
of  the  question  that  he  should  make  love  to  any  one.  A  good  dinner, 
good  wine,  a  good  cigar,  an  easy  chair,  and  a  rubber  of  whist, — all 
these  things,  with  no  work  to  do,  and  men  of  his  own  standing  around 
him  were  the  pleasures  of  life  which  Sir  Marmaduke  desired.  Now 
Fred  Osborne  was  an  older  man  than  he,  and  though  Fred  Osborne  did 
keep  up  a  foolish  system  of  padded  clothes  and  dyed  w^hiskers,  still, 
— at  fifty-two  or  fifty-three, — surely  a  man  might  be  reckoned  safe. 
And  then,  too,  that  ancient  friendship !  Sir  Marmaduke,  who  had 
lived  all  his  life  in  the  comparative  seclusion  of  a  colony,  thought 


SIR  MARMADUKE   AT   HIS   CLUB.  117 

pcrLaps  more  of  that  ancient  friendship  than  did  the  Colonel,  who  had 
lived  amidst  the  blaze  of  London  life,  and  who  had  had  many  oppor- 
tunities of  changing  his  friends.  Some  inkling  of  all  this  made  its 
way  into  Sir  Marmaduke's  bosom,  as  he  thought  of  it  with  bitterness ; 
and  he  determined  that  he  would  have  it  out  with  his  friend. 

Hitherto  he  had  enjoyed  veiy  few  of  those  pleasant  hours  which 
he  had  anticipated  on  his  journey  homewards.  He  had  had  no  heart 
to  go  to  his  club,  and  he  had  fancied  that  Colonel  Osborne  had  been 
a  little  backward  in  looking  him  up,  and  providing  him  with  amuse- 
ment. He  had  suggested  this  to  his  wife,  and  she  had  told  him  that 
the  Colonel  had  been  right  not  to  come  to  Manchester  Street.  "I 
have  told  Emily,"  said  Lady  Kowlcy,  "that  she  must  not  meet  him, 
and  she  is  quite  of  the  same  opinion."  Nevertheless,  there  had  been 
remissness.  Sir  Marmaduke  felt  that  it  was  so,  in  spite  of  his  wife's 
excuses.  Li  this  w^ay  he  was  becoming  sore  with  everybody,  and 
very  unhappy.  It  did  not  at  all  improve  his  temper  when  he  was 
told  that  his  second  daughter  had  refused  an  offer  from  Lord  Peter- 
borough's eldest  son.  "  Then  she  may  go  into  the  workhouse  for  me,"  ' 
the  angry  father  had  said,  declaring  at  the  same  time  that  he  would 
never  give  his  consent  to  her  marriage  with  the  man  who  "  did  dirty 
work"  for  the  Daily  Record, — as  he,  with  his  paternal  wisdom,  chose 
to  express  it.  But  this  cruel  phrase  was  not  spoken  in  Nora's  hear- 
ing, nor  was  it  repeated  to  her.  Lady  Rowley  knew  her  husband, 
and  was  aware  that  he  would  on  occasions  change  his  opinion. 

It  was  not  till  two  or  three  days  after  his  visit  to  St.  Diddulph's 
that  he  met  Colonel  Osborne.  The  Easter  recess  was  then  over,  and 
Colonel  Osborne  had  just  returned  to  London.  They  met  on  the 
door-steps  of  "  The  Acrobats,"  and  the  Colonel  immediately  began  with 
an  apology.  "  I  have  been  so  sorry  to  be  away  just  when  you  are 
here ; — upon  my  word  I  have.  But  I  was  obliged  to  go  down  to  the 
duchess's.  I  had  promised  early  in  the  winter  ;  and  those  people  are 
60  angry  if  you  put  them  off.  By  George,  it's  almost  as  bad  as  putting 
off  royalty." 

"D n  the  duchess,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke. 

"  "With  all  my  heart,"  said  the  Colonel ; — "  only  I  thought  it  as  well 
that  I  should  tell  you  the  truth." 

"  "What  I  mean  is,  that  the  duchess  and  her  people  make  no  differ- 
ence to  me.     I  hope  you  had  a  pleasant  time  ;  that's  all." 

"  "Well ; — yes,  we  had.  One  must  get  away  somewhere  at  Easter. 
There  is  no  one  left  at  the  club,  and  there's  no  House,  and  no  one 
asks  one  to  dinner  in  town.     In  fact,  if  one  didn't  go  away  one 


118  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

wouldn't  know  what  to  do.  There  were  ever  so  many  people  there 
that  I  liked  to  meet.  Lady  Glencora  was  there,  and  uncommon 
pleasant  she  made  it.  That  woman  has  more  to  say  for  herself  than 
any  half-dozen  men  that  I  know.  And  Lord  Cantrip,  your  chief, 
was  there.     He  said  a  word  or  two  to  me  about  you." 

"  What  sort  of  a  word  ?  " 

"  He  says  he  wishes  you  would  read  up  some  blue  books,  or 
papers,  or  reports,  or  something  of  that  kind,  which  he  says  that 
some  of  his  fellows  have  sent  you.  It  seems  that  there  are  some 
new  rules,  or  orders,  or  fashions,  which  he  wants  you  to  have  at  your 
finger's  ends.  Nothing  could  be  more  civil  than  he  was, — but  he  just 
wished  me  to  mention  this,  knowing  that  you  and  I  are  likely  to  see 
each  other." 

"  I  wish  I  had  never  come  over,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke. 

"Why  so?" 

"They  didn't  bother  me  with  their  new  rules  and  fashions  over 
there.  When  the  papers  came  somebody  read  them,  and  that  was 
enough.     I  could  do  what  they  wanted  me  to  do  there." 

"And  so  you  will  here, — after  a  bit." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  Those  young  fellows  seem  to  forget 
that  an  old  dog  can't  learn  new  tricks.  They've  got  a  young  brisk 
fellow  there  who  seems  to  think  that  a  man  should  be  an  encyclopedia 
of  knowledge  because  he  has  lived  in  a  colony  over  twenty  years." 

"  That's  the  new  under-secretary." 

"  Never  mind  who  it  is.  Osborne,  just  come  up  to  the  library,  will 
you  ?  I  want  to  speak  to  you."  Then  Sir  Marmaduke,  with  con- 
siderable solemnity,  led  the  way  up  to  the  most  deserted  room  in  the 
club,  and  Colonel  Osborne  followed  him,  well  knowing  that  something 
was  to  be  said  about  Emily  Trevelyan. 

Sir  Marmaduke  seated  himself  on  a  sofa,  and  his  friend  sat  close 
beside  him.  The  room  was  quite  deserted.  It  was  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  and  the  club  was  full  of  men.  There  were  men  in  the  morn- 
ing-room, and  men  in  the  drawing-room,  and  men  in  the  card-room, 
and  men  in  the  billiard-room ;  but  no  better  choice  of  a  chamber  for  a 
conference  intended  to  be  silent  and  secret  could  have  been  made  in  all 
London  than  that  which  had  induced  Sir  Mai-makuke  to  take  his  friend 
into  the  library  of  "The  Acrobats."  And  yet  a  great  deal  of  money  had 
been  spent  in  providing  this  library  for  "  The  Acrobats."  Sir  Marma- 
duke sat  for  awhile  silent,  and  had  he  sat  silent  for  an  hour.  Colonel 
Osborne  would  not  have  interrupted  him.  Then,  at  last,  he  began, 
with  a  voice  that  was  intended  to  be  serious,  but  which  struck  upon 


SIR  MARMADFKT:   at  his   CT.UB.  119 

the  ear  of  his  companion  as  being  aflccted  and  unlike  the  owner  of  it. 
"  This  is  n  very  sad  thing  about  my  poor  girl,"  said  Sir  Marmadukc. 

"  Indeed  it  is.  There  is  only  one  thing  to  bo  said  about  it, 
Rowley." 

"And  what's  that?" 

"  The  man  must  bo  mad." 

"  He  is  not  so  mad  as  to  give  us  any  relief  by  his  madness, — poor 
as  such  comfort  would  be.  He  has  got  Emily's  child  away  from  her, 
and  I  think  it  will  about  kill  her.  And  what  is  to  become  of  her  ? 
As  to  taking  her  back  to  the  islands  without  her  child,  it  is  out  of  the 
question.     I  never  knew  an}'thing  so  cruel  in  my  life." 

"  And  so  absurd,  you  know." 

"  Ah, — that's  just  the  question.  If  anybody  had  asked  me,  I 
should  have  said  that  you  were  the  man  of  all  men  whom  I  could 
have  best  trusted." 

"  Do  you  doubt  it  now  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  suspect  me, — and  your  daughter  too  ?  " 

"  No  ; — by  heavens  !  Poor  dear.  If  I  suspected  her,  there  would 
be  an  end  of  all  things  with  me.  I  could  never  get  over  that.  No  ; 
— I  don't  suspect  her !  "  Sir  Marmaduke  had  now  dropped  his 
affected  tone,  and  was  speaking  with  natural  energy. 

"But  you  do  me?" 

"  No  ; — if  I  did,  I  don't  suppose  I  should  be  sitting  with  yon  here; 
butihey  tell  me ." 

"They  tell  you  what?" 

"They  tell  me  that, — that  you  did  not  behave  vdsely  about  it. 
"^Tiy  could  you  not  let  her  alone  when  you  found  out  how  matters 
were  going?" 

"  'WTio  has  been  telling  you  this,  Rowley  ?" 

Sir  Marmaduke  considered  for  awhile,  and  then,  remembering  that 
Colonel  Osborne  could  hardly  quarrel  with  a  clergyman,  told  him 
the  truth.  "Outhouse  says  that  you  have  done  her  an  irretrievable 
injury  by  going  down  to  Devonshire  to  her,  and  by  writing  to  her." 

"  Outhouse  is  an  ass." 

"  That  is  easily  said ; — but  why  did  you  go  ?" 

"  And  why  should  I  not  go  ?  What  the  deuce!  Because  a  man 
like  that  chooses  to  take  vagaries  into  his  head  I  am  not  to  see  my 
own  godchild ! "  Sir  Marmaduke  tried  to  remember  whether  the 
Colonel  was  in  fact  the  godfather  of  his  eldest  daughter,  but  he 
found  that  his  mind  was  quite  a  blank  about  his  children's  godfathers 


120  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

aud  godmothers.  "  And  as  for  the  letters ; — I  wish  you  could  sco 
them.  The  only  letters  which  had  in  them  a  word  of  importance 
were  those  about  your  coming  home.  I  was  anxious  to  get  that 
arranged,  not  only  for  your  sake,  but  because  she  was  so  eager  about 
it." 

"  God  bless  her,  poor  child,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  rubbing  the  tears 
away  from  his  eyes  with  his  red  silk  pocket-handkerchief. 

"I  Avill  acknowledge  that  those  letters, — there  may  have  been  one 
or  two, — were  the  beginning  of  the  trouble.  It  was  these  that  made 
this  man  show  himself  to  be  a  lunatic.  I  do  admit  that.  I  was 
bound  not  to  talk  about  your  coming,  and  I  told  her  to  keep  the 
secret.  He  went  spying  about,  and  found  her  letters,  I  suppose, — 
and  then  he  took  fire,  because  there  was  to  be  a  secret  from  him. 
Dirty,  mean  dog  !  And  now  I'm  to  be  told  by  such  a  fellow  as  Out- 
house that  it's  my  fault,  that  I  have  caused  all  the  trouble,  because, 
when  I  happened  to  be  in  Devonshire,  I  went  to  see  your  daughter ! " 
We  must  do  the  Colonel  the  justice  of  supposing  that  he  had  by  this 
time  quite  taught  himself  to  believe  that  the  church  porch  at  Cock- 
chaffington  had  been  the  motive  cause  of  his  journey  into  Devonshu'e. 
"  Upon  my  word  it  is  too  hard,"  continued  he  indignantly.  "  As  for 
Outhouse, — only  for  the  gown  upon  his  back,  I'd  pull  his  nose.  And 
I  wish  that  you  would  tell  him  that  I  say  so." 

"There  is  trouble  enough  without  that,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke. 

"  But  it  is  hard.  By  G — ,  it  is  hard.  There  is  this  comfort; — if 
it  hadn't  been  me,  it  would  have  been  some  one  else.  Such  a  man  as 
that  couldn't  have  gone  two  or  three  years,  without  being  jealous 
of  some  one.  And  as  for  poor  Emily,  she  is  better  off  perhaps  with 
an  accusation  so  absurd  as  this,  than  she  might  have  been  had  her 
name  been  joined  with  a  younger  man,  or  with  one  whom  you  would 
have  less  reason  for  trusting." 

There  was  so  much  that  seemed  to  be  sensible  in  this,  and  it  was 
spoken  with  so  well  assumed  a  tone  of  injured  innocence,  that  Sir 
Marmaduke  felt  that  he  had  nothing  more  to  say.  He  muttered  some- 
thing further  about  the  cruelty  of  the  case,  and  then  slunk  away  out 
of  the  club,  and  made  his  way  home  to  the  dull  gloomy  house  in  Man- 
chester Street.  There  was  no  comfort  for  him  there ; — but  neither  was 
there  any  comfort  for  him  at  the  club.  And  why  did  that  vexatious 
Secretary  of  State  send  him  messages  about  blue  books  ?  As  he 
went,  he  expressed  sundry  wishes  that  he  was  back  at  the  Mandarins, 
and  told  himself  that  it  would  be  well  that  he  should  remain  there 
till  he  died. 


CHAPTER  LXV. 


MYSTERIOUS  AGENCIES. 


'!r^:V:v;^=?ft?ri(^;f/^ 


HEN    the    thirty-farst    of    March 
arrived,  Exeter  had   not    as  yet 
been   made   gay   "with  the  mar- 
riage  festivities    of   Mr.    Gibson 
and  Camilla  French.      And   this 
delay  had  not  been  the  fault  of 
Camilla.    Camilla  had  been  ready, 
and  when,   about  the  middle   of 
the  month,  it  was  hinted  to  her 
that    some    postponement     was 
necessary,  she  spoke    her   mind 
out   plainly,    and    declared    that 
she  was  not  going  to  stand  that 
kind  of  thing.     The  communica- 
tion had  not   been  made  to  her 
by  Mr.  Gibson  in  person.     For 
some    days    previously   he    had 
not  been  seen    at   Heavitree,    and   Camilla   had   from   day  to  day 
become  more   black,    gloomy,    and  harsh  in  her  manners  both  to 
her   mother   and   her    sisters.      Little   notes   had   come   and   little 
notes  had  gone,  but  no  one  in  the  house,  except  Camilla  herself, 
knew  what  those  notes  contained.      She  would  not  condescend  to 
complain  to  Ai'abella ;  nor  did  she  say  much  in  condemnation  of  her 
lover  to  Mrs.  French,  till  the  blow  came.    With  unremitting  attention 
she  pursued  the  great  business  of  her  wedding  garments,  and  exacted 
from  the  unfortimate  Ai'abella  an  amount  of  work  equal  to  her  own, — 
of  thankless  work,   as  is  the   custom  of   embryo  brides  with  their 
unmarried  sisters.     And  she  drew  with  great  audacity  on  the  some- 
what slender  means  of  the  family  for  the  amount  of  fcmiuiuo  gear 
nccessaiy  to  enable  her  to  go  into  Mr.  Gibson's  house  with  something 
of  the  (Jclat  of  a  wuU-provided  bride.     "When  Mrs.  French  hesitated, 
aud  then  expostulated,  Camilla  replied  that  she  did  not  expect  to  bo 
married  above  once,  and  that  in  no  cheaper  or  more  productive  way 
VOL.  II,  a 


122  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS    RIGHT. 

tlian  this  conld  lier  raothcr  allow  her  to  consume  lier  share  of  the 
family  rcsom'ccs.  "  What  matter,  mamma,  if  you  do  have  to  borrow 
a  little  money  ?  Mr.  Burgess  will  let  you  have  it  when  he  knows  why. 
And  as  I  shan't  be  eating  and  drinking  at  home  any  more,  nor  yet 
getting  my  things  here,  I  have  a  right  to  expect  it."  And  she  ended 
by  expressing  an  opinion,  in  Arabella's  hearing,  that  any  daughter  of 
a  house  who  proves  herself  to  be  capable  of  getting  a  husband  for 
herself,  is  entitled  to  expect  that  those  left  at  home  shall  pinch  them- 
selves for  a  time,  in  order  that  she  may  go  forth  to  the  world  in  a 
respectable  way,  and  be  a  credit  to  the  family. 

Then  came  the  blow.  Mr.  Gibson  had  not  been  at  the  house  for 
some  days,  but  the  notes  had  been  going  and  coming.  At  last  Mr. 
Gibson  came  himself;  but,  as  it  happened,  when  he  came  Camilla  was 
out  shopping.  In  these  days  she  often  did  go  out  shopping  between 
eleven  and  one,  carrying  her  sister  with  her.  It  must  have  been  but 
a  poor  pleasure  for  Ai'abella,  this  witnessing  the  purchases  made, 
seeing  the  pleasant  draperies  and  handling  the  real  linens  and 
admiring  the  fine  cambrics  spread  out  before  them  on  the  shop 
counters  by  obsequious  attendants.  And  the  questions  asked  of  her 
by  her  sister,  whether  this  was  good  enough  for  so  august  an  occa- 
sion, or  that  sufliciently  handsome,  must  have  been  harassing.  She 
could  not  have  failed  to  remember  that  it  ought  all  to  have  been  done 
for  her, — that  had  she  not  been  treated  with  monstrous  injustice, 
with  most  unsisterly  crueltj",  all  these  good  things  would  have  been 
spread  on  her  behoof.  But  she  went  on  and  endui'ed  it,  and  worked 
diligently  with  her  needle,  and  folded  and  unfolded  as  she  was 
desu-ed,  and  became  as  it  were  quite  a  j^ounger  sister  in  the  house, — 
creeping  out  by  herself  now  and  again  into  the  purlieus  of  the  citj-, 
to  find  such  consolation  as  she  might  receive  from  her  solitary 
thoughts. 

But  Ai'abella  and  Camilla  were  both  away  when  Mr.  Gibson  called 
to  tell  Mrs.  French  of  his  altered  plans.  And  as  he  asked,  not  for 
his  lady-love,  but  for  Mrs.  French  herself,  it  is  probable  that  he 
watched  his  opportunity  and  that  he  knew  to  what  cares  his  Camilla 
was  then  devoting  herself.  "  Perhaps  it  is  quite  as  well  that  I  should 
find  5'ou  alone,"  he  said,  after  sundry  preludes,  to  his  future  mother- 
in-law,  "because  you  can  make  Camilla  understand  this  better  than  I 
can.     I  must  put  ofi"  the  day  for  about  three  weeks." 

"  Three  weeks,  Mr.  Gibson?" 

"  Or  a  month.  Perhaps  we  had  better  say  the  29th  of  April." 
Mr.  Gibson  had  by  this  time  throAvn  ofi'  every  fear  that  he  might  have 


MYSTERIOUS   AGENCIES.  123 

entertained  of  the  mother,  and  could  speak  to  her  of  such  an  unwar- 
rantable change  of  plans  with  tolerable  equanimity. 

"  But  I  don't  know  that  that  will  suit  Camilla  at  all." 

"  She  can  name  any  other  day  she  pleases,  of  coui'sc ; — that  is,  in 
May." 

"But  why  is  this  to  be?" 

"  There  are  things  about  money,  Mrs.  French,  which  I  cannot 
arrange  sooner.  And  I  find  that  unfortunately  I  must  go  up  to 
London."  Though  many  other  questions  were  asked,  nothing  further 
was  got  out  of  Ml'.  Gibson  on  that  occasion  ;  and  he  left  the  house 
with  a  perfect  vmderstanding  on  his  o^\^l  part, — and  on  that  of  Mrs. 
French, — that  the  marriage  was  postponed  till  some  day  still  to  be 
fixed,  but  which  could  not  and  shoidd  not  be  before  the  29th  of 
April.  Mrs.  French  asked  him  why  he  did  not  come  up  and  see 
Camilla.  He  replied, — false  man  that  he  was, — that  he  had  hoped  to 
have  seen  her  this  morning,  and  that  he  would  come  again  before  the 
week  was  over. 

Then  it  was  that  Camilla  spoke  her  mind  out  plainly.  "  I  shall  go 
to  his  house  at  once,"  she  said,  "  and  find  out  all  about  it.  I  don't 
understand  it.  I  don't  understand  it  at  all ;  and  I  won't  put  up  with 
it.  He  shall  know  who  he  has  to  deal  with,  if  he  plays  tricks  upon 
me.  Mamma,  I  wonder  you  let  him  out  of  the  house,  till  you  had 
made  him  come  back  to  his  old  day." 

"  WTiat  could  I  do,  my  dear  ?  " 

""\Miat  could  j-ou  do?  Shake  him  out  of  it, — as  I  would  have 
done.     But  he  didn't  dare  to  tell  me, — because  he  is  a  coward." 

Camilla  in  all  this  showed  her  spmt ;  but  she  allowed  her  anger  to 
hurry  her  away  into  an  indiscretion.  Arabella  was  present,  and 
Camilla  should  have  repressed  her  rage. 

"  I  don't  think  he's  at  all  a  coward,"  said  Ai-abella. 

"  That's  my  business.  I  suppose  I'm  entitled  to  know  what  he  is 
better  than  you." 

"All  the  same  I  don't  think  Mr.  Gibson  is  at  all  a  coward,"  said 
Ai'abella,  again  pleading  the  cause  of  the  man  who  had  misused  her. 

"Now,  Arabella,  I  won't  take  any  interference  from  you;  mind 
that.  I  say  it  was  cowardly,  and  he  should  have  come  to  me.  It's 
my  concern,  and  I  shall  go  to  him.  I'm  not  going  to  be  stopped  by 
any  shilly-shally  nonsense,  when  my  futui'e  respectability,  perhaps,  is 
at  stake.  All  Exeter  knows  that  the  marriage  is  to  take  place  on  the 
31st  of  this  month." 

On  the  next  day  Camilla  absolutely  did  go  to  Mr.  Gibson's  houso 

o2 


124  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

at  an  early  hour,  at  ulne,  when,  as  she  thought,  he  would  surely  be 
at  breakfast.  But  he  had  flown.  He  had  left  Exeter  that  morning 
by  an  early  train,  and  his  servant  thought  that  he  had  gone  to 
London.  On  the  next  morning  Camilla  got  a  note  from  him,  "wi-itten 
in  London.  It  affected  to  be  very  cheery  and  affectionate,  beginning 
"Dearest  Cammy,"  and  alluding  to  the  postponement  of  his  wedding 
as  though  it  were  a  thing  so  fixed  as  to  requu-e  no  further  question. 
Camilla  answered  this  letter,  still  in  much  wrath,  complaining,  pro- 
testing, expostulating ; — throwing  in  his  teeth  the  fact  that  the  day 
had  been  fixed  by  him,  and  not  by  her.  And  she  added "  a  postscript 
in  the  following  momentous  words ; — "  If  you  have  any  respect  for 
the  name  of  your  futui-e  wife,  you  will  fall  back  upon  your  first 
arrangement."  To  this  she  got  simply  a  line  of  an  answer,  declaring 
that  this  falling  back  was  impossible,  and  then  nothing  was  heard  of 
him  for  ten  days.  He  had  gone  from  Tuesday  to  Saturday  week; — 
and  the  first  that  Camilla  saw  of  him  was  his  presence  in  the  reading 
desk  when  he  chaunted  the  cathedral  service  as  priest-vicar  on  the 
Sunday. 

At  this  time  Arabella  was  very  ill,  and  was  confined  to  her  bed. 
Mr.  Martin  declared  that  her  system  had  become  low  from  over 
anxiety, — that  she  was  nervous,  weak,  and  liable  to  hysterics, — that 
her  feelings  were  in  fact  too  many  for  her, — and  that  her  efforts  to 
overcome  them,  and  to  face  the  realities  of  the  world,  had  exhausted 
her.  This  was,  of  course,  not  said  openly,  at  the  town-cross  of 
Exeter ;  but  such  was  the  opinion  which  Mr.  Martin  gave  in  con- 
fidence to  the  mother.  "Fiddle-de-dee!"  said  Camilla,  when  she 
was  told  of  feelings,  susceptibilities,  and  hysterics.  At  the  present 
moment  she  had  a  claim  to  the  undivided  interest  of  the  family,  and 
she  believed  that  her  sister's  illness  was  feigned  in  order  to  defraud 
her  of  her  rights.  "My  dear,  she  is  ill,"  said  Mrs.  French.  "Then 
let  her  have  a  dose  of  salts,"  said  the  stern  Camilla.  This  was  on 
the  Sunday  afternoon.  Camilla  had  endeavoured  to  see  Mr.  Gibson 
as  he  came  out  of  the  cathedral,  but  had  failed.  Mr.  Gibson  had 
been  detained  within  the  building, — no  doubt  by  duties  connected 
with  the  choral  services.  On  that  evening  he  got  a  note  from 
Camilla,  and  quite  early  on  the  Monday  morning  he  came  up  to 
Heavitree. 

"  You  will  find  her  in  the  drawing-room,"  said  Mrs.  French,  as 
she  opened  the  hall-door  for  him.  There  was  a  smile  on  her  face 
as  she  spoke,  but  it  was  a  forced  smile.  Mr.  Gibson  did  not  smile 
at  all. 


WYSTERIOrS   AGENCIES.  125 

"Is  it  all  right  with  her ? "  he  asked. 

"  "Well ; — you  had  better  go  to  her.  You  see,  Mr.  Gibson,  young 
ladies,  when  they  are  going  to  be  married,  think  that  they  ought  to 
have  their  ovm  way  a  little,  just  for  the  last  time,  you  know."  IIo 
took  no  notice  of  the  joke,  but  went  with  slow  steps  up  to  tho 
drawmg-room.  It  would  be  inquiring  too  curiously  to  ask  whether 
Camilla,  when  she  embraced  him,  discerned  that  he  had  fortified  his 
courage  that  morning  with  a  glass  of  curacoa. 

""What  does  all  this  mean,  Thomas?"  was  the  fii'st  question  that 
Camilla  asked  when  the  embrace  was  over. 

"  All  what  moan,  dear  ?  " 

"This  untoward  delay?  Thomas,  you  have  almost  broken  my 
heart.     You  have  been  away,  and  I  have  not  heard  from  you." 

"I  wrote  twice,  Camilla." 

"And  what  sort  of  letters?  If  there  is  anything  the  matter, 
Thomas,  you  had  better  tell  me  at  once."  She  paused,  but  Thomas 
held  his  tongue.     "  I  don't  suppose  you  want  to  kill  mc." 

"  God  forbid,"  said  Thomas. 

"But  you  will.  What  must  everybody  think  of  me  in  the  city 
when  they  find  that  it  is  put  off.  Poor  mamma  has  been  dreadful ; — 
quite  di-eadful !  And  here  is  Arabella  now  laid  up  on  a  bed  of  sick- 
ness." This,  too,  was  indiscreet.  Camilla  should  have  said  nothing 
about  her  sister's  sickness. 

"  I  have  been  so  sorry  to  hear  about  dear  Bella,"  said  Mr.  Gibson. 

"  I  don't  suppose  she's  very  bad,"  said  Camilla,  "  but  of  course  we 
all  feel  it.  Of  course  we're  upset.  As  for  me,  I  bear  up  ;  because 
I've  that  spii-it  that  I  won't  give  way  if  it's  ever  so  ;  but,  upon  my 
word,  it  tries  me  hard.     What  is  the  meaning  of  it,  Thomas  ?  " 

But  Thomas  had  nothing  to  say  beyond  what  he  had  said  before  to 
Mrs.  French.  He  was  very  particular,  ho  said,  about  money  ;  and 
certain  money  matters  made  it  incumbent  on  him  not  to  marry  before 
the  29th  of  April.  When  Camilla  suggested  to  him  that  as  she  was 
to  be  his  wife,  she  ought  to  know  all  about  his  money  matters,  ho 
told  her  that  she  should, — some  day.  'When  they  were  married,  ho 
would  tell  her  all.  Camilla  talked  a  great  deal,  and  said  some  things 
that  were  very  severe.  Mr.  Gibson  did  not  enjoy  his  morning,  but 
he  endured  the  upbraidiugs  of  his  fair  one  with  more  firmness  than 
might  perhaps  have  been  expected  from  him.  He  left  all  the  talking 
to  Camilla ;  but  when  he  got  up  to  leave  her,  the  29th  of  April  had 
been  fixed,  with  some  sort  of  assent  from  her,  as  the  day  on  which 
Bhe  was  really  to  become  Mrs.  Gibson. 


126  HE    KNEW    TIE   -VVAS   HTGHT. 

When  lie  left  tlie  room,  he  again  met  Mrs.  French  on  the  landing- 
place.  She  hesitated  a  moment,  waiting  to  see  whether  the  door 
would  he  shut ;  but  the  door  could  not  bo  shut,  as  Camilla  was 
standing  in  the  entrance.  "  Mr.  Gibson,"  said  Mrs.  French,  in  a  voice 
that  was  scarcely  a  whisper,  "would  you  mind  stepping  in  and  seeing 
poor  Bella  for  a  moment  ?" 

"  Wliy; — she  is  in  bed,"  said  Camilla. 

"  Yes ; — she  is  in  bed  ;  but  she  thinks  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  her. 
She  has  seen  nobody  these  four  days  except  Mr.  Martin,  and  she 
thinks  it  would  comfort  her  to  have  a  word  or  two  with  Mr.  Gibson." 
Now  Mr.  Gibson  was  not  only  going  to  be  Bella's  brother-in-law,  but 
he  was  also  a  clergyman.  Camilla  in  her  heart  believed  that  the 
half-clerical  aspect  which  her  mother  had  given  to  the  request  was 
false  and  hypocritical.  There  were  special  reasons  why  Bella  should 
not  have  wished  to  see  Mr.  Gibson  in  her  bedroom,  at  any  rate  till 
Mr.  Gibson  had  become  her  brother-in-law.  The  expression  of  such 
a  wish  at  the  present  moment  was  almost  indecent. 

"  You'll  be  there  with  them  ?"  said  Camilla.  Mr.  Gibson  blushed 
up  to  his  ears  as  he  heard  the  suggestion.  "  Of  course  you'll  be  there 
with  them,  mamma." 

"No,  my  dear,  I  think  not.  I  fancy  she  wishes  him  to  read  to 
her, — or  something  of  that  sort."  Then  Mr.  Gibson,  without  speaking 
a  word,  but  still  blushing  up  to  his  ears,  was  taken  to  Ai-abella's 
room ;  and  Camilla,  flouncing  into  the  drawing-room,  banged  the 
door  behind  her.  She  had  hitherto  fought  her  battle  with  consider- 
able skill  and  with  great  courage ; — but  her  very  success  had  made 
her  imprudent.  She  had  become  so  imperious  in  the  great  position 
which  she  had  reached,  that  she  could  not  control  her  temper  or  wait 
till  her  power  was  confirmed.  The  banging  of  that  door  was  heard 
through  the  whole  house,  and  every  one  knew  why  it  was  banged. 
She  threw  herself  on  to  a  sofa,  and  then,  instantly  rising  again,  paced 
the  room  with  quick  step.  Could  it  be  possible  that  there  was 
treachery  ?  "Was  it  on  the  cards  that  that  weak,  poor  creature,  Bella, 
was  intriguing  once  again  to  defraud  her  of  her  husband  ?  There  were 
different  things  that  she  now  remembered.  Ai-abella,  in  that  moment 
of  bliss  in  which  she  had  conceived  herself  to  be  engaged  to  Mr. 
Gibson,  had  discarded  her  chignon.  Then  she  had  resumed  it, — in 
all  its  monstrous  proportions.  Since  that  it  had  been  lessened  by 
degrees,  and  brought  down,  through  various  interesting  but  abnormal 
shapes,  to  a  size  which  would  hardly  have  drawn  forth  any  anathema 
from  Miss  Stanbury.     And  now,  on  this  very  morning,  Ai'abella  had 


MYSTERIOUS   AGENCIES.  127 

put  on  a  clean  nightcap,  witli  muslin  frills.  It  is  perhaps  not 
unnatural  that  a  sick  lady,  preparing  to  receive  a  clergyman  in  her 
hetlroom,  should  put  on  a  clean  nightcap, — but  to  suspicious  eyes 
small  causes  suffice  to  create  alarm.  And  if  there  were  any  such 
hideous  wickedness  in  the  wind,  had  Aiabclla  any  colleague  in  her 
villainy  ?  Could  it  bo  that  the  mother  was  plotting  against  her 
daughter's  happiness  and  respectability  ?  Camilla  was  well  aware 
that  her  mamma  would  at  fii'st  have  preferred  to  give  Ai-abella  to 
Mr.  Gibson,  had  the  choice  in  the  matter  been  left  to  her.  But  now, 
when  the  thing  had  been  settled  before  all  the  world,  would  not  such 
treatment  on  a  mother's  part  be  equal  to  infanticide  ?  And  then  as  to 
Mr.  Gibson  himself!  Camilla  was  not  prone  to  think  little  of  her 
oyna.  charms,  but  she  had  been  unable  not  to  perceive  that  her  lover 
had  become  negligent  in  his  personal  attentions  to  her.  An  accepted 
lover,  who  deserves  to  have  been  accepted,  should  devote  every 
hour  at  his  command  to  his  mistress.  But  Mr.  Gibson  had  of  late 
been  so  chary  of  his  presence  at  Heavitree,  that  Camilla  could  not 
but  have  known  that  he  took  no  delight  in  coming  thither.  She  had 
acknowledged  this  to  herself;  but  she  had  consoled  hei-self  with  the 
reflection  that  marriage  would  make  this  all  right.  Mr.  Gibson  was 
not  the  man  to  stray  from  his  wife,  and  she  could  trust  herself  to 
obtain  a  sufficient  hold  upon  her  husband  hereafter,  partly  by  the 
strength  of  her  tongue,  partly  by  the  ascendancy  of  her  spirit,  and 
pai'tly,  also,  by  the  comforts  which  she  would  provide  for  him.  She 
had  not  doubted  but  that  it  would  be  all  well  when  they  should  be 
married ; — but  how  if,  even  now,  there  should  be  no  marriage  for  her  ? 
Camilla  French  had  never  heard  of  Creusa  and  of  Jason,  but  as  she 
paced  her  mother's  drawing-room  that  morning  she  was  a  Medea  in 
spirit.  If  any  plot  of  that  kind  should  be  in  the  wind,  she  would  do 
such  things  that  all  Devonshire  should  hear  of  her  wrongs  and  of  her 
revenge  ! 

In  the  meantime  Mr.  Gibson  was  sitting  by  Arabella's  bedside, 
while  Mrs.  French  was  tiying  to  make  herself  busy  in  her  own 
chamber,  next  door.  There  had  been  a  reading  of  some  chapter  of 
the  Bible, — or  of  some  portion  of  a  chapter.  And  Mr.  Gibson,  as  ho 
read,  and  Arabella,  as  she  listened,  had  endeavoured  to  take  to  their 
hearts  and  to  make  use  of  the  word  which  they  heard.  The  poor 
young  woman,  when  she  begged  her  mother  to  send  to  her  the  man 
who  was  so  dear  to  her,  did  so  with  some  half-formed  condition  that 
it  would  be  good  for  her  to  hear  a  clergyman  read  to  her.  But  now 
the  chapter  had  been  read,  and  the  book  was  back  in  I\Ii-.  Gibson's 


o 


128  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

pocket,  and  lio  was  sitting  witli  his  hand  on  the  bed.  "  She  is  so  very 
arrogant,"  said  Bella, — and  so  domineering."  To  this  Mr.  Gibson 
made  no  reply.  "  I'm  sure  I  have  endeavoured  to  bear  it  well, 
though  you  must  have  known  what  I  have  suffered,  Thomas.  Nobody 
can  understand  it  so  well  as  you  do." 

"  I  wish  I  had  never  been  born,"  said  Mr.  Gibson  tragically. 

*'  Don't  say  that,  Thomas, — because  it's  wicked." 

"But  I  do.  See  all  the  harm  I  have  done; — and  yet  I  did  not 
mean  it." 

''You  must  try  and  do  the  best  you  can  noAv.  I  am  not  saying 
what  that  should  be.  •  I  am  not  dictating  to  you.  You  are  a  man, 
and,  of  course,  you  must  judge  for  yourself.  But  I  will  say  this. 
You  shouldn't  do  anything  just  because  it  is  the  easiest.  I  don't 
suppose  I  should  live  after  it.  I  don't  indeed.  But  that  should  not 
signify  to  you." 

"  I  don't  suppose  that  any  man  was  ever  before  in  such  a  terrible 
position  since  the  world  began." 

"  It  is  difficult; — I  am  sure  of  that,  Thomas." 

"  And  I  have  meant  to  be  so  true.  I  fancy  sometimes  that  some 
mysterious  agency  interferes  with  the  affairs  of  a  man  and  drives  him 
on, — and  on, — and  on, — almost, — till  he  doesn't  know  where  it  drives 
him."  As  he  said  this  in  a  voice  that  was  quite  sepulchral  in  its 
tone,  he  felt  some  consolation  in  the  conviction  that  this  mysterious 
agency  could  not  affect  a  man  without  embuing  him  with  a  certain 
amount  of  grandeur, — very  uncomfortable,  indeed,  in  its  nature,  but 
still  having  considerable  value  as  a  counterpoise.  Pride  must  bear 
pain ; — but  pain  is  recompensed  by  pride. 

"  She  is  so  strong,  Thomas,  that  she  can  put  up  with  anything," 
said  Ai-abella,  in  a  whisper, 

"  Strong ; — yes,"  said  he,  with  a  shudder; — "she  is  strong  enough." 

"And  as  for  love " 

"  Don't  talk  about  it,"  said  he,  getting  up  from  his  chair.  "Don't 
talk  about  it.     You  will  drive  me  fi'antic." 

"You  know  what  my  feelings  are,  Thomas;  you  have  always 
known  them.  There  has  been  no  change  since  I  was  the  young 
thing  5^ou  first  knew  me."  As  she  spoke,  she  just  touched  his  hand 
with  hers ;  but  he  did  not  seem  to  notice  this,  sitting  with  his  elbow 
on  the  arm  of  his  chair  and  his  forehead  on  his  hand.  In  reply  to 
what  she  said  to  him,  he  merely  shook  his  head, — not  intending  to 
imply  thereby  any  doubt  of  the  truth  of  her  assertion.  "  You  have 
now  to  make  up  your  mind,  and  to  be  bold,  Thomas,"  continued 


MYSTERIOUS   AGENCIES.  129 

Arabella.  Sbo  says  that  you  are  a  coward ;  but  I  know  that  you  aro 
no  coward.  I  told  her  so,  and  she  said  that  I  was  interfering.  Ob, — 
tbat  sbe  should  be  able  to  tell  mc  that  I  interfere  when  I  defend  you!  " 

"I  must  go,"  said  Mr.  Gibson,  jumping  up  from  his  chair.  "I 
must  go.  Bella,  I  cannot  stand  this  any  longer.  It  is  too  much  for 
me.  I  will  pray  that  I  may  decide  aright.  God  bless  you  !  "  Then 
he  kissed  her  brow  as  she  lay  in  bed,  and  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

He  had  hoped  to  go  from  the  house  without  further  converse  with 
any  of  its  inmates ;  for  his  mind  was  disturbed,  and  he  longed  to  be 
at  rest.  But  he  Avas  not  allowed  to  escape  so  easily.  Camilla  met 
him  at  the  dining-room  door,  and  accosted  him  with  a  smile.  There 
had  been  time  for  much  meditation  during  the  last  half  hour,  and 
Camilla  had  meditated.    "  How  do  you  find  her,  Thomas  ?"  she  asked. 

"  She  seems  weak,  but  I  believe  she  is  better.  I  have  been  reading 
to  her." 

"Come  in,  Thomas; — will  you  not?  It  is  bad  for  us  to  stand 
talking  on  the  stall's.  Dear  Thomas,  don't  let  us  be  so  cold  to  each 
other."  He  had  no  alternative  but  to  put  his  arm  round  her  waist, 
and  kiss  her,  thinking,  as  he  did  so,  of  the  mysterious  agency  which 
afflicted  him.     "  Tell  me  that  you  love  me,  Thomas,"  she  said. 

"  Of  course  I  love  you."  The  question  is  not  a  pleasant  one  when 
put  by  a  lady  to  a  gentleman  whose  affections  towards  her  are  not 
strong,  and  it  requu-es  a  very  good  actor  to  produce  an  efficient  ansAver. 

"  I  hope  you  do,  Thomas.  It  would  be  sad,  indeed,  if  you  did  not. 
You  are  not  weary  of  your  Camilla, — are  you  ?  " 

For  a  moment  there  came  upon  him  an  idea  that  he  would  confess 
that  he  was  weary  of  her,  but  he  found  at  once  that  such  an  effort  was 
beyond  his  powers.     "  How  can  you  ask  such  a  question  ?"  he  said. 

"Because  you  do  not — come  to  me."  Camilla,  as  she  spoke,  laid 
her  head  upon  his  shoulder  and  wept.  "  And  now  you  have  been  five 
minutes  with  me  and  nearly  an  hour  with  Bella." 

"  She  wanted  me  to  read  to  her,"  said  Mr.  Gibson  ; — and  he  hated 
himself  thoroughly  as  he  said  it. 

"And  now  you  want  to  get  away  as  fast  as  you  can,"  continued 
Camilla. 

"  Because  of  the  morning  service,"  said  Mr.  Gibson,  This  was 
quite  true,  and  yet  he  hated  himself  again  for  saying  it.  As  Camilla 
knew  the  truth  of  the  last  plea,  she  was  obliged  to  let  him  go ;  but 
she  made  him  swear  before  he  went  that  he  loved  her  dearly.  "  I 
think  it's  all  right,"  she  said  to  herself  as  ho  went  down  the  stairs. 
"I  don't  think  he'd  dare  make  it  wrong.     If  he  docs  ; — o-oh  !" 


130  HE   KNEW    HE   WAS    RIGHT. 

Mr.  Gibson,  as  lie  walked  into  Exeter,  endeavoured  to  justify  hia 
own  conduct  to  himself.  There  was  no  moment,  he  declared  to 
himself,  in  which  he  had  not  endeavoured  to  do  right.  Seeing  the 
manner  in  which  he  had  been  placed  among  these  two  young  women, 
both  of  whom  had  fiiUcn  in  love  with  him,  how  could  he  have  saved 
liimself  from  vacillation  ?  And  by  what  untoward  chance  had  it  come 
to  pass  that  he  had  now  learned  to  dislike  so  vigorously,  almost  to 
hate,  the  one  whom  he  had  been  for  a  moment  sufficiently  infatuated 
to  think  that  he  loved  ? 

But  with  all  his  arguments  he  did  not  succeed  in  justifying  to  him- 
self his  own  conduct,  and  he  hated  himself. 


CHAPTER  LXVI. 

OF  A  QUARTER  OF  LAMB. 


Miss  Stanbuey,  looking  out  of  her  parlour  window,  saw  Mr.  Gibson 
hurrying  towards  the  cathedral,  down  the  passage  which  leads  from 
Southernhay  into  the  Close.  "  He's  just  come  from  Heavitree,  I'll  bo 
bound,"  said  Miss  Stanbury  to  Martha,  who  was  behind  her. 

"  Like  enough,  ma'am." 

"  Though  they  do  say  that  the  poor  fool  of  a  man  has  become  quite 
sick  of  his  bargain  already." 

"He'll  have  to  be  sicker  yet,  ma'am,"  said  Martha. 

"They  were  to  have  been  married  last  week,  and  nobody  ever 
knew  why  it  was  put  off.  It's  my  behef  he'll  never  marry  her.  And 
she'll  be  served  right ; — quite  right." 

"He  must  marry  her  now,  ma'am.  She's  been  buying  things  all 
over  Exeter,  as  though  there  was  no  end  of  their  money." 

"  They  haven't  more  than  enough  to  keep  body  and  soul  togethei'," 
said  Miss  Stanbury.  "  I  don't  see  why  I  mightn't  have  gone  to 
service  this  morning,  Martha.     It's  quite  warm  now  out  in  the  Close." 

"  You'd  better  wait,  ma'am,  till  the  east  winds  is  over.  She  was  at 
Puddock's  only  the  day  before  yesterday,  buying  bed-linen, — the 
finest  they  had,  and  that  wasn't  good  enough." 

"  Psha  ! "  said  Miss  Stanbury. 

"As  though  Mr.  Gibson  hadn't  things  of  that  kind  good  enough 
for  her,"  said  Martha. 

Then  there  was  silence  in  the  room  for  awhile.  Miss  Stanbmy  was 
standing  at  one  window,  and  Martha  at  the  other,  watching  the  people 


OF    A    QUATITEU   OF   LAMB.  1-31 

as  they  passed  backwards  and  forwards,  in  and  out  of  tlio  Close. 
Dorothy  had  now  been  away  at  Nuncombe  Putney  for  some  weeks, 
and  her  aunt  felt  her  loneliness  with  a  heavy  sense  of  weakness. 
Never  had  she  entertained  a  companion  in  the  house  who  had  suited 
her  as  well  as  her  niece,  Dorothy.  Dorothy  would  always  listen  to 
her,  would  always  talk  to  her,  would  always  bear  with  her.  Since 
Dorothy  had  gone,  various  letters  had  been  interchanged  between 
them.  Though  there  had  been  anger  about  Brooke  Burgess,  there 
had  been  no  absolute  rupture  ;  but  Miss  Stanbury  had  felt  that  she 
could  not  wi-ite  and  beg  her  niece  to  come  back  to  her.  She  had 
not  sent  Dorothy  away.  Dorothy  had  chosen  to  go,  because  her  aunt 
had  had  an  opinion  of  her  own  as  to  what  was  fitting  for  her  heii' ; 
and  as  Miss  Stanbmy  would  not  give  up  her  opinion,  she  could  not 
ask  her  niece  to  retiu-n  to  her.  Such  had  been  her  resolution,  sternly 
expressed  to  herself  a  dozen  times  during  these  solitary  weeks ;  but 
time  and  solitude  had  acted  upon  her,  and  she  longed  for  the  girl's 
presence  in  the  house,  "Martha,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  think  I  shall 
get  you  to  go  over  to  Nuncombe  Putney." 

"Again,  ma'am  ?" 

"  "Why  not  again  ?  It's  not  so  far,  I  suppose,  that  the  journey  will 
hurt  you." 

"  I  don't  think  it'd  hurt  me,  ma'am  ; — only  what  good  will  I  do  ?" 

"  If  you'll  go  rightly  to  work,  you  may  do  good.  Miss  Dorothy 
was  a  fool  to  go  the  way  she  did ; — a  great  fool." 

"  She  stayed  longer  than  I  thought  she  would,  ma'am." 

"  I'm  not  asking  you  what  you  thought.  I'll  tell  you  what.  Do 
you  send  Giles  to  Winslow's,  and  tell  them  to  send  in  early  to-morrow 
a  nice  fore-quarter  of  lamb.  Or  it  wouldn't  hui't  you  if  you  went  and 
chose  it  yourself." 

"It  wouldn't  hurt  me  at  all,  ma'am." 

"  You  get  it  nice  ; — not  too  small,  because  moat  is  meat  at  the  prico 
things  are  now ;  and  how  they  ever  see  butcher's  meat  at  all  is  more 
than  I  can  understand." 

"  People  as  has  to  be  careful,  ma'am,  makes  a  little  go  a  long  way." 

"You  got  it  a  good  size,  and  take  it  over  in  a  basket.  It  Avon't 
hurt  you,  done  up  clean  in  a  napkin." 

"  It  won't  hurt  me  at  all,  ma'am." 

"And  you  give  it  to  Miss  Dorothy  with  my  love.  Don't  you  let 
'em  think  I  sent  it  to  my  sister-in-law." 

"  And  is  that  to  bo  all,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  mean  all  ?" 


132  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

"  Because,  ma'am,  the  railway  and  the  carrier  would  take  it  quite 
ready,  and  there  would  be  a  matter  of  ten  or  twelve  shillings  saved  in 
the  journey." 

"AVhose  affair  is  that?" 

"  Not  mine,  ma'am,  of  course." 

"I  believe  you're  afraid  of  the  trouble,  Martha.  Or  else  you  don't 
like  going  because  they're  poor." 

"  It  ain't  fair,  ma'am,  of  you  to  say  so  ; — that  it  ain't.  All  I  ask 
is, — is  that  to  be  all  ?  When  I've  giv'em  the  lamb,  am  I  just  to 
come  away  straight,  or  am  I  to  say  anything  ?  It  will  look  so  odd  if 
I'm  just  to  put  down  the  basket  and  come  away  without  e'er  a  word." 

"Martha!" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  You're  a  fool." 

"  That's  true,  too,  ma'am." 

"  It  would  be  like  you  to  go  about  in  that  dummy  way, — ^wouldn't 
it; — and  you  that  was  so  fond  of  Miss  Dorothy." 

"  I  was  fond  of  her,  ma'am." 

"  Of  course  you'll  be  talking  to  her  ; — and  why  not  ?  And  if  she 
should  say  anything  about  retui'ning ." 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  You  can  say  that  you  know  her  old  aunt  wouldn't, — wouldn't 
refuse  to  have  her  back  again.  You  can  put  it  your  own  way,  you 
know.     You  needn't  make  me  find  words  for  you." 

"  But  she  won't,  ma'am." 

"Won't  what?" 

*'  Won't  say  anything  about  returning." 

"  Yes,  she  will,  Martha,  if  you  talk  to  her  rightly."  The  servant 
didn't  reply  for  a  while,  but  stood  looking  out  of  the  window.  "  You 
might  as  well  go  about  the  lamb  at  once,  Martha." 

"  So  I  will,  ma'am,  when  I've  got  it  out,  all  clear." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"  Why, — just  this,  ma'am.  May  I  tell  Miss  Dolly  straight  out  that 
you  want  her  to  come  back,  and  that  I've  been  sent  to  say  so  ?  " 

"  No,  Martha." 

"  Then  how  am  I  to  do  it,  ma'am  ?" 

"  Do  it  out  of  your  own  head,  just  as  it  comes  up  at  the  moment?" 

"  Out  of  my  own  head,  ma'am  ?" 

"  Yes  ; — just  as  you  feel,  you  know." 

"  Just  as  I  feel,  ma'am  ?  " 

"You  understand  what  I  mean,  ]\Lartha." 


OF   A    QUARTER   OF   LAMB.  133 

"I'll  do  my  best,  ma'am,  and  I  can't  say  no  more.  And  if  you 
scolds  me  afterwards,  ma'am, — why,  of  course,  I  must  put  up  with 
it." 

"  But  I  won't  scold  you,  Martha." 

"  Then  I'll  go  out  to  Winslow's  about  the  lamb  at  once,  ma'am." 

"  Very  nice,  and  not  too  small,  Martha." 

Martha  went  out  and  ordered  the  lamb,  and  packed  it  as  desired 
quite  clean  in  a  napkin,  and  fitted  it  into  the  basket,  and  arranged 
with  Giles  Hickbody  to  carry  it  down  for  her  early  in  the  morning  to 
the  station,  so  that  she  might  take  the  first  train  to  Lessborough.  It 
was  understood  that  she  was  to  hii-e  a  fly  at  Lessborough  to  take  her 
to  Nuncombe  Putney.  Now  that  she  understood  the  importance  of 
her  mission  and  was  aware  that  the  present  she  took  with  her  was 
only  the  customary  accompaniment  of  an  ambassadress  entrusted  with 
a  great  mission,  Martha  said  nothing  even  about  the  expense.  The 
train  started  for  Xiessborough  at  seven,  and  as  she  was  descending 
from  her  room  at  six,  Miss  Stanbury  in  her  flannel  dressing-goAvn 
stepped  out  of  the  door  of  her  own  room.  "  Just  put  this  in  the 
basket,"  said  she,  handing  a  note  to  her  servant.  "I  thought  last 
night  I'd  write  a  word.  Just  put  it  in  the  basket  and  say  nothing 
about  it."     The  note  which  she  sent  was  as  follows  : — 

"The  Close,  Sth  April,  18G— . 
"  My  Dear  Dorothy, — 

*'  As  Martha  talks  of  going  over  to  pay  you  a  visit,  I've  thought 
that  I'd  just  get  her  to  take  you  a  quarter  of  lamb,  which  is  coming 
in  now  very  nice.  I  do  envy  her  going  to  see  you,  my  dear,  for  I 
had  gotten  somehow  to  love  to  see  your  pretty  face.-  I'm  getting 
almost  strong  again;  but  Sir  Peter,  who  was  here  this  afternoon,  just 
calling  as  a  friend,  was  uncivil  enough  to  say  that  I'm  too  much  of  an 
old  woman  to  go  out  in  the  east  wind.  I  told  him  it  didn't  much 
matter ; — for  the  sooner  old  women  made  way  for  young  ones,  the 
better. 

"I  am  very  desolate  and  solitary  here.  But  I  rather  think  that 
women  Avho  don't  get  married  are  intended  to  be  desolate ;  and  per- 
haps it  is  better  for  them,  if  they  bestow  their  time  and  thoughts  pro- 
perly,— as  I  hope  you  do,  my  dear.  A  woman  with  a  family  of 
children  has  almost  too  many  of  the  cares  of  this  world,  to  give  her 
mind  a&  she  ought  to  the  other.  What  shall  we  say  then  of  those 
who  have  no  such  cares,  and  yet  do  not  walk  uprightly  ?  Dear 
Dorothy,  bo  not  such  a  one.     For  myself,  I  acknowledge  bitterly  the 


134  HE   KNEW   HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

extent  of  my  shortcomings.     Much  has  been  given  to  me ;   but  if 
much  be  expected,  how  shall  I  answer  the  demand  ? 

"  I  hope  I  need  not  tell  you  that  whenever  it  may  suit  you  to  pay 
a  visit  to  Exeter,  your  room  will  be  ready  for  you,  and  there  will  be  a 
warm  welcome.  Mrs.  MacHugh  always  asks  after  you  ;  and  so  has 
Mrs.  Clifford.  I  won't  tell  you  what  Mrs.  Clifford  said  about  your 
colour,  because  it  would  make  you  vain.  The  Heavitrce  affair-  has 
all  been  put  off; — of  course  you  have  heard  that.  Dear,  dear,  dear  ! 
You  know  what  I  think,  so  I  need  not  repeat  it. 

"  Give  my  respects  to  your  mamma  and  Priscilla, — and  for  yourself, 
accept  the  affectionate  love  of 

"  Your  loving  old  aunt, 

"Jemima  Stanbuey. 


ii 


P.S. — If  Martha  should  say  anything  to  you,  you  may  feel  sure 
that  she  knows  my  mind." 

Poor  old  soul.  She  felt  an  almost  uncontrollable  longing  to  have 
her  niece  back  again,  and  yet  she  told  herself  that  she  was  bound  not 
to  send  a  regular  invitation,  or  to  suggest  an  unconditional  return. 
Dorothy  had  herself  decided  to  take  her  departure,  and  if  she  chose  to 
remain  away, — so  it  must  be.  She,  Miss  Stanbury,  could  not  demean 
herself  by  renewing  her  invitation.  She  read  her  letter  before  she 
added  to  it  the  postscript,  and  felt  that  it  was  too  solemn  in  its  tone 
to  suggest  to  Dorothy  that  which  she  wished  to  suggest.  She  had 
been  thinking  much  of  her  own  past  life  when  she  wrote  those  words 
about  the  state  of  an  unmarried  woman,  and  was  vacillating  between 
two  minds, — whether  it  were  better  for  a  young  woman  to  look  for- 
ward to  the  cares  and  affections,  and  perhaps  hard  usage,  of  a  marriage 
life ;  or  to  devote  herself  to  the  easier  and  safer  course  of  an  old 
maid's  career.  But  an  old  maid  is  nothing  if  she  be  not  kind  and 
good.  She  acknowledged  that,  and,  acknowledging  it,  added  the 
postscript  to  her  letter.  What  though  there  was  a  certain  blow  to  her 
pride  in  the  writing  of  it !  She  did  tell  herself  that  in  thus  referring  her 
niece  to  Martha  for  an  expression  of  her  own  mind, — after  that  con- 
versation which  she  and  Martha  had  had  in  the  parlour, — she  was  in 
truth  eating  her  own  words.  But  the  postscript  was  written,  and 
though  she  took  the  letter  up  with  her  to  her  own  room  in  order  that 
she  might  alter  the  words  if  she  repented  of  them  in  the  night,  the 
letter  was  sent  as  it  was  written, — postscript  and  all. 

She  spent  the  next  day  with  very  sober  thoughts.     When  Mrs. 
MacHugh  called  upon  her  and  told  her  that  there  were  rumours  afloat 


river's  cottage.  ,  135 

in  Exeter  that  the  marriage  between  Camilla  Frencli  and  Mr.  Gibson 
Avould  certainly  be  broken  ofl",  in  spite  of  all  purchases  that  had  been 
made,  she  merely  remarked  that  they  were  two  poor,  feckless  things,  who 
didn't  know  their  o-\\ti  minds.  "  Camilla  knows  hers  plain  enough," 
said  Mrs.  MacHugh  sharply ;  but  even  this  did  not  give  Miss  Stan- 
buT}'  any  spirit.  She  waited,  and  waited  patiently,  till  Martha  should 
retuni,  thinking  of  the  sweet  pink  colour  which  used  to  come  and  go 
in  Dorothy's  cheeks, — which  she  had  been  wont  to  observe  so  fre- 
quently, not  knowing  that  she  had  observed  it  and  loved  it. 


CHAPTEB  LXVII. 

mVER'S  COTTAGE. 


Three  days  after  Hugh  Stanbury's  visit  to  Manchester  Street,  he 
wi'otc  a  note  to  Lady  Kowley,  telling  her  of  the  address  at  which 
might  be  found  both  Trevelyan  and  his  son.  As  Bozzle  had  acknow- 
ledged, facts  arc  things  which  may  be  found  out.  Hugh  had  gone  to 
work  somewhat  after  the  Bozzlian  fashion,  and  had  found  out  this 
fact.  "  He  lives  at  a  place  called  River's  Cottage,  at  AVillesden," 
wi'ote  Stanbury.  "If  you  turn  off  the  Harrow  Road  to  the  right, 
about  a  mile  beyond  the  cemetery,  you  will  find  the  cottage  on  the 
left  hand  side  of  the  lane,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  Harrow 
Road.  I  bcUeve  you  can  go  to  Willesden  by  railway,  but  you  had 
better  take  a  cab  from  London."  There  was  much  consultation 
respecting  this  letter  between  Lady  Rowley  and  Mrs.  Trevelyan,  and 
it  was  decided  that  it  should  not  be  shown  to  Sir  Marmaduke.  To 
see  her  child  was  at  the  present  moment  the  most  urgent  necessity  of 
the  poor  mother,  and  both  the  ladies  felt  that  Sir  Marmaduke  in  his 
wrath  might  probably  impede  rather  than  assist  her  in  this  desire.  If 
told  where  he  might  find  Trevelyan,  he  would  probably  insist  on 
starting  in  quest  of  his  son-in-law  himself,  and  the  distance  between 
the  mother  and  her  child  might  become  greater  in  consequence, 
instead  of  less.  There  were  many  consultations  ;  and  the  upshot  of 
these  was,  that  Lady  Rowley  and  her  daughter  determined  to  start  for 
Willesden  without  saying  anything  to  Sir  Marmaduke  of  the  purpose 
they  had  in  hand.  When  Emily  expressed  her  conviction  that  if 
Trevelyan  should  be  away  from  homo  they  would  probably  be  able  to 
make  their  way  into  the  house, — so  as  to  see  the  child.  Lady  Rowley 
with  Bomo  hesitation  acknowledged  that  such  might  be  the  case.    But 


136  HE   KKEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

the  child's  mother  said  nothing  to  her  own  mother  of  a  scheme  which 
she  had  half  formed  of  so  clinging  to  her  boy  that  no  human  power 
should  separate  them. 

They  started  in  a  cab,  as  advised  by  Stanbury,  and  were  driven  to 
a  point  on  the  road  from  which  a  lane  led  down  to  Willesden,  passing 
by  River's  Cottage.  They  asked  as  they  came  along,  and  met  no  diffi- 
culty in  finding  their  way.  At  the  point  on  the  road  indicated,  there 
was  a  country  inn  for  hay- waggoners,  and  here  Lady  Rowley  proposed 
that  they  should  leave  their  cab,  urging  that  it  might  be  best  to  call 
at  the  cottage  in  the  quietest  manner  possible ;  but  Mrs.  Trevelyan, 
with  her  scheme  in  her  head  for  the  recapture  of  their  child,  begged 
that  the  cab  might  go  on  ; — and  thus  they  were  driven  up  to  the  door. 

River's  Cottage  was  not  a  prepossessing  abode.  It  was  a  new 
building,  of  light-coloured  bricks,  with  a  door  in  the  middle  and  one 
window  on  each  side.  Over  the  door  was  a  stone  tablet,  bearing  the 
name, — River's  Cottage.  There  was  a  little  garden  between  the 
road  and  the  house,  across  which  there  was  a  straight  path  to  the 
door.  In  front  of  one  window  was  a  small  shrub,  generally  called  a 
puzzle-monkey,  and  in  front  of  the  other  was  a  variegated  laui'el.  There 
were  two  small  morsels  of  green  turf,  and  a  distant  view  round  the 
comer  of  the  house  of  a  row  of  cabbage  stumps.  If  Trevelyan  were 
living  there,  he  had  certainly  come  down  in  the  world  since  the  days 
in  which  he  had  occupied  the  house  in  Cui'zon  Street.  The  two 
ladies  got  out  of  the  cab,  and  slowly  walked  across  the  little  garden. 
Mrs.  Trevelyan  was  dressed  in  black,  and  she  wore  a  thick  veil.  She 
had  altogether  been  unable  to  make  up  her  mind  as  to  what  should  be 
her  conduct  to  her  husband  should  she  see  him.  That  must  bo 
governed  by  circumstances  as  they  might  occur.  Her  visit  was  made 
not  to  him,  but  to  her  boy. 

The  door  was  opened  before  they  knocked,  and  Trevelyan  himself 
was  standing  in  the  narrow  passage.  Lady  Rowley  was  the  first  to 
speak.     "  Louis,"  she  said,  "  I  have  brought  your  wife  to  see  you." 

"  Who  told  you  that  I  was  here  ?"  he  asked,  still  standing  in  the 
passage. 

"Of  course  a  mother  would  find  out  where  was  her  child,"  said 
Lady  Rowley. 

"  You  should  not  have  come  here  without  notice,"  he  said.  "  I  was 
careful  to  let  you  know  the  conditions  on  which  j-ou  should  come."' 

"  You  do  not  mean  that  I  shall  not  see  my  child,"  said  the  mother. 
"  Oh,  Louis,  you  will  let  me  see  him." 

Trevelyan  hesitated  a  moment,   still   keeping  his  position  fii-mly 


<Vw<>>tCt*^t>AiQ>Z^ 


y^^■\l^l■.'< I 


♦'YOU  haven't  forgotten  mamma?" 


RIVKU  S   COiTAGE.  137 

in  the  doonvay.  By  this  timo  an  old  "woman,  decently  dressed  and 
of  comfortable  appearance,  bad  taken  ber  place  bebind  him,  and 
behind  ber  was  a  slip  of  a  girl  about  fifteen  years  of  age.  This  was 
the  owner  of  lliver's  Cottage  and  her  daughter,  and  all  the  inhabitants 
of  the  cottage  were  now  there,  standing  in  the  passage.  "  I  ought 
not  to  let  you  see  him,"  said  Trevelyan;  "you  have  intruded  upon 
me  in  coming  here !  I  had  not  wished  to  sec  you  here, — till  you  had 
complied  with  the  order  I  had  given  you."  What  a  meeting  between 
a  husband  and  a  wife  Avho  had  not  seen  each  other  now  for  many 
months, — between  a  husband  and  a  wife  who  were  still  young  enough 
not  to  have  outlived  the  first  impulses  of  their  early  love !  He  still 
stood  there  guarding  the  way,  and  had  not  even  put  out  his  hand  to 
greet  her.  He  was  guarding  the  way  lest  she  should,  without  his 
permission,  obtain  access  to  her  own  child !  She  had  not  removed 
her  veil,  and  now  she  hardly  dared  to  step  over  the  threshold  of  her 
husband's  house.  At  this  moment,  she  perceived  that  the  woman 
behind  was  pointing  to  the  room  on  the  left,  as  the  cottage  was 
entered,  and  Emily  at  once  understood  that  her  boy  was  there.  Then 
at  that  moment  she  heard  her  son's  voice,  as,  in  his  solitude,  the 
child  began  to  cry.  "  I  must  go  in,"  she  said  ;  "  I  will  go  in  ;"  and 
rushing  on  she  tried  to  push  aside  her  husband.  Her  mother  aided 
her,  nor  did  Trevelyan  attempt  to  stop  her  with  violence,  and  in  a 
moment  she  was  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  a  small  sofa,  with  her  child 
in  her  arms.  "I  had  not  intended  to  hinder  you,"  said  Trevelyan, 
"  but  I  require  from  you  a  promise  that  you  will  not  attempt  to 
remove  him." 

"  WTiy  should  she  not  take  him  home  with  her?"  said  Lady 
Rowley. 

"  Because  I  will  not  have  it  so,"  replied  Trevelyan.  "Because  I 
choose  that  it  should  be  understood  that  I  am  to  be  the  master  of  my 
own  afiairs." 

Mrs.  Trevelyan  had  now  thrown  aside  her  bonnet  and  her  veil,  and 
was  covering  her  child  with  caresses.  The  poor  little  fellow,  whose 
mind  had  been  utterly  dismayed  by  the  events  which  had  occurred  to 
him  since  his  capture,  though  he  returned  her  kisses,  did  so  in  fear 
and  trembling.  And  he  was  still  sobbing,  rubbing  his  eyes  with  his 
knuckles,  and  by  no  means  yielding  himself  with  his  whole  heart  to 
his  mother's  tenderness, — as  she  would  have  had  him  do.  "  Loucy," 
she  said,  whispering  to  him,  "you  know  mamma;  you  haven't  for- 
gotten mamma?"  He  half  murmured  some  little  infantine  word 
through  his  sobs,  and  then  put  his  cheek  up  to  bo  pressed  against  his 

VOL.  11.  G  '•' 


138  HE    KNEW    HE    "SVAS    RIGHT. 

mother's  face.  "  Louey  will  never,  never  forget  his  own  mamma ; — - 
■will  he,  Louey?"  The  poor  boy  had  no  assurances  to  give,  and 
could  only  raise  his  cheek  again  to  be  kissed.  In  the  meantime -Lady 
RoTvley  and  Trevelyan  were  standing  by,  not  speaking  to  each  other, 
regarding  the  scene  in  silence. 

She, — Lady  Rowley, — could  see  that  he  was  frightfully  altered  in 
appearance,  even  since  the  day  on  which  she  had  so  lately  met  him 
in  the  City.  His  cheeks  were  thin  and  haggard,  and  his  eyes  v\^ere 
deep  and  very  bright, — and  he  moved  them  quicklj'  from  side  to  side, 
as  though  ever  suspecting  something.  He  seemed  to  be  smaller  in 
stature, — withered,  as  it  were,  as  though  he  had  melted  away.  And, 
though  ho  stood  looking  upon  his  wife  and  child,  he  was  not  for  {i 
moment  still.  He  would  change  the  posture  of  his  hands  and  arms, 
moving  them  quickly  with  little  surreptitious  jerks  ;  and  would  shuiHe 
his  feet  upon  the  floor,  almost  without  altering  his  position.  His 
clothes  hung  about  him,  and  his  linen  was  soiled  and  worn.  Lady 
Rowley  noticed  this  especially,  as  he  had  been  a  man  peculiarly  given 
to  neatness  of  apparel.  He  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  You  have  come 
dov.'n  here  in  a  cab  ?"  said  he. 

*'  Yes, — in  a  cab,  from  London,"  said  Lady  Rowley. 

"  Of  course  you  will  go  back  in  it  ?    You  cannot  stay  here.     There 
"is  no  accommodation.     It  is  a  "wi-etched  place,  but  it  suits  the  boy. 
As  for  me,  all  places  are  now  alike." 

"  Louis,"  said  his  wife,  springing  up  from  her  knees,  coming  to 
him,  and  taking  his  right  hand  between  both  her  own,  "you  v.'ill  let 
me  take  him  Vv'ith  me.     I  know  you  will  let  me  take  him  with  me." 

"  I  cannot  do  that,  Emily ;  it  would  be  wrong." 

"Wrong  to  restore  a  child  to  his  mother?  Oh,  Louis,  think  of  it. 
What  must  my  life  be  without  him, — or  you  ?" 

"  Don't  talk  of  me.     It  is  too  late  for  that." 

"  Not  if  you  will  be  reasonable,  Louis,  and  listen  to  me.  Oh, 
heavens,  how  ill  you  are  ! "  As  she  said  this  she  drew  nearer  to  him, 
so  that  her  face  was  almost  close  to  his.  "  Louis,  come  back;  come 
back,  and  let  it  all  be  forgotten.  It  shall  be  a  dream,  a  horrid  dream, 
and  nobody  shall  speak  of  it."  He  left  his  hand  within  hers  and 
stood  looking  into  her  face.  He  was  well  aware  that  his  life  since  he 
had  left  her  had  been  one  long  hour  of  misery.  There  had  been  to 
him  no  alleviation,  no  comfort,  no  consolation.  He  had  not  a  friend 
left  to  him.  Even  his  satellite,  the  policeman,  was  becoming  weary 
of  him  and  manifestly  suspicious.  The  woman  with  whom  he  was 
now  lodging,   and  whose  resources  were  infinitely  benefited  by  his 


KIVER's   COITAGE.  139 

payments  to  her,  had  already  thrown  out  hints  that  she  was  afraid  of 
him.  And  as  ho  looked  at  his  wife,  ho  knew  that  he  loved  her. 
Everything  for  him  now  was  hot  and  dry  and  poor  and  hitter.  How 
sweet  would  it  be  again  to  sit  with  her  soft  hand  in  his,  to  feel  her 
cool  brow  against  his  own,  to  have  the  comfort  of  her  care,  and  to 
hear  the  music  of  loving  words  !  The  companionship  of  his  wife  had 
once  been  to  him  everything  in  the  world ;  but  now,  for  many  months 
past,  ho  had  kno^\^l  no  companion.  She  bade  him  come  to  her,  and 
look  upon  all  this  trouble  as  a  dream  not  to  bo  mentioned.  Could  it 
be  possible  that  it  should  be  so,  and  that  they  might  yet  be  happy 
together, — perhaps  in  some  distant  country,  where  the  story  of  all 
their  misery  might  not  be  Imown  '?  He  felt  all  this  truly  and  with  a 
keen  accuracy.  If  he  were  mad,  he  was  not  all  mad.  "I  will  tell 
you  of  nothing  that  is  past,"  said  she,  hanging  to  him,  and  coming 
still  nearer  to  him,  and  embracing  his  arm. 

Could  she  have  condescended  to  ask  him  not  to  tell  her  of  the  past ; 
— had  it  occurred  to  her  so  to  word  her  request, — she  might  perhaps 
have  prevailed.     But  who  can  say  how  long  the  tenderness  of  his 
heart  would  have  saved  him  from  further  outbreak ; — and  whether 
such  prevailing  on  her  part  would  have  been  of  permanent  service  ? 
As  it  was,  her  words  wounded  him  in  that  spot  of  his  inner  self  which 
was  most  sensitive, — on  that  spot  from  whence   had  come  all  his 
fuiy.     A  black  cloud  came  upon  his  brow,  and  he  made  an  efibrt  to 
withdraw  himself  from  her  grasp.     It  was  necessary  to  him  that  she 
should  in  some  fashion  own  that  he  had  been  right,  and  now  she  was 
promising  him  that  she  would  not  tell  him  of  his  fault !     He  could 
not  thus  swallow  down  all  the  convictions  by  which  he  had  fortified 
himself  to  bear  the  misfortunes  which  he  had  endured.     Had  he  not 
quarrelled  with  every  friend  he  possessed  on  this  score  ;  and  should  he 
now  stultify  himself  in  all  those  quarrels  by  admitting  that  he  had 
been   cruel,    unjust,    and   needlessly  jealous  ?     And   did    not   truth 
demand  of  him  that  he  should  cling  to  his  old  assurances  ?     Had  she 
not  been  disobedient,  ill-conditioned,  and  rebellious  ?     Had  she  not 
received  the  man,  both  him  personally  and  his  letters,  after  he  had 
explained  to  her  that  his  honour  demanded  that  it  should  not  be  so  ? 
How  could  he  come  into  such  terms  as  those  now  proposed  to  him, 
simply  because  he  longed  to  enjoy  the  rich  sweetness  of  her  soft 
hand,  to  feci  the  fragrance  of  her  breath,  and  to  quench  the  heat  of 
his  forehead  in  the  cool  atmosphere  of  her  beauty?     "Why  have 
you  driven  me  to  this  by  your  intercourse  with  that  man?"  ho  said. 
♦'  ^Yhy,  why,  why  did  you  do  it  ?  " 


140  HE    KNEW    HE    MAS    RIGHT. 

She  "was  still  clinging  to  liim.  **  Louis,"  she  said,  "I  am  your 
wife." 

"  Yes  ;  you  arc  my  Avife." 

"  And  will  you  still  believe  such  evil  of  me  without  any  cause  ?" 

"  There  has  been  cause, — horrible  cause.  You  must  repent, — 
repent, — repent." 

"Heaven  help  me,"  said  the  woman,  falling  back  from  him,  and 
returning  to  the  boy  Avho  was  now  seated  in  Lady  Kowley's  lap. 
"  Mamma,  do  you  speak  to  him.  What  can  I  say  ?  Would  he  think 
better  of  me  were  I  to  own  myself  to  have  been  guilty,  when  there 
has  been  no  guilt, — no  slightest  fault  ?  Does  he  wish  me  to  purchase 
my  child  by  saying  that  I  am  not  fit  to  be  his  mother?" 

"  Louis,"  said  Lady  Rowley,  "  if  any  man  was  ever  wrong,  mad, 
madly  mistaken,  3-ou  are  so  now." 

"Have  you  come  out  here  to  accuse  me  again,  as  you  did  before  in 
London  ?"  he  asked.  "  Is  that  the  way  in  which  you  and  she  intend 
to  let  the  past  be,  as  she  says,  like  a  dream  ?  She  tells  me  that  I  am 
ill.  It  is  true.  I  am  ill, — and  she  is  killing  me,  killing  me,  by  her 
obstinacy." 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?"  said  the  wife,  again  rising  from 
her  child. 

"Acknowledge  your  transgressions,  and  say  that  j'ou  will  amend 
your  conduct  for  the  future." 

"  Mamma,  mamma, — what  shall  I  say  to  him  ?  " 

"  Who  can  speak  to  a  man  that  is  beside  himself?"  replied  Lady 
Rowley. 

"  I  am  not  so  beside  myself  as  yet,  Lady  Rowlej',  but  that  I  know 
bow  to  guard  my  own  honour  and  to  protect  my  own  child.  I  have 
told  you,  Emily,  the  terms  on  which  you  can  come  back  to  me.  You 
had  better  now  return  to  your  mother's  house ;  and  if  you  wish  again 
to  have  a  house  of  your  own,  and  your  husband,  and  your  boy,  you 
know  by  what  means  you  may  acquire  them.  For  another  week  I 
shall  remain  here  ; — after  that  I  shall  remove  far  from  hence." 

"  And  where  will  you  go,  Louis  ?" 

"  As  yet  I  know  not.  To  Italy  I  think, — or  perhaps  to  America. 
It  matters  little  where  for  me." 

"  And  will  Louey  be  taken  with  you  ?" 

"  Certainly  he  will  go  with  me.  To  strive  to  bring  him  up  so  that 
he  may  be  a  happier  man  than  his  father  is  all  that  there  is  now  left 
for  me  in  life."  Mrs.  Trevelyan  had  now  got  the  boy  in  her  arms, 
and   her  mother  was   seated   by  her  on  the  sofa.     Trevelyan  was 


KlVEU'b    COTTAGE.  141 

standing  away  from  them,  but  so  near  the  door  that  no  sudden  motion 
on  their  part  ■would  enable  them  to  escape  -with  the  boy  without  his 
interposition.  It  now  again  occurred  to  the  mother  to  carry  off  her 
prize  in  opposition  to  her  husband ; — but  she  had  no  scheme  to  that 
effect  laid  with  her  mother,  and  she  could  not  reconcile  herself  to  the 
idea  of  a  contest  with  him  in  which  personal  violence  would  be  neces- 
sary. The  woman  of  the  house  had,  indeed,  seemed  to  sympathise 
with  her,  but  she  could  not  dare  in  such  a  matter  to  trust  to  assistance 
from  a  stranger.  "  I  do  not  wish  to  be  uncourteous,"  said  Trevelyan, 
'•  but  if  you  have  no  assurance  to  give  me,  you  had  better — leave 
me." 

Then  there  came  to  be  a  bargaining  about  time,  and  the  poor 
woman  begged  almost  on  her  knees  that  she  might  be  allowed  to  take 
her  child  up-staii"S-and  be  with  him  alone  for  a  few  minutes.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  not  seen  her  boy  till  she  had  had  him  to 
herself,  in  absolute  privacy,  till  she  had  kissed  his  limbs,  and  had  her 
liand  upon  his  smooth  back,  and  seen  that  he  was  white  and  clean 
and  bright  as  he  had  ever  been.  And  the  bargain  was  made.  She 
was  asked  to  pledge  her  word  that  she  would  not  take  him  out  of  the 
house, — and  she  pledged  her  word,  feeling  that  there  was  no  strength 
in  her  for  that  action  which  she  had  meditated.  He,  knowing  that 
he  might  still  guard  the  passage  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  allowed 
her  to  go  with  the  boy  to  his  bedroom,  while  he  remained  below  with 
Lady  Kowley.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  wa^  allowed  to  her,  and  she 
humbly  promised  that  she  would  return  when  that  time  was  expii'ed. 

Trevelyan  held  the  door  open  for  her  as  she  went,  and  kept  it  open 
during  her  absence.  There  was  hardly  a  word  said  between  him  and 
Lady  Rowley,  but  he  paced  from  the  passage  into  the  room  and  from 
the  room  into  the  passage  with  his  hands  behind  his  back.  "It  is 
cruel,"  he  said  once.     "It  is  very  cruel." 

"  It  is  you  that  are  cruel,"  said  Lady  Eowley. 

"  Of  course  ; — of  course.  That  is  natural  from  you.  I  expect 
that  from  you."  To  this  she  made  no  answer,  and  he  did  not  open 
Lis  lips  again. 

After  a  while  Mrs.  Trevelyan  called  to  her  mother,  and  Lady 
Rowley  was  allowed  to  go  up-stairs.  The  quarter  of  an  hour  was  of 
course  greatly  stretched,  and  all  the  time  Trevelyan  continued  to  pace 
in  and  out  of  the  room.  He  was  patient,  for  lie  did  not  summon 
them ;  but  went  on  pacing  backwards  and  forwards,  looking  now  and 
again  to  see  that  the  c.ib  was  at  its  place, — that  no  deceit  was  being 
attempted,  no  second  act  of  kidnapping  being  perpetrated.     At  last 


1*12  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

tlio  two  ladies  camo  cloAvn  the  stairs,  and  the  boy  was  with  them, — 
and  the  woman  of  the  house. 

"Louis,"  said  the  wife,  going  quickly  u^)  to  her  husband,  "  I  will 
Jo  anything,  if  you  will  give  nae  my  child." 

"  What  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  Anything  ; — say  what  you  want.  Ho  is  all  the  world  to  me,  and 
I  cannot  live  if  he  bo  taken  from  me." 

"Acknowledge  that  you  have  been  wrong." 

"  But  how  ; — in  what  words  ; — how  am  I  to  speak  it  ?" 

"  Say  that  you  have  sinned  ; — and  that  you  will  sin  no  more." 

"  Sinned,  Louis  ; — as  the  woman  did, — in  the  Scripture  ?  Would 
you  have  me  say  that  ?" 

"  He  cannot  think  that  it  is  so,"  said  Lady  Eowley. 

But  Trevelyan  had  not  understood  her.  "  Lady  Kowley,  I  should 
have  fancied  that  my  thoughts  at  any  rate  were  my  own.  But  this  is 
useless  now.  The  child  cannot  go  with  you  to-day,  nor  can  you 
remain  here.  Go  home  and  think  of  what  I  have  said.  If  then  you 
will  do  as  I  would  have  you,  you  shall  return." 

With  many  embraces,  with  promises  of  motherly  love,  and  with 
prayers  for  love  in  return,  the  poor  woman  did  at  last  leave  the  house, 
and  return  to  the  cab.  As  she  went  there  was  a  doubt  on  her  own 
mind  whether  she  should  ask  to  kiss  her  husband ;  but  he  made  no 
sign,  and  she  at  last  passed  out  without  any  mark  of  tenderness.  He 
stood  by  the  cab  as  they  entered  it,  and  closed  the  door  upon  them, 
and  then  went  slowly  back  to  his  room.  "  My  poor  bairn,"  he  said 
to  the  boy  ;   "  my  poor  bairn." 

"  Why  for  mamma  go  ?"  sobbed  the  child. 

"Mamma  goes ;  oh,  heaven  and  earth,  why  should  she  go? 

She  goes  because  her  spu-it  is  obstinate,  and  she  will  not  bend.  She 
is  stiff-necked,  and  will  not  submit  herself.  But  Louey  must  love 
mamma  always ; — and  mamma  some  day  will  come  back  to  him,  and 
be  good  to  him." 

"  Mamma  is  good, — always,"  said  the  child.  Trevelyan  had  intended 
on  this  very  afternoon  to  have  gone  up  to  town, — to  transact  business 
with  Bozzle ;  for  he  still  believed,  though  the  aspect  of  the  man  was 
bitter  to  him  as  wormwood,  that  Bozzle  was  necessary  to  him  in  all 
his  business.  And  he  still  made  appointments  with  the  man,  some- 
times at  Stony  Walk,  in  the  Borough,  and  sometimes  at  the  tavern  in 
Poulter's  Com-t,  even  though  Bozzle  not  unfrequently  neglected  to 
attend  the  summons  of  his  employer.  And  he  would  go  to  his 
banker's  and  draw  out  money,  and  then  walk  about  the  crowded  lanes 


KIVKRS    COTTAGE.  143 

of  the  City,  ami  aftcwvanls  return  to  bis  desolate  lodgings  at  Willes- 
dcn,  thinking  that  he  had  been  transacting  business, — and  that  this 
business  was  exacted  from  him  by  the  unfortunate  position  of  his 
aflairs.  But  now  he  gave  up  his  journey.  His  retreat  had  been  dis- 
covered;  and  there  came  upon  him  at  once  a  fear  that  if  he  left  the 
house  his  child  would  be  taken.  His  landlady  told  him  on  this  very  day 
that  the  boy  ought  to  be  sent  to  his  mother,  and  had  made  him  un- 
derstand that  it  would  not  suit  her  to  find  a  home  any  longer  for  one 
who  was  so  singular  in  his  proceedings.  He  believed  that  his  child 
would  be  given  up  at  once,  if  he  were  not  there  to  guard  it.  He  stayed 
at  home,  therefore,  turning  in  his  mind  many  schemes.  Ho  had  told 
his  wife  that  he  should  go  either  to  Italy  or  to  America  at  once  ;  but 
in  doing  so  he  had  had  no  fonned  plan  in  his  head.  He  had  simply 
imagined  at  the  moment  that  such  a  threat  would  bring  her  to  sub- 
mission. But  now  it  became  a  question  whether  ho  would  do  better 
than  go  to  America.  He  suggested  to  himself  that  he  should  go  to 
Canada,  and  fix  himself  with  his  boy  on  some  remote  farm, — far  away 
from  an)-  city ;  and  would  then  invite  his  wife  to  join  him  if  she  would. 
She  was  too  obstinate,  as  he  told  himself,  ever  to  yield,  unless  she 
should  be  absolutely  softened  and  brought  down  to  the  ground  by  tlio 
loss  of  her  child.  "What  would  do  this  so  effectually  as  the  interpo- 
sition of  the  broad  ocean  between  him  and  her  ?  He  sat  thinking  of 
this  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  Louey  was  left  to  the  charge  of  the 
mistress  of  River's  Cottage. 

"Do  you  think  he  believes  it,  mamma  ?"  Mrs.  Trevelyan  said  to 
her  mother  when  they  had  already  made  nearly  half  their  joui-ney  home 
in  the  cab.  There  had  been  nothing  spoken  hitherto  between  them, 
except  some  half-formed  words  of  affection  intended  for  consolation 
to  the  young  mother  in  her  great  aflliction. 

"  He  does  not  know  what  he  believes,  dearest." 

"  You  heard  what  he  said.     I  was  to  own  that  I  had — sinned." 

"  Sinned ; — yes  ;  because  you  will  not  obey  him  like  a  slave.  That 
is  sin — to  him." 

"  But  I  asked  him,  mamma.  Did  you  not  bear  me  ?  I  could  not 
say  the  word  plainer, — but  I  asked  him  whether  he  meant  that  sin.  Ho 
must  have  known,  and  he  would  not  answer  rac.  And  he  spoke  of 
my — transgression.  Mamma,  if  he  believed  that,  ho  would  not  let 
me  come  back  at  all." 

"  Ho  did  not  believe  it,  Emily." 

"  Could  he  possibly  then  so  accuse  me, — the  mother  of  his  child  ! 
If  his  heart  bo  utterly  hard  and  false  towards  me,  if  it  is  possible  that 


144  HE    KNEW   HE   WAS    RIGHT. 

lie  should  be  cruel  to  me  with  such  cruelty  as  that, — still  he  must 
love  his  boj'.  AVhy  did  he  not  answer  me,  and  say  that  he  did  not 
think  it?" 

"  Simply  because  his  reason  has  left  him." 

"But  if  he  be  mad,  mamma,  ought  we  to  leave  him  like  that? 
And,  then,  did  you  see  his  eyes,  and  his  face,  and  his  hands  ?  Did 
you  observe  how  thin  he  is, — and  his  back,  how  bent  ?  And  his 
clothes, — how  they  were  torn  and  soiled.  It  cannot  be  right  that  he 
should  be  left  like  that." 

"  We  will  tell  papa  when  we  get  home,"  said  Lady  Rowley,  who 
was  herself  beginning  to  be  somewhat  frightened  by  what  she  had 
seen.  It  is  all  very  well  to  declare  that  a  friend  is  mad  when  one 
simply  desires  to  justify  one's  self  in  opposition  to  that  friend  ; — but 
the  matter  becomes  much  more  serious  when  evidence  of  the  friend's 
insanity  becomes  true  and  circumstantial.  "  I  certainly  think  that  a 
physician  should  see  him,"  continued  Lady  Rowley.  On  their  return 
home  Sir  Marmaduke  was  told  of  what  had  occurred,  and  there  was  a 
long  family  discussion  in  which  it  was  decided  that  Lady  Milborough 
should  be  consulted,  as  being  the  oldest  friend  of  Louis  Trevelyan 
himself  with  whom  they  were  acquainted.  Trevelyan  had  relatives  of 
his  own  name  living  in  Cornwall ;  but  Mrs.  Trevelyan  herself  had 
never  even  met  one  of  that  branch  of  the  family. 

Sir  Marmaduke,  however,  resolved  that  he  himself  would  go  out 
and  see  his  son-in-law.  He  too  had  called  Trevelyan  mad,  but  he  did 
not  believe  that  the  madness  was  of  such  a  nature  as  to  interfere  with 
his  own  duties  in  punishing  the  man  who  had  ill  used  his  daughter. 
He  would  at  any  rate  see  Trevelyan  himself ; — but  of  this  he  said 
nothing  either  to  his  wife  or  to  his  child. 


CHAPTER  LXVIII. 


MAJOR  MAGRUDHE'S  COMMITTEE. 


/t~ 


■'. 


n 


.»!,«  ?  - 

l?»!«ill,-i. 


M 


■  ii^\~:. 


m  MAPtMADUIvE  could  not  go  out 
to  Willesden  on  the  morning  after 
Lady  Rowley's  return  from  River's 
Cottage,  because  on  that  day  ho 
was  summoned  to  attend  at  twelve 
o'clock  before  a  Committee  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  to  give  his 
evidence  and  the  fruit  of  his  cx- 
f II  perieuce  as  to  the  government  of 
British  colonies  generally ;  and  as 
he  went  down  to  the  House  in  a 
cab  from  Manchester  Street  he 
thoroughly  wished  that  his  friend 
Colonel  Osborne  had  not  been  so 
efficacious  in  bringing  him  home. 
The  task  before  him  was  one  which 
~   "  ~  he  thoroughly  disliked,  and  of  which 

he  was  afraid.  He  dreaded  the  inquisitors  before  whom  ho  was  to 
appear,  and  felt  that  though  he  was  called  there  to  speak  as  a  master 
of  his  art  of  governing,  he  would  in  truth  be  examined  as  a  servant, — 
and  probably  as  a  servant  who  did  not  know  his  business.  Had  his 
sojourn  at  home  been  in  other  respects  happy,  he  might  have  been 
able  to  balance  the  advantage  against  the  inquiry  ; — but  there  was  no 
such  balancing  for  him  now.  And,  moreover,  the  expense  of  his  own 
house  in  Manchester  Street  was  so  large  that  this  journey,  in  a 
pecuniary  point  of  view,  would  be  of  but  little  service  to  him.  So  ho 
went  down  to  the  House  in  an  unhappy  mood  ;  and  when  he  shook 
hands  in  one  of  the  passages  with  his  friend  Osborne  who  was  on  the 
Committee,  there  was  very  little  cordiality  in  his  manner.  "  This  is 
the  most  ungrateful  thing  I  ever  knew,"  said  the  Colonel  to  himself; 
"I  have  almost  disgraced  myself  by  having  this  fellow  brought  home; 
and  now  he  quanvls  with  me  because  that  idiot,  his  son-in-law,  has 

VOL.  II.  II 


14G  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

quarrelled  Avith  Lis  wife."  Aiid  Colonel  Osborne  really  did  feel  that 
he  was  a  martyr  to  the  ingratitude  of  his  friend. 

The  Committee  had  been  convoked  by  the  House  in  compliance  with 
the  eager  desires  of  a  certain  ancient  pundit  of  the  constitution,  who  had 
been  for  many  years  a  member,  and  who  had  been  kno%vn  as  a  stern 
critic  of  our  colonial  modes  of  government.  To  him  it  certainly 
seemed  that  everything  that  was,  was  bad, — as  regarded  our  national 
dependencies.  But  this  is  so  usually  the  state  of  mind  of  all  parlia- 
mentary critics,  it  is  so  much  a  matter  of  course  that  the  members 
who  take  up  the  army  or  the  navy,  guns,  India,  om-  relations  with 
Spain,  or  workhouse  management,  should  find  everything  to  be  bad, 
rotten,  and  dishonest,  that  the  wrath  of  the  member  for  EUicrankie 
against  colonial  peculation  and  idleness,  was  not  thought  much  of  in 
the  open  House.  He  had  been  at  the  work  for  years,  and  the  Colonial 
Office  were  so  used  to  it  that  they  rather  liked  him.  He  had  made 
himself  free  of  the  ofiice,  and  the  clerks  were  always  glad  to  see  him. 
It  was  understood  that  he  said  bitter  things  in  the  House, — that 
was  Major  Magruder's  line  of  business ;  but  he  could  be  quite 
pleasant  when  he  was  asking  questions  of  a  private  secretary,  or 
telling  the  news  of  the  day  to  a  senior  clerk.  As  he  was  now  between 
seventy  and  eighty,  and  had  been  at  the  work  for  at  least  twenty 
j^ears,  most  of  those  concerned  had  allowed  themselves  to  think  that 
he  would  ride  his  hobby  harmlessly  to  the  day  of  his  parliamentary 
death.  But  the  drop  from  a  house  corner  will  hollow  a  stone  by  its 
constancy,  and  Major  Magruder  at  last  persuaded  the  House  to  gi-ant 
him  a  Committee  of  Inquiry.  Then  there  came  to  be  serious  faces  at 
the  Colonial  Office,  and  all  the  little  pleasantries  of  a  friendly  opposi- 
tion were  at  an  end.  It  was  felt  that  the  battle  must  now  become  a 
real  fight,  and  Secretary  and  Under-Secretary  girded  up  their  loins. 

Major  Magruder  was  chaii-man  of  his  own  committee,  and  being  a 
man  of  a  laborious  turn  of  mind,  much  given  to  blue-books,  very 
patient,  thoroughly  conversant  with  the  House,  and  imbued  with  a 
strong  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  parliamentary  questionings  to  carry  a 
point,  if  not  to  elicit  a  fact,  had  a  happy  time  of  it  dui'ing  this  session. 
He  was  a  man  who  always  attended  the  House  from  4  p.m.  to  the 
time  of  its  breaking  up,  and  who  never  missed  a  division.  The  slight 
additional  task  of  sitting  four  hours  in  a  committee-room  three  days 
a  week,  was  only  a  delight  the  more, — especially  as  during  those  four 
hours  he  could  occupy  the  post  of  chairman.  Those  who  knew  Major 
Magruder  well  did  not  doubt  but  that  the  Committee  would  sit  for 
many  weeks,  and  that  the  whole  theory  of  colonial  government,  or 


MAJOR   MAGRUDEll's    COMMITI'EK.  147 

rather  of  imperial  control  supervising  such  government,  ■would  bo 
tested  to  the  very  utmost.  Men  who  had  heard  the  old  Major 
maunder  on  for  years  past  on  his  pet  subject,  hardly  knew  how  much 
vitality  would  be  found  in  him  when  his  maundering  had  succeeded  in 
giving  him  a  committee. 

A  Governor  from  one  of  the  greater  colonies  had  already  been 
under  question  for  nearly  a  week,  and  was  generally  thought  to  have 
come  out  of  the  fire  unscathed  by  the  flames  of  the  Major's  criticism. 
This  Governor  had  been  a  picked  man,  and  he  had  made  it  appear 
that  the  control  of  Downing  Street  was  never  more  harsh  and  seldom 
less  refreshing  and  beautifying  than  a  spring  shower  in  April.  No 
other  lands  under  the  sun  were  so  blest,  in  the  way  of  government, 
as  were  the  colonies  with  which  ha  had  been  acquainted ;  and,  as  a 
natural  consequence,  their  devotion  and  loyalty  to  the  mother 
country  were  quite  a  passion  with  them.  Now  the  Major  had  been 
long  of  a  mind  that  one  or  two  colonies  had  better  simply  be  given 
up  to  other  nations,  which  were  more  fully  able  to  look  after  them  than 
w\as  England,  and  that  three  or  four  more  should  be  allowed  to  go 
clear, — costing  England  nothing,  and  owing  England  nothing.  But 
the  well-chosen  Governor  who  had  now  been  before  the  Committee, 
had  rather  staggered  the  Major, — and  things  altogether  were  supposed 
to  be  looking  up  for  the  Colonial  Office. 

And  now  had  come  the  day  of  Sii*  Marmaduke's  martyi-dom.  He 
was  first  requested,  with  most  urbane  politeness,  to  explain  the  exact 
natui-e  of  the  government  which  he  exercised  in  the  Mandarins.  Now 
it  certainly  was  the  case  that  the  manner  in  which  the  legislative  and 
executive  authorities  were  intermingled  in  the  afliiirs  of  these  islands, 
did  create  a  complication  which  it  was  difficult  for  any  man  to  under- 
stand, and  veiy  difficult  indeed  for  any  man  to  explain  to  others. 
There  was  a  Court  of  Chancery,  so  called,  which  Sir  Marmaduke 
described  as  a  little  parliament.  When  he  was  asked  whether  the 
court  exercised  legislative  or  executive  functions,  he  said  at  first  that 
it  exercised  both,  and  then  that  it  exercised  neither.  He  knew  that 
it  consisted  of  nine  men,  of  whom  five  were  appointed  by  the  colony 
and  four  by  the  Crown.  Yet  he  declared  that  the  Crown  had  the 
control  of  the  court ; — which,  in  fact,  was  true  enough  no  doubt,  as  the 
five  open  members  were  not  perhaps,  all  of  them,  immaculate  patriots  ; 
but  on  this  matter  poor  Sir  Marmaduke  was  very  obscure.  'NMien 
asked  who  exercised  the  patronage  of  the  Crown  in  nominating  the 
four  members,  he  declared  that  the  four  members  exercised  it  them- 
eclvcs.     Did  he  appoint  them  ?     No  ; — he  never  appointed  anybody 


148  IIK    KNEW    HE    WAS    rvTOIlT. 

Limsclf.  lie  consulted  the  Court  of  Cbancciy  for  everything.  At 
last  it  came  out  that  the  chief  justice  of  the  ish^nds,  and  three  other 
officers,  always  sat  in  the  court ; — but  Avhothcr  it  was  required  by  the 
constitution  of  the  islands  that  this  should  be  so,  Sir  Marmaduke  did 
not  know.  It  had  worked  well ; — that  was  to  say,  everybody  had 
complained  of  it,  but  he.  Sir  Marmaduke,  would  not  recommend 
any  change.  "What  he  thought  best  was  that  the  Colonial  Secre- 
tary should  send  out  his  orders,  and  that  the  people  in  the 
colonies  should  mind  their  business  and  grow  coffee.  When  asked 
Avhat  would  be  the  eflcct  upon  the  islands,  under  his  scheme  of 
government,  if  an  incoming  Colonial  Secretary  should  change  the 
policy  of  his  predecessor,  he  said  that  he  didn't  think  it  vrould  much 
matter  if  the  people  did  not  know  anything  about  it. 

In  this  way  the  Major  had  a  field  day,  and  poor  Sir  Marmaduke 
was  much  discomfited.  There  was  present  on  the  Committee  a  young 
Parliamentary  Under-Secretary,  who  with  much  attention  had  studied 
the  subject  of  the  Court  of  Chancery  in  the  Mandarins,  and  who  had 
acknowledged  to  his  superiors  in  the  office  that  it  certainly  was  of 
all  legislative  assemblies  the  most  awkward  and  complicated.  He  did 
what  he  could,  by  questions  judiciously  put,  to  pull  Sir  Marmaduke 
through  his  difficulties  ;  but  the  unfortunate  Governor  had  more  than 
once  lost  his  temper  in  answering  the  chairman ;  and  in  his  heavy" 
confusion  was  past  the  power  of  any  Under-Secretary,  let  him  be 
ever  so"  clever,  to  pull  him  through.  Colonel  Osborne  sat  by  the  while 
and  asked  no  questions.  He  had  been  put  on  the  Committee  as  a 
respectable  dummy ;  but  there  was  not  a  member  sitting  there  who 
did  not  know  that  Sir  Marmaduke  had  been  brought  home  as  his 
friend; — and  some  of  them,  no  doubt,  had  whispered  that  this 
bringing  home  of  Sir  Marmaduke  was  part  of  the  payment  made  by 
the  Colonel  for  the  smiles  of  the  Governor's  daughter.  But  no  one 
alluded  openly  to  the  inefficiency  of  the  evidence  given.  No  one 
asked  why  a  Governor  so  incompetent  had  been  sent  to  them.  No 
one  suggested  that  a  job  had  been  done.  There  are  certain  things  of 
Avhich  opposition  members  of  Parliament  complain  loudly;  —  and 
there  are  certain  other  things  as  to  which  they  are  silent.  The  line 
between  these  things  is  well  known ;  and  should  an  ill-conditioned,  a 
pig-headed,  an  underbred,  or  an  ignorant  member  not  understand 
this  line  and  transgress  it,  by  asking  questions  which  should  not  be 
asked,  he  is  soon  put  down  from  the  Treasury  bench,  to  the  great 
delight  of  the  whole  House. 

Sir  Marmaduke,  after  having  been  questioned  for  an  entire  after- 


l^IAJOR   MAGRUDEr's    COMMITTEE.  149 

r.oon,  left  the  IIousc  "with  extreme  ilisgu.st.  lie  was?  so  convhiccd  of 
his  own  faihiro,  that  he  felt  that  his  career  as  a  Colonial  Governor 
must  ho  over.  Surely  they  would  never  let  him  go  back  to  his  islands 
after  such  an  exposition  as  he  had  made  of  his  own  ignorance.  Ho 
hurried  off  into  a  cab,  and  was  ashamed  to  be  seen  of  men.  But  the 
members  of  the  Committee  thought  little  or  nothing  about  it.  The 
Major,  and  those  Avho  sided  with  him,  had  been  anxious  to  entrap 
then-  witness  into  contradictions  and  absurdities,  for  the  furtherance 
of  their  o"v\ti  object ;  and  for  the  furtherance  of  theirs,  the  Under- 
Secretary  from  the  Office  and  the  supporters  of  Government  had 
cndeavoui-ed  to  defend  theii*  man.  But,  when  the  affair  was  over,  if 
no  special  admii-ation  had  been  elicited  for  Sir  Marmaduke,  neither 
was  there  expressed  any  special  reprobation.  The  Major  carried  on 
his  Committee  over  six  weeks,  and  succeeded  in  having  his  blue- 
book  printed ;  but,  as  a  matter  of  course,  nothing  further  came  of  it ; 
iind  the  Court  of  Chancery  in  the  Mandarin  Islands  still  continues  to 
hold  its  own,  and  to  do  its  work,  in  spite  of  the  absurdities  displayed 
in  its  construction.  Major  Magruder  has  had  his  day  of  success,  and 
now  feels  that  Othello's  occupation  is  gone.  He  goes  no  more  to  the 
Colonial  Office,  lives  among  his  friends  on  the  memories  of  his  Com- 
mittee,— not  always  to  their  gratification, — and  is  beginning  to  think 
that  as  his  work  is  done  he  may  as  well  resign  Killicraukie  to  some 
younger  politician.  Poor  Sir  Marmaduke  remembered  his  defeat  Avith 
soreness  long  after  it  had  been  forgotten  by  all  others  who  had  been 
present,  and  was  astonished  when  he  found  that  the  journals  of  tho 
da)-,  though  they  did  in  some  curt  fashion  report  the  proceedings  of 
the  Committee,  never  uttered  a  word  of  censure  against  him,  as  they 
had  not  before  uttered  a  word  of  praise  for  that  pearl  of  a  Governor 
who^had  been  examined  before  him. 

On  the  following  morning  he  went  to  tho  Colonial  Office  by 
appointment,  and  then  he  saw  the  young  Iiish  Under-Secretary 
whom  he  had  so  much  dreaded.  Nothing  could  be  more  civil  than 
was  the  young  L-ish  Under-Secretary,  who  told  him  that  he  had 
better  of  course  stay  in  town  till  the  Committee  was  over,  though  it 
v/as  not  probable  that  he  would  be  wanted  again.  When  tho  Com- 
mittee had  done  its  work  he  would  bo  allowed  to  remain  six  weeks 
on  service  to  prepare  for  his  joui-ney  back.  If  ho  wanted  more  timo 
after  that  he  could  ask  for  leave  of  absence.  So  Sir  Marmaduke  left 
the  Colonial  Office  Avith  a  great  weight  off  his  mind,  and  blessed  that 
}oung  Libh  Secretary  as  he  went. 


150  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

CHAPTER  LXIX. 

SIR  3IArxMADVKE  AT  F/ILLESDEX. 

On  the  next  clay  Sir  Marmacluke  pui'posed  going  to  Willcsdcn.  He 
was  in  great  doubt  whetlier  or  no  he  would  fii-st  consult  that  very 
eminent  man  Dr.  Trite  Turbury,  as  to  the  possibility,  and, — if 
possible, — as  to  the  expediency,  of  placing  Mr.  Trevelyan  under  some 
control.  But  Sir  Marmaduke,  though  he  would  repeatedly  declare 
that  his  son-in-law  was  mad,  did  not  really  believe  in  this  madness. 
He  did  not,  that  is,  believe  that  Trevelj^an  was  so  mad  as  to  be  faii'ly 
exempt  from  the  penalties  of  responsibility;  and  he  was  therefore 
desirous  of  speaking  his  own  mind  out  fully  to  the  man,  and,  as  it 
were,  of  having  his  own  personal  revenge,  before  he  might  be  deterred 
by  the  interposition  of  medical  advice.  He  resolved  therefore  that  he 
would  not  see  Sir  Trite  Tui'bury,  at  any  rate  till  he  had  come  back 
from  Willesden.  He  also  went  down  in  a  cab,  but  he  left  the  cab  at 
the  public-house  at  the  corner  of  the  road,  and  walked  to  the  cottage. 

When  he  asked  whether  Mr.  Trevelyan  was  at  home,  the  woman  of 
the  house  hesitated  and  then  said  that  her  lodger  was  out.  "  I  particu- 
larly wish  to  see  him,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  feeling  that  the  woman 
was  lying  to  him.  "  But  he  ain't  to  be  seen,  sir,"  said  the  woman. 
"  I  know  he  is  at  home,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke.  But  the  argument 
was  soon  cut  short  by  the  appearance  of  Trevelyan  behind  the 
woman's  shoulder. 

"  I  am  here.  Sir  Marmaduke  Rowley,"  said  Trevelyan.  "If  you 
wash  to  see  me  you  may  come  in.  I  will  not  say  that  you  are  wel- 
come, but  you  can  come  in."  Then  the  woman  retii-ed,  and  Sir 
Marmaduke  followed  Trevelyan  into  the  room  in  which  Lady  Rowley 
and  Emily  had  been  received ; — but  the  child  was  not  now  in  the 
chamber. 

"  What  are  these  charges  that  I  hear  against  my  daughter?"  said 
Sir  Marmaduke,  rushing  at  once  into  the  midst  of  his  indignation. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  charges  you  have  heard." 

"  You  have  put  her  away." 

"  In  strict  accuracy  that  is  not  correct.  Sir  Marmaduke." 

"  But  she  is  put  away.  She  is  in  my  house  now  because  you  have 
no  house  of  youi*  own  for  her.  Is  not  that  so  ?  And  when  I  came 
home  she  was  stajdng  with  her  uncle,  because  you  had  put  her  away. 
And  what  was  the  meaning  of  her  being  sent  down  into  Devonshire. 


SIR   MARMADUKE    AT   WIIJ.ESDEN.  151 

VThiii  has  she  done  ?  I  am  licr  father,  and  I  expect  to  have  an 
answer?" 

"You  shall  have  an  answer,  certainly." 

"  And  a  true  one.  I  will  have  no  hocus-pocus,  no  humbug,  no 
Jesuitry." 

"  Have  you  come  here  to  insult  me.  Sir  Marmaduko  ?  Because,  if 
so,  there  shall  be  an  end  to  this  interview  at  once." 

"  There  shall  not  be  an  end ; — by  G — ,  no,  not  till  I  have  heard 
what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this.  Do  you  know  what  people  are  say- 
ing of  you ; — that  you  are  mad,  and  that  you  must  be  locked  up,  and 
your  child  taken  away  from  you,  and  your  property  ?  " 

"Who  are  the  people  that  say  so?  Yourself; — and,  perhaps, 
Lady  Rowley  ?  Does  my  wife  say  so  ?  Docs  she  think  that  I  am 
mad.  She  did  not  think  so  on  Thursday,  when  she  prayed  that  she 
might  be  allowed  to  come  back  and  live  with  me." 

"  And  you  would  not  let  her  come  ?" 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Trevelyan.  "I  would  wish  that  she  should 
come, — but  it  must  be  on  certain  conditions." 

"  "^Miat  I  want  to  know  is  why  she  was  turned  out  of  your  house  ?" 

"  She  was  not  turned  out." 

"  "\Miat  has  she  done  that  she  should  be  punished?"  urged  Sir 
Marmaduke,  who  was  unable  to  arrange  his  questions  with  the  happi- 
ness which  had  distinguished  Major  Magruder,  "  I  insist  upon  know- 
ing what  it  is  that  you  lay  to  her  charge.  I  am  her  father,  and  I 
have  a  right  to  know.  She  has  been  barbarously,  shamefully  ill-used, 
and  by  G —  I  will  know." 

"  You  have  come  here  to  bully  mc,  Sir  Marmaduke  Rowley." 

"  I  have  come  here,  sir,  to  do  the  duty  of  a  parent  to  his  child  ; 
to  protect  my  poor  girl  against  the  cruelty  of  a  husband  who 
in  an  unfortunate  horn-  was  allowed  to  take  her  from  her  home. 
I  will  know  the  reason  why  my  daughter  has  been  treated  as  though, 
— as  though, — as  though " 

"  Listen  to  mc  for  a  minute,"  said  Trevelyan. 

"I  am  listening." 

"  I  will  tell  you  nothing  ;  I  will  answer  you  not  a  word." 

"  You  will  not  answer  mc  ?" 

"  Not  when  you  come  to  me  in  this  fashion.  My  wife  is  my  wife, 
and  my  claim  to  her  is  nearer  and  closer  than  is  yours,  who  are  her 
father.  She  is  the  mother  of  my  child,  and  the  only  being  in  the 
world, — except  that  child, — whom  I  love.  Do  j'ou  think  that. with 
such  motives  on  my  part  for  tenderness  towards  her,  for  loving  cai'c, 


152  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS   EIGHT. 

for  the  most  anxious  solicitude,  that  I  can  be  made  more  anxious, 
more  tender,  more  loving  by  coarse  epithets  from  you  ?  I  am  the 
most  miserable  being  under  the  sun  because  our  happiness  has 
been  interrupted,  and  is  it  likely  that  such  misery  should  be  cured  by 
violent  words  and  gestures  ?  If  your  heart  is  'vvrung  for  her,  so  is 
mine.  If  she  be  much  to  you,  she  is  more  to  me.  She  came  here 
the  other  day,  almost  as  a  stranger,  and  I  thought  that  my  heart 
would  have  burst  beneath  its  weight  of  woe.  What  can  you  do  that 
can  add  an  ounce  to  the  burden  that  I  bear  ?  You  may  as  well  leave 
mc, — or  at  least  be  quiet." 

Sir  Marmaduke  had  stood  and  listened  to  him,  and  he,  too,  was  so 
struck  by  the  altered  appearance  of  the  man  that  the  violence  of  his 
indignation  was  lessened  by  the  pity  which  he  could  not  suppress.  When 
Trevelyan  spoke  of  his  wretchedness,  it  was  impossible  not  to  believe 
him.  He  was  as  wretched  a  being  to  look  at  as  it  might  have  been 
possible  to  find.  His  contracted  cheeks,  and  lips  always  open,  and  eyes 
glowing  in  their  sunken  caverns,  told  a  tale  Avhich  even  Sir  Marma- 
duke, who  was  not  of  nature  quick  in  deciphering  such  stories,  could 
not  fail  to  read.  And  then  the  twitching  motion  of  the  man's  hands, 
and  the  restless  shuffling  of  his  feet,  produced  a  nervous  feeling  that 
if  some  remedy  were  not  applied  quickly,  some  alleviation  given  to 
the  misery  of  the  suffering  wretch,  human  power  would  be  strained 
too  far,  and  the  man  would  break  to  pieces, — or  else  the  mind  of  the 
man.  Sir  Marmaduke,  during  his  journey  in  the  cab,  had  resolved 
that,  old  as  he  was,  he  would  take  this  sinner  by  the  throat,  this 
brute  who  had  striven  to  stain  his  daughter's  name, — and  would  make 
him  there  and  then  acknov^'ledge  his  own  brutality.  But  it  was  now 
very  manifest  to  Sir  Marmaduke  that  there  could  be  no  taking  by  the 
throat  in  this  case.  He  could  not  have  brought  himself  to  touch  the 
poor,  weak,  passionate  creature  before  him.  Indeed,  even  the  fury  of 
his  words  was  stayed,  and  after  that  last  appeal  he  stormed  no  more. 
"  But  what  is  to  be  the  end  of  it  ?"  he  said. 

"Who  can  tell?  Who  can  say?  She  can  tell.  She  can  put  an 
end  to  it  all.  She  has  but  to  say  a  word,  and  I  will  devote  my  life 
to  her.  But  that  word  must  be  spoken."  As  he  said  this,  he  dashed 
liis  hand  upon  the  table,  and  looked  up  with  an  air  that  would  have 
been  comic  with  its  assumed  magnificence  had  it  not  been  for  the  true 
tragedy  of  the  occasion. 

"You  had  better,  at  any  rate,  let  her  have  her  child  for  the 
present." 

"  No  ; — my  boy  shall  go  with  me.     She  may  go,  too,  if  she  pleases, 


SIR   MARMADUKE   AT   "NVILLESDEX.  lo3 

but  my  boy  shall  certainly  go  -with  mo.  If  I  Lad  put  her  from  mc,  as 
you  said  just  now,  it  might  have  been  otherwise.  But  she  shall  be  as 
welcome  to  mo  as  flowers  in  May, — as  flowers  in  May !  She  shall 
be  as  welcome  to  me  as  the  music  of  heaven." 

Sii"  Marmaduke  felt  that  he  had  nothing  more  to  urge.  He  had 
altogether  abandoned  that  idea  of  having  his  revenge  at  the  cost  of 
the  man's  throat,  and  was  quite  convinced  that  reason  could  have  no 
power  with  him.  lie  Avas  already  thinking  that  he  would  go  aw\ay, 
straight  to  his  LiAvj^er,  so  that  some  step  might  be  taken  at  once  to 
stop,  if  possible,  the  taking  away  of  the  boy  to  America,  when  the 
lock  of  the  door  was  gently  turned,  and  the  landlady  entered  the  room. 

"You  will  excuse  me,  sir,"  said  the  woman,  "but  if  you  be 
anything  to  this  gentleman " 


a 


Mrs.  Fuller,  leave  the  room,"  said  Trevelyan.  "  I  and  the 
gentleman  are  engaged." 

"  I  see  you  be  engaged,  and  I  do  beg  pardon.  I  ain't  one  as  would 
intrude  w'ilful,  and,  as  for  listening,  or  the  likes  of  that,  I  scorn  it. 
But  if  this  gentleman  be  anything  to  you,  Mr.  Trevelyan " 

"I  am  his  wife's  father,"  said  Su-  Marmaduke. 

"  Like  enough.  I  was  thinking  perhaps  so.  His  lady  was  down 
here  on  Thursday, — as  sweet  a  lady  as  any  gentleman  need  wish  to 
stretch  by  his  side." 

"  Mrs.  Fuller,"  said  Trevelyan,  marching  up  towards  her,  "  I  will 
not  have  this,  and  I  desire  that  you  vrill  retire  from  my  room." 

But  Mrs.  Fuller  escaped  round  the  table,  and  would  not  be 
banished.  She  got  round  the  table,  and  came  closely  opposite  to  Sir 
Marmaduke.  "I  don't  want  to  say  nothing  out  of  my  place,  sii'," 
said  she,  "  but  something  ought  to  be  done.  He  ain't  fit  to  be  left  to 
hisself, — not  alone, — not  as  he  is  at  present.  He  ain't,  indeed,  and  I 
wouldn't  be  doing  my  duty  if  I  didn't  say  so.  He  has  them  sweats 
at  night  as'd  be  enough  to  kill  any  man  ;  and  he  eats  nothing,  and  he 
don't  do  nothing ;  and  as  for  that  poor  little  boy  as  is  now  in  my  own 
bed  upstairs,  if  it  wasn't  that  I  and  my  Bessy  is  fond  of  children,  I 
don't  know  what  would  become  of  that  boy." 

Trevelyan,  finding  it  impossible  to  get  rid  of  her,  had  stood  quietly, 
while  he  Hstened  to  her.  "  She  has  been  good  to  my  child,"  he  said. 
"  I  acknowledge  it.  As  for  myself,  I  have  not  been  Avell.  It  is  true. 
But  I  am  told  that  travel  will  set  mo  on  my  feet  again.  Change  of 
air  will  do  it."  Not  long  since  he  had  been  urging  the  wretchedness 
of  his  own  bodily  health  as  a  reason  why  his  wife  should  yield  to 
him  ;  but  now,  when  his  sickness  was  brought  as  a  charge  against 


154  HE   KNEW   HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

him, — was  aclducccl  as  a  reason  -why  his  friends  should  interfere,  and 
look  after  him,  and  concern  themselves  in  his  afiairs,  he  saw  at  once 
that  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  make  little  of  his  ailments. 

"  Would  it  not  bo  best,  Trevelyan,  that  you  should  come  ^\ath  me 
to  a  doctor,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke. 

"  No  ; — no.  I  have  my  own  doctor.  That  is,  I  know  the  course 
which  I  should  follow.  This  jjlace,  though  it  is  good  for  the  boy,  has 
disagreed  with  me,  and  my  life  has  not  been  altogether  pleasant ; — I 
may  say,  by  no  means  pleasant.  Troubles  have  told  upon  me,  but 
change  of  air  will  mend  it  all." 

"  I  wish  you  would  come  with  me,  at  once,  to  London.  You  shall 
come  back,  j'ou  know.     I  vn.\l  not  detain  you." 

"  Thank  you, — no.  I  will  not  trouble  you.  That  will  do,  IVIi-g. 
Fuller.  You  have  intended  to  do  your  duty,  no  doubt,  and  now  you 
can  go."  Whereupon  Mrs.  Fuller  did  go.  "  I  am  obliged  for  your  care, 
Sir  Mannaduke,  but  I  can  really  do  very  well  vvithout  troubling  you." 

"You  cannot  suppose,  Trevelyan,  that  we  can  allow  things  to  go 
on  like  this." 

"  And  what  do  you  mean  to  do  9  " 

"  Well ; — I  shall  take  advice.  I  shall  go  to  a  lawyer, — and  to  a 
doctor,  and  perhaps  to  the  Lord  Chancellor,  and  all  that  kind  of 
thing.     We  can't  let  things  go  on  like  this." 

"You  can  do  as  you  please,"  said  Trevelyan,  "  but  as  you  have 
threatened  me,  I  must  ask  you  to  leave  me." 

Sir  Marmaduke  could  do  no  more,  and  could  say  no  more,  and  he 
took  his  leave,  shaking  hands  with  the  man,  and  speaking  to  him 
with  a  courtesy  which  astonished  himself.  It  was  impossible  to 
maintain  the  strength  of  his  indignation  against  a  poor  creature  who 
was  so  manifestly  unable  to  guide  himself.  But  when  he  was  in 
London  he  drove  at  once  to  the  house  of  Dr.  Trite  Turbury,  and 
remained  there  till  the  doctor  returned  from  his  round  of  visits. 
According  to  the  great  authority,  there  was  much  still  to  be  done 
before  even  the  child  could  be  rescued  out  of  the  father's  hands.  "  I 
can't  act  without  the  la^vj^ers,"  said  Dr.  Turbury.  But  he  explained 
to  Sir  Marmaduke  what  steps  should  be  taken  in  such  a  matter. 

Trevelyan,  in  the  mean  time,  clearly  understanding  that  hostile 
measures  would  now  be  taken  against  him,  set  his  mind  to  work  to 
think  how  best  he  might  escape  at  once  to  America  with  his  boy. 


WHAT  NORA  ROWLEY  THOUGHT  ABOUT  CARRIAGES.  155 

CILVPTER  LXX. 

SnETJ'IXG  WHAT  ^VEA  ROWLEY  THOUGHT  ABOUT  CABHIAGES. 

Sir  Marmaduke,  on  his  return  homo  from  Dr.  Turbuiy's  house,  found 
that  he  had  other  domestic  troubles  on  hand  over  and  above  those 
arising  from  his  cklcr  daughter's  position.  Mr.  Hugh  Stanbury  had 
been  in  Manchester  Street  during  his  absence,  and  had  asked  for  him, 
and,  finding  that  he  was  away  from  home,  had  told  his  story  to  Lady 
Rowley.  When  he  had  been  shown  up-stairs  all  the  four  daughters 
had  been  with  their  mother ;  but  he  had  said  a  word  or  two  signifying 
his  desu'c  to  speak  to  Lady  Rowley,  and  the  three  girls  had  left  the 
room.  In  this  way  it  came  to  pass  that  he  had  to  plead  his  cause 
before  Nora's  mother  and  her  elder  sister.  He  had  pleaded  it  well, 
and  Lady  Rowley's  heart  had  been  well  disposed  towards  him ;  but 
when  she  asked  of  his  house  and  his  home,  his  answer  had  been 
hardly  more  STitisfactory  than  that  of  Alan-a-Dale.  There  was  little 
that  he  could  call  his  own  beyond  "  The  blue  vault  of  heaven."  Had 
he  saved  any  money  ?  No, — not  a  shilling; — that  was  to  say, — as  ho 
himself  expressed  it, — nothing  that  could  be  called  money.  He  had  a 
few  pounds  by  him,  just  to  go  on  with.  What  was  his  income  ?  Well, 
— last  year  he  had  made  four  hundred  pounds,  and  this  year  he  hoped 
to  make  something  more.  He  thought  he  could  see  his  way  plainly  to 
five  himdred  a  year.  Was  it  permanent ;  and  if  not,  on  what  did  it 
depend '?  He  believed  it  to  be  as  permanent  as  most  other  professional 
incomes,  but  was  obliged  to  confess  that,  as  regarded  the  source  from 
whence  it  was  drawn  at  the  present  moment,  it  might  be  brought  to  an 
abrupt  end  any  day  by  a  disagreement  between  himself  and  the  editor 
of  the  D.  R.  Did  he  think  that  this  was  a  fixed  income  ?  He  did 
think  that  if  he  and  the  editor  of  the  D.  R.  were  to  fall  out,  he  could 
come  across  other  editors  who  would  gladly  employ  him.  Would  he 
himself  feel  safe  in  giving  his  own  sister  to  a  man  with  such  an  income  ? 
In  answer  to  this  question,  he  started  some  rather  bold  doctrines  on 
the  subject  of  matrimony  in  general,  asserting  that  safety  was  not 
desirable,  that  energy,  patience,  and  mutual  confidence  would  be 
increased  by  the  excitement  of  ri«k,  and  that  in  his  opinion  it  behoved 
young  men  and  young  women  to  come  together  and  get  themselves 
maiTicd,  even  though  there  might  bo  some  not  remote  danger  of  distress 
before  them.  He  admitted  that  starvation  would  bo  disagreeable, — 
especially  for  children,  in  the  eyes  of  their  parents, — but  alleged  that 
children  as  a  rule  wore  not  starved,  and  quoted  the  Scripture  to  prove 


15G  HE    KNEW    HE   WAS    RIGHT. 

that  laoncst  laborious  men  -were  not  to  bo  seen  begging  their  bread  in 
the  streets.  He  was  very  eloquent,  but  his  eloquence  itself  was  against 
him.  Both  Lady  Kowley  and  Mrs.  Trevelyan  were  afraid  of  such 
advanced  opinions  ;  and,  although  everything  was  of  course  to  be  left, 
nominally,  to  the  decision  of  Sir  Marmaduke,  they  both  declared  that 
they  could  not  recommend  Sir  Marmaduke  to  consent.  Lady  Eowley 
said  a  word  as  to  the  expediency  of  taking  Nora  back  with  her  to  the 
Mandarins,  pointing  out  Avhat  appeared  to  her  then  to  be  the  necessity  of 
taking  Mrs.  Trevelyan  with  them  also  ;  and  in  saying  this  she  hinted 
that  if  Nora  were  disposed  to  stand  by  her  engagement,  and  Mr.  Stan- 
bury  equally  so  disposed,  there  might  be  some  possibility  of  a  marriage 
at  a  future  period.  Only,  in  such  case,  there  must  be  no  correspond- 
ence. La  answer  to  this  Hugh  declared  that  he  regarded  such  a 
scheme  as  being  altogether  bad.  The  Mandarins  were  so  very  far 
distant  that  he  might  as  well  be  engaged  to  an  angel  in  heaven.  Nora, 
if  she  were  to  go  aAvay  now,  would  perhaps  never  come  back  again  ; 
and  if  she  did  come  back,  would  be  an  old  woman,  with  hollow  cheeks. 
Li  replying  to  this  proposition,  he  let  fall  an  opinion  that  Nora  was  old 
enough  to  judge  for  herself.  He  said  nothing  about  her  actual  age, 
and  did  not  venture  to  plead  that  the  young  lady  had  a  legal  right  to 
do  as  she  liked  with  herself;  but  he  made  it  manifest  that  such  an  idea 
was  in  his  mind.  In  answer  to  this.  Lady  Rowley  asserted  that  Nora 
was  a  good  girl,  and  would  do  as  her  father  told  her ;  but  she  did  not 
venture  to  assert  that  Nora  would  give  up  her  engagement.  Lady 
Eowley  at  last  undertook  to  speak  to  Sir  Eowley,  and  to  speak  also  to 
her  daughter.  Hugh  was  asked  for  his  address,  and  gave  that  of  the 
office  of  the  D.  E.  He  was  always  to  be  found  there  between  three 
and  five ;  and  after  that,  four  times  a  week,  in  the  reporters'  gallery 
cf  the  House  of  Commons.  Then  he  was  at  some  pains  to  explain  to 
Lady  Eowley  that  though  he  attended  the  reporters'  gallery,  he  did  not 
report  himself.  It  was  his  duty  to  Avi'ite  leading  political  articles,  and, 
to  enable  him  to  do  so,  he  attended  the  debates. 

Before  he  went  Mrs.  Trevelyan  thanked  him  most  cordially  for  the 
trouble  he  had  taken  in  procuring  for  her  the  address  at  Willesden, 
and  gave  him  some  account  of  the  journey  which  she  and  her  mother 
had  made  to  Elver's  Cottage.  He  argued  with  both  of  them  that  the 
unfortunate  man  must  now  be  regarded  as  being  altogether  out  of  his 
mind,  and  something  was  said  as  to  the  great  wisdom  and  experience 
of  Dr.  Trite  Turbury.  Then  Hugh  Stanbury  took  his  leave  ;  and  even 
Lady  Eowley  bade  him  adieu  with  kind  cordiality.  "I  don't  wonder, 
mamma,  that  Nora  should  like  him,"  said  Mrs.  Trevelyan. 


"VVIIAT  NORA  liOWLEY  THOUGHT  ABOUT  CARRIAGES.  157 

**  That  is  all  vcrj''  well,  my  dear,  and  no  doubt  lie  is  pleasant,  and 
manly,  and  all  tliat ; — but  really  it  would  be  almost  like  marrying  a 
beggar." 

"  For  myself,"  said  Mrs.  Trevctyau,  "  if  I  could  begin  life  again,  I 
do  not  think  that  any  temptation  would  induce  me  to  place  myself  in 
a  man's  power." 

Sir  Marmaduke  was  told  of  all  this  on  his  return  homo,  and  he 
asked  many  questions  as  to  the  natui'e  of  Stanbury's  work.  When  it 
was  explained  to  him, — Lady  Rowley  repeating  as  nearly  as  she  could 
all  that  Hugh  had  himself  said  about  it,  he  expressed  his  opinion  that 
writing  for  a  penny  newspaper  was  hardly  more  safe  as  a  source  of 
income  than  betting  on  horse  races.  "  I  don't  see  that  it  is  wrong," 
said  Mrs.  Trevclyau. 

"  I  say  nothing  about  wrong.  I  simply  assert  that  it  is  uncertain. 
The  very  existence  of  such  a  periodical  must  in  itself  be  most 
insecure."  Sir  Marmadukc,  amidst  the  cares  of  his  government  at 
the  Mandarins,  had,  perhaps,  had  no  better  opportunity  of  watching 
what  was  going  on  in  the  world  of  letters  than  had  fallen  to  the  lot 
of  Miss  Stanbury  at  Exeter. 

"  I  think  your  papa  is  right,"  said  Lady  Eowley. 

"  Of  course  I  am  right.  It  is  out  of  the  question;  and  so  Nora 
must  be  told."  He  had  as  yet  heard  nothing  about  Mr.  Glascock. 
Had  that  misfortune  been  communicated  to  him  his  cup  would  indeed 
have  been  filled  with  sorrow  to  overflowing. 

In  the  evening  Nora  was  closeted  with  her  father.  "Xora,  my 
dear,  you  must  understand,  once  and  for  all,  that  this  cannot  be," 
said  Sir  Marmaduke.  The  Governor,  when  he  was  not  disturbed  by 
outward  circumstances,  could  assume  a  good  deal  of  personal  dignity, 
and  could  speak,  especially  to  his  children,  with  an  aii*  of  indisputable 
authority. 

"  What  can't  be,  papa  ?"  said  Nora. 

Sir  INIarmaduke  perceived  at  once  that  there  was  no  indication  of 
obedience  in  his  daughter's  voice,  and  he  prepared  himself  for  battle. 
He  conceived  himself  to  be  very  strong,  and  thought  that  his  objec- 
tions were  so  well  founded  that  no  one  would  deny  their  truth  and  that 
his  daughter  had  not  a  leg  to  stand  on.  "  This,  that  your  mamma 
tells  me  of  about  Mr.  Stanbury.  Do  you  know,  my  dear,  that  he  has 
not  a  shilling  in  the  world  ?" 

"  I  know  that  he  has  no  fortune,  papa, — if  you  mean  that." 

"  And  no  profession  either  ; — nothing  that  can  bo  called  a  jirofcs- 
sion.     I  do  not  wish  to  argue  it,  my  dear,  because  there  is  no  room 


158  HE   KNEW    HE   WAS    IlIGHT. 

for  argument.  The  wliolo  thing  is  preposterous.  I  cannot  but  think 
ill  of  him  for  having  proposed  it  to  you ;  for  he  must  have  known, — 
must  have  known,  that  a  youug  man  without  an  income  cannot  be 
accepted  as  a  fitting  suitor  for  a  gentleman's  daughter.  As  for  your- 
self, I  can  only  hope  that  you  will  get  the  little  idea  out  of  your  head 
very  quickly ; — but  mamma  wull  speak  to  you  about  that.  "What  I 
want  you  to  understand  from  me  is  this, — that  there  must  be  an  end 
to  it." 

Nora  listened  to  this  speech  in  perfect  silence,  standing  before 
her  father,  and  waiting  patiently  till  the  last  word  of  it  should  be 
pronounced.  Even  when  he  had  finished  she  still  paused  before 
she  answered  him.  ''  Papa,"  she  said  at  last, — and  hesitated  again 
before  she  went  on. 

"  Well,  my  dear." 

**  I  can  not  give  it  up." 

"  But  you  must  give  it  up." 

"No,  papa.  I  would  do  anything  I  could  for  you  and  mamma, 
but  that  is  impossible." 

"  Why  is  it  impossible  ?  " 

*'  Because  I  love  him  so  dearly." 

"  That  is  nonsense.  That  is  what  all  girls  say  when  they  choose 
to  run  against  their  parents.  I  tell  you  that  it  shall  be  given  up.  I 
will  not  have  him  here.  I  forbid  you  to  see  him.  It  is  quite  out 
of  the  question  that  you  should  marry  such  a  man.  I  do  hope, 
Nora,  that  you  are  not  going  to  add  to  mamma's  difficulties  and 
mine  by  being  obstinate  and  disobedient."  He  paused  a  moment, 
and  then  added,  "  I  do  not  think  that  there  is  anything  more  to 
be  said." 

"Papa." 

"  My  dear,  I  think  you  had  better  say  nothing  further  about  it.  If 
you  cannot  bring  yourself  at  the  present  moment  to  promise  that 
there  shall  be  an  end  of  it,  you  had  better  hold  your  tongue.  You 
have  heard  what  I  say,  and  you  have  heard  what  mamma  says.  I  do 
not  for  a  moment  suppose  that  you  dream  of  carrying  on  a  communi- 
cation Avith  this  gentleman  in  opposition  to  our  wishes." 

"But  I  do." 

"  Do  what  ?  " 

"Papa,  you  had  better  listen  to  me."  Sir  Marmaduke,  when  he 
heard  this,  assumed  an  air  of  increased  authority,  in  which  he 
intended  that  paternal  anger  should  be  visible ;  but  he  seated  himself, 
and  prepared  to  receive,  at  any  rate,  some  of  the  arguments  with 


"WHAT  NOUA  liO^VLEV  THOUGHT  ABOUT  CAllllIAGES.  lo9 

which  Nora  mtendeil  to  bolster  up  her  bad  cause.     "  I  have  promised 
Mr.  Staubury  that  I  will  bo  liis  wife." 

'*  That  is  all  nouscnsc." 

"Do  listen  to  me,  papa.  I  Lave  listened  to  you  and  you  ought  to 
listen  to  me.  I  have  promised  him,  and  I  must  keep  my  promise.  I 
shall  keep  my  promise  if  he  wishes  it.  There  is  a  time  when  a  gui 
must  be  supposed  to  know  what  is  best  for  herself, — just  as  there  is 
for  a  man." 

"  I  never  heard  such  stuff  in  all  my  life.  Do  you  mean  that  you'll 
go  out  and  marry  him  like  a  beggar,  with  nothing  but  what  you  stand 
up  in,  with  no  friend  to  be  with  j'ou,  an  outcast,  thi'own  off  by  your 
mother, — with  your  father's — curse  ?" 

"Oh,  papa,  do  not  say  that.  You  would  not  curse  me.  You 
could  not." 

"If  you  do  it  at  all,  that  will  be  the  way." 

"  That  will  not  be  the  way,  papa.  You  could  not  treat  me  like 
that." 

"  And  how  are  you  proposing  to  treat  me  ?  " 

"  But,  papa,  in  whatever  way  I  do  it,  I  must  do  it.  I  do  not  say 
io-day  or  to-morrow ;  but  it  must  be  the  intention  and  purpose  of  my 
life,  and  I  must  declare  that  it  is,  everywhere.  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  about  it.  I  am  engaged  to  him,  and  I  shall  ahvays  say  so, — 
unless  he  breaks  it.  I  don't  care  a  bit  about  fortune.  I  thought  I 
did  once,  but  I  have  changed  all  that." 

"  Because  this  scoundi-el  has  talked  sedition  to  you." 

"He  is  not  a  scoundrel,  papa,  and  he  has  not  talked  sedition.  I 
don't  know  what  sedition  is.  I  thought  it  meant  treason,  and  I'm 
sure  he  is  not  a  traitor.  He  has  made  me  love  him,  and  I  shall  be 
true  to  him." 

Hereupon  Su-  Marmaduke  began  almost  to  weep.  There  came  first 
a  half- smothered  oath  and  then  a  sob,  and  ho  w'alked  about  the  room, 
and  struck  the  table  with  his  fist,  and  rubbed  his  bald  head  impa- 
tiently with  his  hand.  "Nora,"  he  said,  "I  thought  you  were  so 
different  fi-om  this !  If  I  had  believed  this  of  you,  you  never  should 
have  come  to  England  with  Emily." 

"  It  is  too  late  for  that  now,  papa." 

"  Your  mamma  always  told  me  that  you  had  such  excellent  ideas 
about  marriage." 

"  So  I  have, — I  think,"  said  she,  smiUng. 

"  She  always  believed  that  you  would  make  a  match  that  would  bo 
A  credit  to  the  family." 


160  HE  KNEW  HE  was  right. 

"  I  tried  it,  papa ; — the  sort  of  match  that  you  moan.  Indoccl  I 
•was  mercenary  enough  in  what  I  believed  to  be  my  views  of  life.  I 
meant  to  marry  a  rich  man, — if  I  could,  and  did  not  think  much 
whether  I  should  love  him  or  not.    But  when  the  rich  man  came " 

"  What  rich  man  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  mamma  has  told  j-ou  about  Mr.  Glascock." 

"  "Who  is  Mr.  Glascock  ?  I  have  not  heard  a  word  about  Mr. 
Glascock."  Then  Nora  was  forced  to  tell  her  story, — was  called  upon 
to  tell  it  with  all  its  aggravating  details.  By  degi-ees  Su-  Marmaduke 
learned  that  this  Mr.  Glascock,  who  had  desired  to  be  his  son-in-law, 
was  in  very  truth  the  heir  to  the  Peterborough  title  and  estates, — ■ 
would  have  been  such  a  son-in-law  as  almost  to  compensate,  by  the 
brilliance  of  the  connection,  for  that  other  unfortunate  alliance.  He 
could  hardly  control  his  agony  when  he  was  made  to  understand  that 
this  embryo  peer  had  in  truth  been  in  earnest.  "Do  you  mean  that 
he  went  down  after  you  into  Devonshu-e  ?" 

"Yes,  papa." 

"  And  you  refused  him  then, — a  second  time  ?" 

"  Yes,  papa." 

""\Vhy; — why; — why?  You  say  yourself  that  you  liked  him; — 
that  you  thought  that  you  would  accept  him." 

"  When  it  came  to  speaking  the  word,  papa,  I  found  that  I  could 
not  pretend  to  love  him  when  I  did  not  love  him.  I  did  not  care  for 
him, — and  I  liked  somebody  else  so  much  better !  I  just  told  him 
the  plain  truth, — and  so  he  went  away." 

The  thought  of  all  that  he  had  lost,  of  all  that  might  so  easily  have 
been  his,  for  a  time  overwhelmed  Sir  Marmaduke,  and  drove  the  very 
memory  of  Hugh  Stanbury  almost  out  of  his  head.  He  could  under- 
stand that  a  gu'l  should  not  marry  a  man  whom  she  did  not  like  ;  but 
he  could  not  understand  how  any  girl  should  not  love  such  a  suitor 
as  was  Mr.  Glascock.  And  had  she  accepted  this  pearl  of  men,  with 
her  position,  with  her  manners  and  beauty  and  appearance,  such  a 
connection  would  have  been  as  good  as  an  assured  marriage  for  every 
one  of  Sir  Marmaduke's  numerous  daughters.  Nora  was  just  the 
woman  to  look  like  a  great  lady,  a  lady  of  high  rank, — such  a  lady 
as  could  almost  command  men  to  come  and  throw  themselves  at  her 
unmarried  sisters'  feet.  Sir  Marmaduke  had  believed  in  his  daughter 
Kora,  had  looked  forward  to  see  her  do  much  for  the  family ;  and, 
when  the  crash  had  come  upon  the  Trevelyan  household,  had  thought 
almost  as  much  of  her  injured  prospects  as  he  had  of  the  misfortune 
of  her  sister.     But  now  it  seemed  that  more  than  all  the  good  things 


WHAT  NORA  ROWLEY  THOUGHT  ABOUT  CARRIAGES.  IGl 

of  wLat  lie  had  dreamed  liad  been  proposed  to  this  unruly  girl,  In 
spite  of  that  gi'cat  crash, — and  had  been  rejected  !  And  he  saw  more 
than  this, — as  ho  thought.  These  good  things  would  have  been 
accepted  had  it  not  been  for  this  rascal  of  a  penny-a-liner,  this  friend 
of  that  other  rascal  Trevelyan,  who  had  come  in  the  way  of  their  family 
to  destroy  the  happiness  of  them  all  !  Sir  Marmaduke,  in  speaking 
of  Stanbury  after  this,  would  constantly  call  him  a  pcnuy-a-liner, 
thinking  that  the  contamination  of  the  penny  communicated  itself  to 
all  transactions  of  the  Daily  Record. 

"  You  have  made  youi*  bed  for  yourself,  Nora,  and  you  must  lio 
upon  it." 

"  Just  so,  papa." 

"I  mean  that,  as  you  have  refused  Mr.  Glascock's  oficr,  you  can 
never  again  hope  for  such  an  opening  in  life." 

"  Of  course  I  cannot.  I  am  not  such  a  child  as  to  suppose  that 
there  are  many  Mr.  Glascocks  to  come  and  run  after  me.  And  if 
there  were  ever  so  many,  papa,  it  would  be  no  good.  As  you  say,  I 
have  chosen  for  myself,  and  I  must  put  up  with  it.  "When  I  see  the 
carriages  going  about  in  the  streets,  and  remember  how  often  I  shall 
have  to  go  home  in  an  omnibus,  I  do  think  about  it  a  good  deal." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  will  think  when  it  is  too  late." 

*'  It  isn't  that  I  don't  like  carriages,  papa.  I  do  like  them ;  and 
pretty  dresses,  and  brooches,  and  men  and  women  who  have  nothing 

to  do,  and  balls,  and  the  opera ;  but 1  love  this  man,  and  that  is 

more  to  me  than  all  the  rest.  I  cannot  help  myself,  if  it  were  ever 
so.  Papa,  you  musn't  be  angry  with  me.  Pray,  pray,  pray  do  not 
say  that  horrid  word  again." 

This  was  the  end  of  the  interview.  Sir  Marmaduke  found  that  he 
had  nothing  further  to  say.  Nora,  when  she  reached  her  last  prayer 
to  her  father,  referring  to  that  curse  with  which  he  had  threatened  her, 
was  herself  in  tears,  and  was  leaning  on  him  with  her  head  against 
his  shoulder.  Of  course  he  did  not  say  a  word  which  could  be  under- 
stood as  sanctioning  her  engagement  with  Stanbury.  He  was  as 
strongly  determined  as  ever  that  it  was  his  duty  to  save  her  from  tho 
perils  of  such  a  marriage  as  that.  But,  nevertheless,  he  was  so  far 
overcome  by  her  as  to  be  softened  in  his  manners  towards  her.  He 
kissed  her  as  he  left  her,  and  told  her  to  go  to  her  mother.  Then  ho 
went  out  and  thought  of  it  all,  and  felt  as  though  Paradise  had  bceu 
opened  to  his  child  and  she  had  refused  to  enter  the  gate. 


VOL.  n.  n* 


162  HE    KNEW   HE   "WAS   RIGHT. 


CHAPTER  LXXI. 

SHEWING  WHAT  HUGH  STANBVBY  THOUGHT  ABOUT  THE 

DUTY  OF  MAN. 

In  the  conference  wlaicli  took  place  between  Sir  Marmadukc  and  bis 
wife  after  tbe  interview  between  him  and  Nora,  it  was  bis  idea  tbat 
nothing  further  shoukl  be  done  at  all.  "  I  don't  suppose  the  man 
v/ill  come  here  if  he  be  told  not,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  "  and  if  he 
does,  Nora  of  course  will  not  see  him."  He  then  suggested  that 
Kora  would  of  course  go  back  with  them  to  the  Mandarins,  and  that 
when  once  there  she  would  not  be  able  to  see  Stanbury  any  more. 
"  There  must  be  no  correspondence  or  anything  of  that  sort,  and  so 
the  thing  will  die  away."  But  Lady  EoAvley  declared  that  this  would 
not  quite  suffice.  Mr.  Stanbury  had  made  his  offer  in  due  form,  and 
must  be  held  to  be  entitled  to  an  answer.  Sir  Marmaduke,  therefore, 
wrote  the  following  letter  to  the  "penny-a-liner,"  mitigating  the 
asperity  of  his  language  in  compliance  with  his  wife's  counsels. 

"  Manchester  Street,  April  20th,  186—. 
<'My  Dear  Sir,— 

"  Lady  Rowley  has  told  me  of  your  proposal  to  my  daughter 
Nora  ;  and  she  has  told  me  also  what  she  learned  from  you  as  to 
your  cii-cumstances  in  life.  I  need  hardly  point  out  to  you  that  no 
father  would  be  justified  in  giving  his  daughter  to  a  gentleman  upon 
so  small  an  income,  and  upon  an  income  so  very  insecure. 

"  I  am  obliged  to  refuse  my  consent,  and  I  must  therefore  ask  you 
to  abstain  from  visiting  and  from  communicating  with  my  daughter. 

"  Yours  faithfully, 

"  Marmaduke  Rowley. 
"Hugh  Stanhury,  Esq." 

This  letter  was  directed  to  Stanbury  at  the  office  of  the  D.  R.,  and 
Sir  Marmaduke,  as  he  wrote  the  pernicious  address,  felt  himself 
injured  in  that  he  was  compelled  to  write  about  his  daughter  to  a  man 
so  circumstanced.  Stanbury,  when  he  got  the  letter,  read  it  hastily 
and  then  threw  it  aside.  He  knew  what  it  would  contain  before  ho 
opened  it.  He  had  heard  enough  from  Lady  Rowley  to  be  aware 
that  Su-  Marmaduke  would  not  welcome  him  as  a  son-in-law.  Indeed, 
he  had  never  expected  such  welcome.  He  was  half-ashamed  of  his 
own  suit  because  of  the  lowliness  of  his  position, — half-regretful  that 


■WHAT  HUGH  STANDURY  TTIOUCIIT  ABOUT  THE  DUTY  OF  MAN.     1G3 

ho  shonld  have  induced  such  a  girl  as  Nora  Rowley  to  give  up  for  his 
sake  her  hopes  of  magnificence  and  splendour.  But  Sir  Marmadukc's 
letter  did  not  add  anything  to  this  feeling.  He  read  it  again,  and 
smiled  as  he  told  himself  that  the  father  would  certainly  be  very  weak 
in  the  hands  of  his  daughter.  Then  he  went  to  work  again  at  his 
article  ^^ith  a  persistent  resolve  that  so  small  a  trifle  as  such  a  note 
should  have  no  efifect  upon  his  daily  work.  Of  course  Su-  Marmaduke 
would  refuse  his  consent.  Of  course  it  would  be  for  him,  Stanbury, 
to  many  the  girl  he  loved  in  opposition  to  her  father.  Her  father 
indeed  !  If  Nora  chose  to  take  him, — and  as  to  that  he  was  very 
doubtful  as  to  Nora's  wisdom, — but  if  Nora  would  take  him,  what 
was  any  father's  opposition  to  him.  He  wanted  nothing  from  Nora's 
father.  He  was  not  looking  for  money  with  his  wife  ; — nor  for 
fashion,  nor  countenance.  Such  a  Bohemian  was  he  that  he  would 
be  quite  satisfied  if  his  girl  would  walk  out  to  him,  and  become  hig 
wife,  with  any  morning-gown  on  and  with  any  old  hat  that  might  come 
readiest  to  hand.  He  wanted  neither  cards,  nor  breakfast,  nor 
carriages,  nor  fine  clothes.  H  his  Nora  should  choose  to  come  to 
him  as  she  was,  he  having  had  all  previous  necessary  arrangements 
duly  made, — such  as  calling  of  banns  or  procuring  of  licence  if  pos- 
sible,— he  thought  that  a  father's  opposition  would  almost  add  some- 
thing to  the  pleasure  of  the  occasion.  So  ho  pitched  the  letter  on 
one  side,  and  went  on  with  his  article.  And  he  finished  his  article  ; 
but  it  may  be  doubted  whether  it  was  completed  with  the  full  strength 
and  pith  needed  for  moving  the  pulses  of  the  national  mind, — as  they 
should  be  moved  by  leading  articles  in  the  D.  R.  As  he  was  wi'iting 
he  was  thinking  of  Nora, — and  thinking  of  the  letter  which  Nora's 
father  had  sent  to  him.  Trivial  as  was  the  letter,  he  could  not  keep 
himself  from  repeating  the  words  of  it  to  himself.  **  'Need  hardly 
point  out,' — oh ;  needn't  he.  Then  why  does  he  ?  Refusing  his 
consent !  I  wonder  what  the  old  buffers  think  is  the  meaning  of  their 
consent,  when  they  are  speaking  of  daughters  old  enough  to  manage 
for  themselves  ?  Abstain  from  visiting  or  communicating  with  her  I 
But  if  she  visits  and  communicates  with  mo  ; — what  then  ?  I  can't 
force  my  way  into  the  house,  but  she  can  force  her  way  out.  Does 
he  imagine  that  she  can  bo  locked  up  in  the  nursery  or  put  into  the 
comer."  So  he  argued  with  himself,  and  by  such  arguments  ho 
brought  himself  to  the  conviction  that  it  would  be  well  for  him  to 
answer  Sir  Marmadukc's  letter.  This  he  did  at  once, — before  leav- 
ing the  office  of  the  D.  R. 


1G4  HE    KNEW    HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

"  250,  Fleet  Street,  20th  April. 

"My  Deak  Sie  Mabmaduke  Rowley, — 

"  I  have  just  received  your  letter,  and  am  indeed  sorry  that  its 
contents  should  be  so  little  favourable  to  my  hopes.  I  understand 
that  your  objection  to  me  is  simply  in  regard  to  the  smallncss  and 
insecurity  of  my  income.  On  the  first  point  I  may  say  that  I  have 
fair  hopes  that  it  may  be  at  once  increased.  As  to  the  second,  I 
believe  I  may  assert  that  it  is  as  sure  at  least  as  the  income  of  other 
professional  men,  such  as  barristers,  merchants,  and  doctors.  I  can- 
not promise  to  say  that  I  will  not  see  your  daughter.  If  she  desires 
me  to  do  so,  of  course  I  shall  be  guided  by  her  views.  I  wish  that  I 
might  be  allowed  an  opportunity  of  seeing  you,  as  I  think  I  could 
reverse  or  at  least  mitigate  some  of  the  objections  which  you  feel  to 


om*  marriage. 


"  Yours  most  faithfully, 

"  Hugh  Stanbury." 

On  the  next  day  but  one  Sir  Marmaduke  came  to  him.  He  was 
sitting  at  the  office  of  the  D.  R.,  in  a  very  small  and  dirty  room  at 
the  back  of  the  house,  and  Sir  Marmaduke  found  his  way  thither 
through  a  confused  crowd  of  compositors,  pressmen,  and  printers' 
boys.  He  thought  that  he  had  never  before  been  in  a  place  so  foul, 
so  dark,  so  crowded,  and  so  comfortless.  He  himself  was  accustomed 
to  do  his  work,  out  in  the  Islands,  with  many  of  the  appanages  of 
vice-royalty  around  him.  He  had  his  secretary,  and  his  private 
secretary,  and  his  inner-room,  and  his  waiting-room  ;  and  not  unfre- 
quently  he  had  the  honour  of  a  dusky  sentinel  walking  before  the 
door  through  which  he  was  to  be  approached.  He  had  an  idea  that 
all  gentlemen  at  their  work  had  comfortable  appurtenances  around 
them, — such  as  carpets,  dispatch-boxes,  unlimited  stationery,  easy 
chairs  for  temporary  leisure,  big  table-space,  and  a  small  world  of 
books  around  them  to  give  at  least  a  look  of  erudition  to  their  pur- 
suits. There  was  nothing  of  the  kind  in  the  miserably  dark  room 
occupied  by  Stanbury.  He  was  sitting  at  a  wi-etched  little  table  on 
which  there  was  nothing  but  a  morsel  of  blotting  paper,  a  small  ink- 
bottle,  and  the  paper  on  which  he  was  scribbling.  There  was  no 
carpet  there,  and  no  dispatch-box,  and  the  only  book  in  the  room  was 
a  little  dog's-eared  dictionary.  *'  Sir  Marmaduke,  I  am  so  much 
obliged  to  you  for  coming,"  said  Hugh.  "I  fear  you  will  find  this 
place  a  little  rough,  but  we  shall  be  all  alone." 

"  The  place,  Mr.  Stanbury,  will  not  signify,  I  think." 


AVIIAT  HUGH  STANBURY  TIIOUnilT  ABOUT  THE  DUTY  OF  MAN.    165 

"  Not  in  the  least, — if  you  tloii't  miiul  it.  I  got  your  letter,  you 
know,  Sir  Marm.iiluke." 

"  And  I  Lave  Imtl  your  reply.  I  have  como  to  you  because  you 
Lave  expressed  a  wish  for  an  interview ; — but  I  do  not  see  that  it  will 
do  any  good." 

"  You  are  very  kind  for  coming,  indeed,  Sir  Marmaduke ; — ^vciy 
kind.    I  thought  I  might  explain  something  to  you  about  my  income." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  that  you  have  any  permanent  income  ?  " 

"It  goes  on  regularly  from  month  to  month;" — Sir  Marmaduke 
did  not  feel  the  slightest  respect  for  an  income  that  was  paid  monthly. 
According  to  his  ideas,  a  gentleman's  income  should  be  paid  quarterly, 
or  perhaps  half-yearly.  According  to  his  view,  a  monthly  salary  was 
only  one  degree  better  than  weekly  wages  ; — "  and  I  suppose  that  is 
permanence,"  said  Hugh  Stanbury. 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  so  regard  it." 

"  A  barrister  gets  his,  you  know,  very  irregularly.  There  is  no 
saying  when  he  may  have  it." 

"  But  a  barrister's  profession  is  recognised  as  a  profession  among 
gentlemen,  Mi*.  Stanbury." 

"  And  is  not  ours  recognised?  'UTiich  of  us,  barristers  or  men  of 
literature,  have  the  most  effect  on  the  world  at  large.  "Who  is  most 
thought  of  in  London,  Sir  Marmaduke, — the  Lord  Chancellor  or  the 
Editor  of  the  'Jupiter?'" 

"The  Lord  Chancellor  a  great  deal,"  said  Su"  Marmaduke,  quite 
dismayed  by  the  audacity  of  the  question. 

"  By  no  means,  Sir  Marmaduke,"  said  Stanbury,  throwing  out  his 
hand  before  him  so  as  to  give  the  energy  of  action  to  his  words. 
*'  He  has  the  higher  rank.     I  will  admit  that." 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke. 

"And  the  larger  income." 

"  Very  much  larger,  I  should  say,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  with  a 
emile. 

"And  he  wears  a  wig." 

"  Yes; — he  wears  a  wig,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  hardly  knowing  in 
what  spirit  to  accept  this  assertion. 

"And  nobody  cares  one  brass  button  for  him  or  his  opinions,"  said 
Stanbury,  bringing  down  his  hand  heavily  on  the  little  table  for  the 
sake  of  emphasis. 

"^\Tiat,  sir?" 

"  If  you'll  think  of  it,  it  is  so." 

**  Nobody  cares  for  the  Lord  Chancellor !  "     It  certainly  is  the  fact 


1 


166  HE    KNEW   HE   WAS    RIGHT. 

that  gentlemen  living  in  the  Mandarin  Islands  do  think  more  of  the 
Lord  Chancellor,  and  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  the  Lord-Lieutenant,  and 
the  Lord  Chamherlain,  than  they  whose  spheres  of  life  bring  them 
into  closer  contact  with  those  august  functionaries.  "  I  presume, 
Mr.  Stanbury,  that  a  connection  with  a  penny  newspaper  makes  such 
opinions  as  these  almost  a  necessity." 

"Quite  a  necessity.  Sir  Marmaduke.  No  man  can  hold  his  o^vii 
in  print,  now-a-days,  unless  he  can  see  the  difference  between  tinsel 
and  gold." 

"And  the  Lord  Chancellor,  of  course,  is  tinsel." 

"  I  do  not  say  so.  He  may  be  a  great  lawyer, — and  very  useful. 
But  his  lordship,  and  his  wig,  and  his  woolsack,  are  tinsel  in  com- 
parison with  the  real  power  possessed  by  the  editor  of  a  leading  news- 
paper. If  the  Lord  Chancellor  were  to  go  to  bed  for  a  month,  would 
he  be  much  missed  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir.  I'm  not  in  the  secrets  of  the  Cabinet.  I 
should  think  he  would." 

"About  as  much  as  my  grandmother ; — but  if  the  Editor  of  the 
*  Jupiter  '  were  to  be  taken  ill,  it  would  work  quite  a  commotion.  For 
myself  I  should  be  glad, — on  public  grounds, — because  I  don't  like 
his  mode  of  business.  But  it  would  have  an  effect, — because  he  is  a 
leading  man." 

"  I  don't  see  what  all  this  leads  to,  Mr.  Stanbury." 

"  Only  to  this, — that  we  who  write  for  the  press  think  that  our 
calling  is  recognised,  and  must  be  recognised  as  a  profession.  Talk 
of  pei*manence,  Sir  Marmaduke,  are  not  the  newspapers  permanent  ? 
Do  not  they  come  out  regularly  every  day, — and  more  of  them,  and 
still  more  of  them,  are  always  coming  out  ?  You  do  not  expect  a 
collapse  among  them." 

"  There  will  be  plenty  of  newspapers,  I  do  not  doubt; — more  than 
plenty,  perhaps." 

"  Somebody  must  write  them, — and  the  wiiters  will  be  paid." 

"Anybody  could  write  the  most  of  them,  I  should  say." 

"  I  wish  you  would  try.  Sir  Marmaduke.  Just  try  your  hand  at 
a  leading  article  to-night,  and  read  it  yourself  to-morrow  morning." 

"  I've  a  great  deal  too  much  to  do,  Mr.  Stanbury." 

"  Just  so.  You  have,  no  doubt,  the  affaii-s  of  your  Government  to 
look  to.  We  are  all  so  apt  to  ignore  the  work  of  our  neighboui-s  !  It 
seems  to  me  that  I  could  go  over  and  govern  the  Mandarins  without 
the  slightest  trouble  in  the  world.  Biit,  no  doubt,  I  am  mistaken ; — 
just  as  you  are  about  writing  for  the  newspapers." 


"WHAT  HUGH  STANBrF-Y  THOUGHT  ABOUT  THE  DUTY  OF  5IAX.    1G7 

*'I  do  not  know,"  said  Sir  3Iarmaduke,  rising  from  his  chair  with 
dignity,  "  that  I  called  here  to  discuss  such  matters  as  these.  As  it 
happens,  j'ou,  Mr.  Stanhury,  are  not  the  Governor  of  the  Mandarins, 
and  I  have  not  the  honour  to  write  for  the  columns  of  the  penny  news- 
paper with  which  you  are  associated.  It  is  therefore  useless  to  discuss 
what  either  of  us  might  do  in  the  position  held  by  the  other." 

"  Altogether  useless,  Su*  Marmaduke, — except  just  for  the  fun  of 
the  thing." 

"  I  do  not  see  the  fun,  Mr.  Stanhury.  I  came  here,  at  your  request, 
to  hear  what  you  might  have  to  urge  against  the  decision  which  I 
expressed  to  you  in  reference  to  my  daughter.  As  it  seems  that  you 
have  nothing  to  urge,  I  will  not  take  up  your  time  fm-thcr." 

'•  But  I  have  a  great  deal  to  urge,  and  have  urged  a  great  deal." 

"  Have  you,  indeed  ?  " 

"  You  have  complained  that  my  work  is  not  permanent.  I  have 
she^vn  that  it  is  so  permanent  that  there  is  no  possibility  of  its  coming 
to  an  end.  There  must  be  newspapers,  and  the  people  trained  to  wi-ite 
them  must  be  employed.  I  have  been  at  it  now  about  two  years.  You 
know  what  I  cam.  Could  I  have  got  so  far  in  so  short  a  time  as  a 
la^v5'er,  a  doctor,  a  clergjTiian,  a  soldier,  a  sailor,  a  Government  clerk, 
or  in  any  of  those  employments  which  you  choose  to  call  professions  ? 
I  think  that  is  urging  a  great  deal.     I  think  it  is  urging  everything." 

"  Very  well,  IVIr.  Stanhury.  I  have  listened  to  you,  and  in  a  certain 
degree  I  admire  your, — your, — your  zeal  and  ingenuity,  shall  I  say." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  call  for  admiration.  Sir  Marmaduke;  but  suppose 
yon  say, — good  sense  and  discrimination." 

"  Let  that  pass.  You  must  permit  me  to  remark  that  your  position 
is  not  such  as  to  justify  mc  in  trusting  my  daughter  to  youi-  care.  As 
my  mind  on  that  matter  is  quite  made  up,  as  is  that  also  of  Lady 
Kowley,  I  must  ask  you  to  give  me  your  promise  that  your  suit  to  my 
daughter  shall  be  discontinued." 

"  TMiat  does  she  say  about  it.  Sir  Marmaduke  ?" 

"  What  she  has  said  to  me  has  been  for  my  ears,  and  not  for  yours." 

"  ^Yhat  I  say  is  for  her  ears  and  for  yours,  and  for  her  mother's  ears, 
and  for  the  ears  of  any  who  may  choose  to  hear  it.  I  will  never  give 
up  my  suit  to  your  daughter  till  I  am  forced  to  do  so  by  a  full  convic- 
tion that  she  has  given  me  up.  It  is  best  to  be  plain,  Sir  Marmaduke, 
of  course." 

"I  do  not  understand  this,  Mr.  Stanhury." 

"I  mean  to  be  quite  clear." 

"I  have  always  thought  that  when  a  gentleman  was  told  by  the 


1G8  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

head  of  a  family  that  he  could  not  be  made  welcome  in  that  family,  it 
was  considered  to  be  the  duty  of  that  gentleman, — as  a  gentleman, — 
to  abandon  his  vain  pursuit.     I  have  been  brought  up  with  that  idea." 

"And  I,  Sir  Marmadukc,  have  been  brought  up  in  the  idea  that 
when  a  man  has  won  the  affections  of  a  woman,  it  is  the  duty  of  that 
man, — as  a  man, — to  stick  to  her  through  thick  and  thin;  and  I  mean 
to  do  my  duty,  according  to  my  idea." 

"  Then,  sir,  I  have  nothing  further  to  say,  but  to  take  mj'  leave.  I 
must  only  caution  you  not  to  enter  my  doors."  As  the  passages  were 
dark  and  intricate,  it  was  necessary  that  Stanbury  should  shew  Sir 
Marmaduke  out,  and  this  he  did  in  silence.  When  they  parted  each 
of  them  lifted  his  hat,  and  not  a  word  more  was  said. 

That  same  night  there  was  a  note  put  into  Nora's  hands  as  she  was 
following  her  mother  out  of  one  of  the  theatres.  In  the  confusion  she 
did  not  even  see  the  messenger  who  had  handed  it  to  her.  Her  sister 
Lucy  saw  that  she  had  taken  the  note,  and  questioned  her  about  it 
afterwards, — with  discretion,  however,  and  in  privacy.  This  was  the 
note: — 

*'  Dearest  Love, 

*'  I  have  seen  your  father,  who  is  stern, — after  the  manner  of 
fathers.  What  granite  equals  a  parent's  flinty  bosom !  For  myself, 
I  do  not  prefer  clandestine  arrangements  and  rope-ladders  ;  and  you, 
dear,  have  nothing  of  the  Lydia  about  you.  But  I  do  like  my  own 
way,  and  like  it  especially  when  you  are  at  the  end  of  the  path.  It  is 
quite  out  of  the  question  that  you  should  go  back  to  those  islands.  I 
think  I  am  justified  in  already  assuming  enough  of  the  husband  to 
declare  that  such  going  back  must  not  be  held  for  a  moment  in  question. 
My  proposition  is  that  you  should  authorise  me  to  make  such  arrange- 
ments as  may  be  needed,  in  regard  to  licence,  banns,  or  whatever  else, 
and  that  you  should  then  simply  walk  from  the  house  to  the  church 
and  marry  me.  You  are  of  age,  and  can  do  as  you  please.  Neither 
your  father  nor  mother  can  have  any  right  to  stop  j^ou.  I  do  not 
doubt  but  that  your  mother  would  accompany  you,  if  she  were  fully 
satisfied  of  your  purpose.     Write  to  me  to  the  D.  R. 

"  Your  own,  ever  and  ever,  and  always, 

H.  S. 

"  I  shall  try  and  get  this  given  to  you  as  you  leave  the  theatre.  If 
it  should  fall  into  other  hands,  I  don't  much  care.  I'm  not  in  the 
least  ashamed  of  what  I  am  doing;  and  I  hope  that  you  are  not." 


CHAPTER  LXXII. 


THE  BELIVEllY  OF  THE  LAMB. 


T   is  hoped  that  a  certain  quarter 
of  lamb  will  not  have  been  forgot- 
ten,— a  quarter  of  lamb  that  was 
sent  as  a  peace-offering  from  Exeter 
to  Nuncombc  Putney  by  the  hands 
of  Miss    Stanbury's   Martha,    not 
with  purposes   of  corruption,   not 
intended  to  buy  back  the  allegiance 
of  Dorothy, — folded  delicately  and 
temptingly  in  one  of  the  best  table 
napkins,  with  no  idea  of  bribery, 
but  sent  as  presents  used  to   be 
sent  of  old  in  the  trains  of  great 
ambassadors  as  signs  of  friendship 
and  marks  of  true  respect.     Miss 
Staubury    was,    no    doubt,    most 
anxious  that  her  niece  should  return  to  her,  but  was  not,  herself, 
low  spirited  enough  to  conceive  that   a  quarter  of  lamb   could  be 
efficacious  in  procuring  such  return.     If  it  might  be  that  Dorothy's 
heart  could  be  touched  by  mention  of  the  weariness  of  her  aunt's 
sohtary  life  ;  and  if,   therefore,   she  would  return,  it  would  bo  very 
well ;  but  it  could  not  bo  well  so,  unless  the  offer  should  come  from 
Dorothy  herself.     All  of  which  Martha  had  been  made  to  understand 
by  her  mistress,  considerable  ingenuity  having  been  exercised  in  the 
matter  on  each  side. 

On  her  arrival  at  Lessboro',  Martha  had  hired  a  fly,  and  been 
driven  out  to  Nuncombe  Putney ;  but  she  felt,  she  knew  not  why,  a 
disUkc  to  be  taken  in  her  carnage  to  the  door  of  the  cottage  ;  and 
was  put  do-wn  in  the  middle  of  the  village,  from  whence  she  walked 
out  to  Mrs.  Stanbury's  abode,  with  the  basket  upon  her  arm.  It  was 
a  good  half  mile,  and  the  lamb  was  heavy,  for  Miss  Stanbury  had 
suggested  that  a  bottle  of  sherry  should  be  put  in  under  the  napkin, — 

VOL.  II.  I 


170  HE   KNEW   HE   AVAS   RIGHT. 

find  Martha  was  becoming  tired  of  her  burden,  Avlicn, — whom  shoukl 
she  sec  on  the  road  before  her  but  Brooke  Burgess !  As  she  said 
herself  afterwards,  it  immediately  occui*red  to  her,  "  that  all  the  fat 
was  in  the  fire."  Here  had  this  young  man  come  down,  passing 
through  Exeter  without  even  a  visit  to  Miss  Stauhury,  and  had 
clandestinely  sought  out  the  young  woman  whom  he  wasn't  to  marry; 
and  here  was  the  young  woman  herself  herself  flying  in  her  aunt's 
face,  when  one  scratch  of  a  pen  might  ruin  them  both  !  Martha 
entertained  a  sacred,  awful,  overcoming  feeling  about  her  mistress's 
will.  That  she  was  to  have  something  herself  she  supposed,  and 
her  anxiety  was  not  on  that  score ;  but  she  had  heard  so  much 
about  it,  had  realised  so  fully  the  great  power  which  Miss  Stan- 
bury  possessed,  and  had  had  her  own  feelings  so  rudely  invaded 
by  alterations  in  Miss  Stanbury's  plans,  that  she  had  come  to  enter- 
tain an  idea  that  all  persons  around  her  should  continually  bear  that 
will  in  their  memory.  Hugh  had  undoubtedly  been  her  favourite, 
and,  could  Martha  have  dictated  the  will  herself,  she  would  still 
have  made  Hugh  the  heii' ;  but  she  had  realised  the  resolution  of 
her  mistress  so  far  as  to  confess  that  the  bulk  of  the  property  was 
to  go  back  to  a  Bui-gess.  But  there  were  very  many  Burgesses; 
and  here  was  the  one  who  had  been  selected  flj'ing  in  the  very  face 
of  the  testatrix  !  What  was  to  be  done  ?  Were  she  to  go  back  and 
not  tell  her  mistress  that  she  had  seen  Brooke  Burgess  at  Nuncombe 
then, — should  the  fact  be  found  out, — would  the  devoted  anger  of 
Miss  Stanbury  fall  upon  her  own  head  ?  It  would  be  absolutely 
necessary  that  she  should  tell  the  story,  let  the  consequences  be  what 
they  might ; — but  the  consequences,  probably,  would  be  very  di'ead- 
ful.  "Mr.  Brooke,  that  is  not  you?"  she  said,  as  she  came  up  to 
him,  putting  her  basket  dowTi  in  the  middle  of  the  dusty  road. 

"  Then  Vvho  can  it  be  ?"  said  Brooke,  gi\'ing  her  his  hand  to  shake. 

"  But  what  do  bring  you  here,  Mr.  Brooke  ?  Goodness  me,  what 
will  missus  say  ?  " 

"  I  shall  make  that  all  straight.  I'm  going  back  to  Exeter  to- 
morrow." Then  there  were  many  questions  and  many  answers.  He 
was  sojourning  at  Mrs.  Crocket's,  and  had  been  there  for  the  last  two 
days.  "Dear,  dear,  dear,"  she  said  over  and  over  again.  "Deary 
me,  deary  me  !  "  and  then  she  asked  him  whether  it  was  "  all  along 
of  Miss  Dorothy"  that  he  had  come.  Of  course,  it  was  all  along  of 
Miss  Dorothy.  Brooke  made  no  secret  about  it.  He  had  come  down 
to  see  Dorothy's  mother  and  sister,  and  to  say  a  bit  of  his  own  mind 
about  future  affairs  ; — and  to  see  the  beauties  of  the  country.  When 
he  talked  about  the  beauties  of  the  country,  Martha  looked  at  him  as 


THE    DELIVERY    OF    THE    LAMH.  171 

tlie  people  of  Lcssboro'  aud  Nuucombo  Putuey  shoukl  have  looked 
at  Coloucl  Osborne,  -wlieu  be  talked  of  tbe  cburcb  porch  at  Cock- 
cbaliington.  "  Beauties  of  tbe  countries,  Mr.  Brooke  ; — you  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  youi'self !  "  said  Martha. 

"  But  I  ain't, — the  least  in  the  Avorld,"  said  Brooke. 

Then  Martha  took  up  her  basket,  and  went  on  to  the  cottage, 
which  had  been  close  in  sight  during  their  conversation  in  the  road. 
She  felt  angry  -with  Dorothy.  In  such  matters  a  woman  is  always 
angiy  with  the  woman, — who  has  probably  been  quite  passive,  and 
rarely  with  the  man,  who  is  ever  the  real  transgressor.  Having  a 
man  down  after  her  at  Nuncombe  Putney  !  It  had  never  struck 
Martha  as  very  horrible  that  Brooke  Burgess  should  fall  in  love  with 
Dorothy  in  the  city ; — but  this  meeting,  in  the  remoteness  of  the 
country,  out  of  sight  even  of  the  village,  was  almost  indecent ;  and 
all,  too,  with  Miss  Stanbuiy's  will  just,  as  one  might  say,  on  the 
balance !  Dorothy  ought  to  have  buried  herself  rather  than  have 
allowed  Brooke  to  see  her  at  Nuncombe  Putney;  and  Dorothy's 
mother  and  Priscilla  must  be  worse.  She  trudged  on,  however,  with 
her  lamb,  and  soon  found  herself  in  the  presence  of  the  three  ladies. 

"  WTiat,— Martha  !  "  said  Dorothy. 

"Yes,  miss, — here  I  am.  I'd  have  been  here  half-au-hour  ago 
amost,  if  I  hadn't  been  stopped  on  the  road." 

"And  who  stopped  you  ?  "  asked  Priscilla. 

*'  Why, — Ml-.  Brooke,  of  coui-se." 

"And  what  did  Mr.  Brooke  say  to  you  ?  "  asked  Dorothy. 

Martha  perceived  at  once  that  Dorothy  was  quite  radiant.  She 
told  her  mistress  that  she  had  never  seen  Miss  Dorothy  look  half  so 
comely  before.  "  Laws,  ma'am,  she  brightened  up  aud  speckled  about, 
till  it  did  your  heart  good  to  see  her  in  spite  of  all."  But  this  was 
£ome  time  afterwards. 

"He  didn't  say  very  much,"  replied  Martha,  gravely. 

"  But  I've  got  very  much  to  tell  you,"  continued  Dorothy.  "I'm 
engaged  to  be  married  to  Mr.  Brooke,  and  you  must  congratulate  me. 
It  is  settled  now,  and  mamma  and  my  sister  know  all  about  it." 

Martha,  when  she  was  thus  asked  du'cctly  for  congratulation, 
hardly  knew  at  once  how  to  express  herself.  Being  fully  aware  of 
Miss  Staubuiy's  objection  to  the  marriage,  she  could  not  venture  to 
express  her  approbation  of  it.  It  was  veiy  improper,  in  Martha's 
mind,  that  any  young  woman  should  have  a  follower,  when  the 
"  missus  "  didn't  approve  of  it.  She  understood  well  enough  that, 
in  that  matter  of  followers,  privileges  are  allowed  to  young  ladies 
^^hich  aro  not  accorded  to  maid  servants.     A  young  lady  may  do 


172 


III".    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 


things, — have  young  men  to  walk  and  talk  with  them,  to  dance  with 
them  and  embrace  them,  and  perhaps  even  more  than  this, — when  for 
half  so  much  a  young  woman  would  be  turned  into  the  streets  with- 
out a  character.  Martha  knew  all  this,  and  knew  also  that  Miss 
Dorothy,  though  her  mother  lived  in  a  very  little  cottage,  was  not 
altogether  debarred,  in  the  matter  of  followers,  from  the  privileges  of 
a  lady.  But  yet  Miss  Dorothy's  position  was  so  very  peculiar  I 
Look  at  that  Avill, — or,  rather,  at  that  embrj^o  will,  which  might  be 
made  any  day,  Avhich  now  probably  would  be  made,  and  which  might 
atfect  them  both  so  terribly !  People  who  have  not  got  money  should 
not  fly  in  the  face  of  those  who  have.  Such  at  least  was  Martha's 
opinion  very  strongly.  How  could  she  congratulate  Miss  Dorothy 
under  the  existing  circumstances.  "I  do  hope  you  will  be  happy,, 
miss  ; — that  you  knows,"  said  Martha,  in  her  difficulty.  "  And  now, 
ma'am  ; — miss,  I  mean,"  she  added,  correcting  herself,  in  obedience 
to  Miss  Stanbury's  direct  orders  about  the  present, — "missus  has  just 
sent  me  over  with  a  bit  of  lamb,  and  a  letter  as  is  here  in  the  basket, 
and  to  ask  how  you  is, — and  the  other  ladies." 

"We  are  very  much  obliged,"  said  Mrs.  Stanbmy,  who  had  not 
understood  the  point  of  Martha's  speech. 

"My  sister  is,  I'm  sure,"  said  Priscilla,  who  had  understood  it. 

Dorothy  had  taken  the  letter,  and  had  gone  aside  with  it,  and  was 
reading  it  very  carefully.  It  touched  her  nearlj',  and  there  had 
come  tears  into  both  her  eyes,  as  she  dwelt  upon  it.  There  was 
something  in  her  aunt's  allusion  to  the  condition  of  unmarried  women 
which  came  home  to  her  especially.  She  knew  her  aunt's  past  his- 
tory, and  now  she  knew,  or  hoped  that  she  knew,  something  of  her 
own  future  destiny.  Her  aunt  was  desolate,  whereas  upon  her  the 
world  smiled  most  benignly.  Brooke  had  just  informed  her  that  he 
intended  to  make  her  his  wife  as  speedily  as  possible, — with  her 
aunt's  consent  if  possible,  but  if  not,  then  without  it.  He  had  ridi- 
culed the  idea  of  his  being  stopped  by  Miss  Stanbuiy's  threats,  and 
had  said  all  this  in  such  fashion  that  even  Priscilla  herself  had  only 
listened  and  obeyed.  He  had  spoken  not  a  word  of  his  own  income, 
and  none  of  them  had  dreamed  even  of  asking  him  a  question.  He 
had  been  as  a  god  in  the  little  cottage,  and  all  of  them  had  been 
ready  to  fall  down  and  worship  him.  Mrs.  Stanbury  had  not  known, 
how  to  treat  him  with  sufficient  deference,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
with  sufficient  affection.  He  had  kissed  them  all  round,  and  Priscilla 
had  felt  an  elation  which  was  hardly  intelligible  to  herself.  Dorothy, 
who  was  so  much  honoured,  had  come  to  enjoy  a  status  in  her 
mother's  estimation  very  different  from  that  which  she  had  previously 


'HIE  i)E].ivi;ky  uf  thk  lamm.  173 

possessed,  ami   Lad   growu  to   be  quite  beautiful  in    bcr  mother's 
eyes. 

There  was  once  a  family  of  three  ancient  maiden  ladies,  much 
respected  and  loved  in  the  to\\Ti  in  which  they  li^•ed.  Their  manners 
of  life  were  well  known  among  their  friends,  and  excited  no  surprise  ; 
but  a  stranger  to  the  locality  once  asked  of  the  elder  why  Miss 
IMatilda,  the  younger,  always  went  first  out  of  the  room  ?  "  Matilda 
once  had  an  offer  of  marriage,"  said  the  dear  simple  old  lady,  who 
had  never  been  so  graced,  and  who  felt  that  such  an  episode  in  life 
was  quite  sufficient  to  bestow  brevet  rank.  It  was  believed  by  Mrs. 
Stanbury  that  Dorothy's  honom'S  would  be  carried  further  than  those 
of  Miss  Matilda,  but  there  was  much  of  the  same  feeling  in  the  bosom 
of  the  mother  towards  the  fortunate  daughter,  who,  in  the  eyes  of  a 
man,  had  seemed  goodly  enough  to  be  Jiis  wife. 

With  this  swelling  happiness  round  her  heart,  Dorothy  read  her 
aunt's  letter,  and  was  infinitely  softened.  "  I  had  gotten  somehow  to 
love  to  see  5'our  pretty  face."  Dorothy  had  thought  little  enough  of 
ier  own  beauty,  but  she  liked  being  told  by  her  aunt  that  her  face 
had  been  found  to  be  pretty.  "  I  am  very  desolate  and  solitary  here," 
her  aunt  said ;  and  then  had  come  those  words  about  the  state  of 
maiden  women  ; — and  then  those  other  words,  about  women's  duties, 
and  her  aunt's  prayer  on  her  behalf.  "Dear  Dorothy,  be  not  such 
an  one."  She  held  the  letter  to  her  lips  and  to  her  bosom,  and  could 
hardly  continue  its  perusal  because  of  her  tears.  Such  prayers  from 
the  aged  addressed  to  the  young  are  generally  held  in  light  esteem, 
but  this  adjm-ation  was  valued  by  the  girl  to  whom  it  was  addressed. 
She  put  together  the  invitation, — or  rather  the  permission  accorded  to 
her,  to  make  a  visit  to  Exeter, — and  the  intimation  in  the  postscript 
that  Martha  knew  her  mistress's  mind ;  and  then  she  returned  to  the 
sitting-room,  in  which  Martha  w^as  still  seated  with  her  mother,  and 
took  ihc  old  servant  apart.  "  Maiiha,"  she  said,  "  is  my  aunt  happy 
now? 

"  Well,— miss." 

"  She  is  strong  again  ;  is  she  not  ?  " 

"  Sir  Peter  says  she  is  getting  well ;  and  Mr.  Martin ;  but  Mr. 

Martin  isn't  much  account." 

"  She  eats  and  drinks  again  ?" 

"  Pretty  well ; — not  as  it  used  to  be,  you  know,  miss.  I  tell  her 
she  ought  to  go  somewheres, — but  she  don't  like  moving  nohov/. 
She  never  did.  I  tell  her  if  she'd  go  to  Dawlish, — just  for  a  week. 
But  she  don't  think  there's  a  bed  fit  to  sleep  on,  nowhere,  except  just 
her  own." 


174  HE   KNEW  HE   'WAS   RIGHT. 

"  Slic  ■n'oultl  go  if  Sir  Peter  told  licr." 

"  She  says  tliat  these  movings  are  newfangled  fashions,  and  that 
the  air  didn't  use  to  want  changing  for  folk  when  she  was  young.  I 
heard  her  tell  Sir  Peter  herself,  that  if  she  couldn't  live  at  Exeter, 
she  would  die  there.  She  won't  go  nowheres,  Miss  Dorothy.  She 
ain't  careful  to  live." 

"  Tell  nie  something,  Martha  ;  will  you  ?" 

"  What  is  it,  Miss  Dorothy  ?  " 

*«Be  a  dear  good  vs'oman  now,  and  tell  me  true.  Would  she  he 
better  if  I  were  with  her  ?  " 

"  She  don't  like  being  alone,  miss.   I  don't  know  nobody  as  does." 

"  But  now,  about  Mr.  Brooke,  you  know." 

*'  Yes ;  Mr.  Brooke  !     That's  it." 

"  Of  course,  Martha,  I  love  him  better  than  anything  in  all  the 
world.  I  can't  tell  you  how  it  was,  but  I  think  I  loved  him  the  very 
first  moment  I  saw  him." 

"  Dear,  dear,  dear  ! " 

"I  couldn't  help  it,  Martha ; — but  it's  no  good  talking  about  it,  for 
of  course  I  shan't  try  to  help  it  now.  Only  this, — that  I  would  do 
anything  in  the  world  for  my  aunt, — except  that." 

"But  she  don't  like  it.  Miss  Dorothj'.    That  is  the  truth,  you  knov.'." 

"It  can't  be  helped  now,  Martha;  and  of  course  she'll  be  told  at 
once.  Shall  I  go  and  tell  her  ?  I'd  go  to-day  if  you  think  she  would 
like  it." 

"And  Mr.  Brooke?" 

"  He  is  to  go  to-morrow," 

"  And  will  you  leave  him  here  ?" 

"  Why  not  ?  Nobody  will  huii  him.  I  don't  mind  a  bit  about 
having  him  with  me  now.  But  I  can  tell  j'ou  this.  When  he  went 
away  from  us  once  it  mad  e  me  very  unhappy.  Would  Aunt  Stanbury 
be  glad  to  see  me,  Martha  ?  " 

Martha's  reserve  was  at  last  broken  down,  and  she  expressed  her- 
self in  strong  language.  There  was  nothing  on  earth  her  mistress 
wanted  so  much  as  to  have  her  favourite  niece  back  again.  Martha 
acknowledged  that  there  were  great  difficulties  about  Brooke  Burgess, 
and  she  did  not  see  her  way  clearly  through  them.  Dorothy  declared 
her  purpose  of  telling  her  aunt  boldly, — at  once.  Martha  shook  her 
head,  admiring  the  honesty  and  courage,  but  doubting  the  result.  She 
understood  better  than  did  any  one  else  the  peculiarity  of  mind  which 
made  her  mistress  specially  anxious  that  none  of  the  Stanbury  family 
should  enjoy  any  portion  of  the  Burgess  money,  beyond  that  which 
she  herself  had  saved  out  of  the  income.     There  had  been  moments 


THE    DELIVERY    OF   THE    LAMB.  175 

in  which  Martha  had  hoped  that  this  prejudice  might  be  overcome  iu 
favour  of  Hugh ;  but  it  had  become  stronger  as  the  old  woman  grew 
to  be  older  and  more  feeble, — and  it  was  believed  now  to  be  settled 
as  Fate.  "  She'd  sooner  give  it  all  to  old  Barty  over  the  way," 
Martha  had  once  said,  "  than  let  it  go  to  her  own  kith  and  kin.  And 
if  she  do  hate  any  human  creature,  she  do  hate  Barty  Burgess."  She 
assented,  however,  to  Dorothy's  proposal ;  and,  though  Mrs.  Stan- 
bury  and  Priscilla  were  astounded  by  the  precipitancy  of  the  measure 
they  did  not  attempt  to  oppose  it. 

"  And  what  am  I  to  do  ?"  said  Brooke,  when  he  was  told. 

"  You'll  come  to-morrow,  of  course,"  said  Doroth)'. 

"  But  it  may  be  that  the  two  of  us  together  will  bo  too  many  for 
the  dear  old  lunatic." 

"You  shan't  call  her  a  lunatic,  Brooke.  She  isn't  so  much  a 
lunatic  as  3-ou  are,  to  run  counter  to  her,  and  disobey  her,  and  all 
that  kind  of  thing." 

"And  how  about  yourself ?" 

"  How  can  I  help  it,  Brooke  ?     It  is  you  that  say  it  must  be  so." 

"  Of  course  it  must.  Who  is  to  be  stayed  from  doing  what  is 
reasonable  because  an  old  woman  has  a  bee  on  her  bonnet.  I  don't 
believe  in  people's  wills." 

"  She  can  do  what  she  likes  about  it,  Brooke." 

"  Of  course  she  can,  and  of  course  she  will.  What  I  mean  is  that 
it  never  pays  to  do  this  or  that  because  somebody  may  alter  his  will, 
or  may  make  a  will,  or  may  not  make  a  will.  You  become  a  slave 
for  life,  and  then  your  dead  tyrant  leaves  you  a  mourning-ring,  and 
grins  at  you  out  of  his  grave.  All  the  same  she'll  kick  up  a  row,  I 
fancy,  and  you'll  have  to  bear  the  worst  of  it." 

"  I'll  tell  her  the  truth;  and  if  she  be  very  angry,  I'll  just  come 
home  again.  But  I  think  I'll  come  home  to-morrow  any  way,  so  that 
I'll  pass  you  on  the  road.  That  will  be  best.  She  won't  want  us 
both  together.     Only  then,  Brooke,  I  shan't  see  you  again." 

"  Not  till  June." 

"  And  is  it  to  bo  really  in  June  ?" 

"  You  say  you  don't  like  May." 

"  You  are  such  a  goose,  Brooke.  It  will  be  May  almost  to-morrow. 
I  shall  be  such  a  poor  wife  for  you,  Brooke.  As  for  getting  my  things 
ready,  I  shall  not  bring  hardly  any  things  at  all.  Have  you  thought 
what  it  is  to  take  a  body  so  very  poor  ?" 

"  I  own  I  haven't  thought  as  much  about  it,  Dolly,— as  I  ought 
to  have  done,  perhaps." 

"  It  is  too  late  now,  Brooke." 


17G  HE    KNEAV    HE    "WAS    KIGIIT. 

"  I  suppose  it  is." 

"  Quite  too  late.  A  week  ago  I  could  have  borne  it.  I  bad  almost 
got  myself  to  think  that  it  would  be  better  that  I  should  bear  it. 
But  you  have  come,  and  banished  all  the  virtue  out  of  my  head.  I 
am  ashamed  of  myself,  because  I  am  so  unworthy ;  but  I  would  put 
up  with  that  shame  rather  than  lose  j'ou  now.  Brooke,  Brooke,  I 
will  so  try  to  be  good  to  you ! " 

In  the  afternoon  Martha  and  Dorothy  started  together  for  Exeter, 
Brooke  and  Priscilla  accompanj-ing  them  as  far  as  Mrs.  Crocket's, 
where  the  Lessboro'  fly  was  awaiting  them.  Dorothy  said  little  or 
nothing  during  the  walk,  nor,  indeed,  was  she  very  communicative 
during  the  journey  into  Exeter.  She  was  going  to  her  aunt,  insti- 
gated simply  by  the  affection  of  her  full  heart ;  but  she  was  going 
with  a  tale  in  her  mouth  which  she  knew  would  be  very  unwelcome. 
She  coi;ld  not  save  herself  from  feeling  that,  in  having  accepted 
Brooke,  and  in  having  not  only  accepted  him  but  even  fixed  the  day 
for  her  marriage,  she  had  been  ungrateful  to  her  aunt.  Had  it  not 
been  for  her  aunt's  kindness  and  hospitality,  she  would  never  have 
seen  Brooke  Burgess.  And  as  she  had  been  under  her  aunt's  care  at 
Exeter,  she  doubted  whether  she  had  not  been  guilty  of  some  great 
fault  in  falling  in  love  with  this  man,  in  opposition  as  it  were  to 
express  orders.  Should  her  aunt  still  declare  that  she  would  in  no 
way  countenance  the  marriage,  that  she  would  still  oppose  it  and 
use  her  influence  with  Brooke  to  break  it  ofl*,  then  would  Dorothy 
return  on  the  morrow  to  her  mother's  cottage  at  Nuncombe  Putney, 
so  that  her  lover  might  be  free  to  act  with  her  aunt  as  he  might 
think  fit.  And  should  he  yield,  she  would  endeavour, — she  would 
struggle  hard,  to  think  that  he  was  still  acting  for  the  best.  "  I  must 
tell  her  myself,  Martha,"  said  Dorothy,  as  they  came  near  to  Exeter. 

"  Certainly,  miss; — only  you'll  do  it  to-night." 

*'  Yes ; — at  once.     As  soon  after  I  get  there  as  possible." 


CHAPTER  LXXm. 

DOEOTHY  EETLTiIVS  TO  EXETER. 


Miss  Stanbtjey  perfectly  understood  that  Martha  was  to  come  back  by 
the  train  reaching  Exeter  at  7  p.m.,  and  that  she  might  be  expected 
in  the  Close  about  a  quarter-of-an-hour  after  that  time.  She  had  been 
nervous  and  anxious  all  day, — so  much  so  that  Mr.  Martin  had  told 


DOROTHY    RETUnXS   TO    EXETF.R.  177 

Ler  that  she  must  be  very  careful.     "  That's  all  very  well,"  the  oKl 
woman  bad  said,  "  but  you  haven't  got  any  mcdicuie  for  my  com- 
plaint, Mr.  Martui."     The  apothecary  had  assured  her  that  the  worst 
of  her  complaint  was  in  the  east  wind,  and  had  gone  away  begging 
her  to  be  very  careful.     "It  is  not  God's  breezes  that  arc  hard  to 
any  one,"  the  old  lady  had  said  to  herself, — "but  our  own  hearts." 
After  her  lonely  dinner  she  had  fidgeted  about  the  room,  and  had 
rung  twice  for  the  girl,  not  knowing  what  order  to  give  when  the 
servant  came  to  her.     She  was  very  anxious  about  her  tea,  but  would 
not  have  it  brought  to  her  till  after  Martha  should  have  arrived.     She 
was  half-minded  to  order  that  a  second  cup  and  saucer  should  be 
placed  there,  but  she  had  not  the  courage  to  face  the  disappointment 
which  would  fall  upon  her,  should  the  cup  and  saucer  stand  there  for 
no  purpose.     And  yet,   should  she  come,  how  nice  it  would  be  to 
shew  her  girl  that  her  old  aunt  had  been  ready  for  her.     Thrice  she 
went  to  the  window  after  the  cathedral  clock  had  struck  seven,  to  see 
whether  her  ambassador  was  returning.     From  her  window  there  was 
only  one  very  short  space  of  pathway  on  which  she  could  have  seen 
her, — and,  as  it  happened,  there  came  the  ring  at  the  door,  and  no 
ambassador  had  as  yet  been  viewed.     Miss  Stanbury  was  immediately 
off  her  seat,  and  out  upon  the  landing.     "  Here  we  are  again.  Miss 
Dorothj',"  said  Martha.     Then  Miss  Stanbury  could  not  restrain  her- 
self,— but  descended  the  stabs,  moving  as  she  had  never  moved  since 
she  had  first  been  ill.     "  My  bairn,"  she  said;  "  my  dearest  bairn! 
I  thought  that  perhaps  it  might  be  so.     Jane,  another  tea-cup  and 
saucer  up-stairs."     What  a  pity  that  she  had  not  ordered  it  before ! 
"  And  get  a  hot  cake,  Jane.     You  will  be  ever  so  hungry,  my  darling, 
after  your  journey." 

"  Are  you  glad  to  see  me.  Aunt  Stanbury  ?"  said  Dorothy. 

"Glad,  my  pretty  one!"  Then  she  put  up  her  hands,  and 
smoothed  down  the  girl's  cheeks,  and  kissed  her,  and  patted  Martha 
on  the  back,  and  scolded  her  at  the  same  time  for  not  bringing  Miss 
Dorothy  from  the  station  in  a  cab.  "And  what  is  the  meaning  of 
that  little  bag  ?  "  she  said.  "  You  shall  go  back  for  the  rest  yourself, 
Martha,  because  it  is  your  own  fault."  Martha  knew  that  all  this  was 
pleasant  enough ; — but  then  her  mistress's  moods  would  sometimes 
bo  changed  so  suddenly  !  How  would  it  bo  when  Miss  Stanbury 
knew  that  Brooke  Burgess  had  been  left  behind  at  Nuncombo 
Putney  ? 

"  You  see  I  didn't  stay  to  eat  any  of  the  lamb,"  said  Dorothy, 
smiling. 


178  HE    KNEAV   HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

"  You  shall  have  a  calf  instead,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Stanbmy,  '•  be- 
cause you  are  a  returned  prodigal." 

All  this  "was  very  pleasant,  and  Miss  Stanhury  was  so  happy  dis- 
pensing her  tea,  and  the  hot  cake,  and  the  clotted  cream,  and  was  so 
intent  upon  her  little  methods  of  caressing  and  petting  her  niece,  that 
Dorothy  had  no  heart  to  tell  her  story  while  the  plates  and  cups  were 
still  upon  the  table.  She  had  not,  perhaps,  cared  much  for  the  hot 
cake,  having  such  a  weight  upon  her  mind,  but  she  had  seemed  to 
care,  understanding  well  that  she  might  so  best  conduce  to  her  aunt's 
comfort.  Miss  Stanbury  was  a  woman  who  could  not  bear  that  the 
good  things  which  she  had  provided  for  a  guest  should  not  be  enjoyed. 
She  could  taste  with  a  friend's  palate,  and  drink  with  a  friend's 
throat.  But  when  debarred  these  vicarious  loleasui'es  by  what  seemed 
to  her  to  be  the  caprice  of  her  guests,  she  would  be  offended.  It  had 
been  one  of  the  original  sins  of  Camilla  and  Arabella  French  that  they 
would  declare  at  her  tea-table  that  they  had  dined  late  and  could  not 
eat  tea-cake.  Dorothy  knew  all  this, — and  did  her  duty ; — but  with 
a  heavy  heart.  There  was  the  story  to  be  told,  and  she  had  promised 
Martha  that  it  should  be  told  to-night.  She  was  quite  aware,  too, 
independently  of  her  promise,  that  it  was  necessary  that  it  should  be 
told  to-night.  It  was  very  sad, — very  grievous  that  the  dear  old 
lady's  happiness  should  be  disturbed  so  soon ;  but  it  must  be  done. 
When  the  tea-things  were  being  taken  away  her  aunt  was  still  purring 
round  her,  and  saying  gentle,  loving  words.  Dorothy  bore  it  as  well 
as  she  could, — bore  it  well,  smiling  and  kissing  her  aunt's  hand,  and 
uttering  now  and  then  some  word  of  affection.  But  the  thing  had  to 
be  done ;  and  as  soon  as  the  room  was  quiet  for  a  moment,  she 
jumped  up  from  her  chair  and  began.  "  Aunt  Stanbury,  I  must  tell 
you  something  at  once.    Who,  do  you  think,  is  at  Nuncombe  Putney?" 

"Not  Brooke  Burgess?" 

"Yes,  he  is.  He  is  there  now,  and  is  to  be  here  with  j-ou  to- 
morrow." 

The  whole  colour  and  character  of  Miss  Stanbury's  face  was 
changed  in  a  moment.  She  had  been  still  purring  up  to  the  moment 
in  which  this  communication  had  been  made  to  her.  Her  gratification 
had  come  to  her  from  the  idea  that  her  pet  had  come  back  to  her 
from  love  of  her, — as  in  very  truth  had  been  the  case  ;  but  now  it 
seemed  that  Dorothy  had  returned  to  ask  for  a  great  favour  for  her- 
self. And  she  reflected  at  once  that  Brooke  had  passed  through 
Exeter  without  seeing  her.  If  he  was  determined  to  marry  without 
reference  to  her,  he  might  at  any  rate  have  had  the  grace  to  come  to 


DOROTHY    KF.TrKXS   TO    EXETER.  179 

licr  aiul  say  so.  She,  in  the  fulness  of  her  heart,  had  written  wonls 
of  aflcction  to  Dorothy; — and  both  Dorothy  and  Brooke  had  at  once 
taken  advantage  of  her  expressions  for  their  own  purposes.  Such  was 
her  reading  of  the  story  of  the  day.  "  He  need  not  trouble  himself  to 
come  here  now,"  she  said. 

"Dear  aunt,  do  not  say  that." 

"I  do  say  it.  He  need  not  trouble  himself  to  come  now.  When 
I  said  that  I  should  be  glad  to  see  you,  I  did  not  intend  that  you 
should  meet  Mr.  Burgess  under  my  roof.  I  did  not  wish  to  have  you 
both  together." 

"  How  could  I  help  coming,  when  you  wrote  to  mo  like  that  ?" 

"  It  is  very  well, — but  he  need  not  come.  He  knows  the  way  from 
Nuncombe  to  London  without  stopping  at  Exeter." 

"  Aunt  Stanbury,  you  must  let  me  tell  it  you  all." 

"  There  is  no  more  to  tell,  I  should  think." 

"But  there  is  more.  You  knew  what  he  thought  about  me,  and 
what  he  wished." 

"He  is  his  own  master,  my  dear ; — and  you  arc  your  own  mis- 
tress." 

"  If  you  speak  to  me  like  that  you  will  kill  me,  Aunt  Stanbury.  I 
did  not  think  of  coming; — only  when  Martha  brought  your  dear 
letter  I  could  not  help  it.  But  he  was  coming.  He  meant  to  come 
to-morrow,  and  he  will.  Of  course  he  must  defend  himself,  if  you 
are  angry  with  him." 

"He  need  not  defend  himself  at  all." 

"  I  told  them,  and  I  told  him,  that  I  would  only  stay  one  night, — 
if  you  did  not  wish  that  we  should  be  hero  together.  You  must  see 
him,  Aunt  Stanbury.     You  would  not  refuse  to  see  him." 

"  If  you  please,  my  dear,  you  must  allow  me  to  judge  whom  I  will 
see." 

After  that  the  discussion  ceased  between  them  for  awhile,  and  Miss 
Stanbury  left  the  room  that  she  might  hold  a  consultation  with 
Llartha.  Dorothy  went  up  to  her  chamber,  and  saw  that  everything 
had  been  prepared  for  her  with  most  scrupulous  care.  Nothing  could 
be  whiter,  neater,  cleaner,  nicer  than  was  everything  that  surrounded 
her.  She  had  perceived  while  living  under  her  aunt's  roof,  how, 
gradually,  small  delicate  feminine  comforts  had  been  increased  for  her. 
Martha  had  been  told  that  Miss  Dorothy  ought  to  have  this,  and  that 
Miss  Dorothy  ought  to  have  that ;  till  at  last  she,  who  had  hitherto 
known  nothing  of  the  small  luxuries  that  come  from  an  easy  income, 
had  felt  ashamed  of  the  prettinesscs  that  had  been  added  to  her. 


180  HE  KNE^v  he  was  right. 

Now  she  could  see  at  once  that  infinite  care  had  been  used  to  make 
her  room  bright  and  smiling, — only  in  the  hope  that  she  would  return. 
As  soon  as  she  saw  it  aU,  she  sat  down  on  her  bed  and  burst  out  into 
tears.  AVas  it  not  hard  upon  her  that  she  should  be  forced  into  such 
ingratitude  !  Every  comfort  prepared  for  her  was  a  coal  of  hot  fire 
upon  her  head.  And  yet  what  had  she  done  that  she  ought  not  to 
have  done  ?  Was  it  unreasonable  that  she  should  have  loved  this 
man,  when  they  two  were  brought  together  ?  And  had  she  even 
dared  to  think  of  him  otherwise  than  as  an  acquaintance  till  he  had 
compelled  her  to  confess  her  love  ?  And  after  that  had  she  not  tried 
to  separate  herself  from  him,  so  that  they  two, — her  aunt  and  her 
lover, — might  be  divided  by  no  quarrel  ?  Had  not  Priscilla  told  her 
that  she  was  right  in  all  that  she  was  doing  ?  Nevertheless,  in  spite 
of  all  this,  she  could  not  refrain  from  accusing  herself  of  ingratitude 
towards  her  aunt.  And  she  began  to  think  it  would  have  been  better 
for  her  now  to  have  remained  at  home,  and  have  allowed  Brooke  to 
come  alone  to  Exeter  than  to  have  obeyed  the  impulse  which  had 
arisen  from  the  receipt  of  her  aunt's  letter.  "When  she  went  down 
again  she  found  herself  alone  in  the  room,  and  she  was  beginning  to 
think  that  it  was  intended  that  she  should  go  to  bed  without  again 
seeing  her  aunt ;  but  at  last  Miss  Stanbury  came  to  her,  with  a  sad 
countenance,  but  without  that  look  of  wrath  which  Dorothy  knew  so 
well.  "  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  it  will  be  better  that  Mr.  Burgess 
should  go  up  to  London  to-morrow.  I  will  see  him,  of  course,  if  he 
chooses  to  come,  and  Martha  shall  meet  him  at  the  station  and  explain 
it.  If  you  do  not  mind,  I  would  prefer  that  you  should  not  meet  him 
here." 

"  I  meant  only  to  stay  one  night,  aunt." 

"  That  is  nonsense.  If  I  am  to  part  with  either  of  you,  I  will  part 
with  him.  You  are  dearer  to  me  than  he  is.  Dorothy,  you  do  not 
know  hoAV  dear  to  me  you  are." 

Dorothy  immediately  fell  on  her  knees  at  her  aunt's  feet,  and  hid 
her  face  in  her  aunt's  lap.  Miss  Stanbury  twined  round  her  fingers 
the  soft  hair  which  she  loved  so  well, — because  it  was  a  grace  given 
by  God  and  not  bought  out  of  a  shop, — and  caressed  the  girl's  head, 
and  muttered  something  that  was  intended  for  a  prayer.  "  If  he  will 
let  me,  aunt,  I  will  give  him  up,"  said  Dorothy,  looking  up  into  her 
aunt's  face.  "If  he  will  say  that  I  may,  though  I  shall  love  him 
always,  he  may  go." 

"  He  is  his  own  master,"  said  Miss  Stanbury.  "  Of  course  he  is 
his  own  master." 


DOROTHY  REXrUNS  TO  EXETEU.  181 

"  Will  you  let  mc  return  to-morrow, — ^just  for  a  few  days, — and 
then  you  can  talk  to  Lim  as  you  please.  I  did  not  mean  to  come  to 
stay.  I  wished  him  good-bye  because  I  knew  that  I  should  not  meet 
him  here." 

"  You  always  talk  of  going  away,  Dorothy,  as  soon  as  ever  you  aro 
in  the  house.     You  arc  always  threatening  mc." 

"I  will  come  again,  the  moment  you  tell  me.  If  he  goes  in  the 
morning,  I  will  be  here  the  same  evening.     And  I  will  write  to  him. 

Aunt  Stanhury,  and  tell  him, — that  he  is quite  free, — quite  free, 

— quite  free." 

Miss  Stanbury  made  no  reply  to  this,  but  sat,  still  playing  with  her 
niece's  hair.  "I  think  I  will  go  to  bed,"  she  said  at  last.  "It  is 
past  ten.  You  need  not  go  to  Nuncombe,  Dorothy.  Martha  shall 
meet  him,  and  he  can  see  me  hero.  But  I  do  not  wish  him  to  stay  in. 
the  house.  You  can  go  over  and  call  on  Mrs.  MacHugh.  Mrs.  Mac- 
Hugh  will  take  it  well  of  you  that  you  should  call  on  her."  Dorothy 
made  no  fui-ther  opposition  to  this  arrangement,  but  kissed  her  aunt, 
and  went  to  her  chamber. 

How  was  it  all  to  be  for  her  ?  For  the  last  two  days  she  had  been 
radiant  with  new  happiness.  Everything  had  seemed  to  be  settled. 
Her  lover,  in  his  high-handed  way,  had  declared  that  in  no  important- 
crisis  of  life  would  he  allow  himself  to  be  driven  out  of  his  way  by 
the  fear  of  what  an  old  woman  might  do  in  her  will.  "When  Dorothy 
assured  him  that  not  for  worlds  would  she,  though  she  loved  him 
dearly,  injure  his  material  prospects,  he  had  thrown  it  all  aside,  after 
a  grand  fashion,  that  had  really  made  the  girl  think  that  all  Miss- 
Stanbury's  money  was  as  nothing  to  his  love  for  her.  She  and  Pris- 
cilla  and  her  mother  had  been  carried  away  so  entirely  by  Brooke's 
oratoiy  as  to  feel  for  the  time  that  the  difficulties  were  entirely  con- 
quered. But  now  the  aspect  of  things  was  so  different !  Whatever 
Brooke  might  owe  to  Miss  Stanbury,  she,  Dorothy,  owed  her  aunt 
everything.  She  would  immolate  herself, — if  Brooke  would  only  let 
her.  She  did  not  quite  understand  her  aunt's  stubborn  opposition ; 
but  she  knew  that  there  was  some  great  cause  for  her  aunt's  feeling 
on  the  matter.  There  had  been  a  promise  made,  or  an  oath  sworn, 
that  the  property  of  the  Burgess  family  should  not  go  into  the  hands 
of  any  Stanburj*.  Dorothy  told  herself  that,  were  she  married,  she 
v/ould  be  a  Stanbury  no  longer ; — that  her  aunt  would  still  comply 
with  the  obligation  she  had  fixed  for  herself;  but,  nevertheless,  sho 
was  ready  to  believe  that  her  aunt  might  bo  right.  Her  aunt  had 
always  declared  that  it  should  bo  so ;  and  Dorothy,  knowing  this. 


182  HE    KNEW   HE    AVAS   RIGHT. 

confessed  to  herself  that  she  should  have  kept  her  heart  under  better 
control.  Thinking  of  these  things,  she  went  to  the  table  where, 
paper  and  ink  and  pens  had  all  been  prepared  for  her  so  prettily, 
and  began  her  letter  to  Brooke.  "  Dearest,  dearest  Brooke."  But 
then  she  thought  that  this  was  not  a  fair  keeping  of  her  promise, 
and  she  began  again.  "  My  dear  Brooke."  The  letter,  however,  did 
not  get  itself  written  that  night.  It  was  almost  impossible  for  her  to 
write  it.  "I  think  it  will  be  better  for  you,"  she  had  tried  to  say, 
"to  be  guided  by  my  aunt."  But  how  could  she  say  this  when  she 
did  not  believe  it  ?  It  was  her  M'ish  to  make  him  understand  that 
she  would  never  think  ill  of  him,  for  a  moment,  if  he  would  make  up 
his  mind  to  abandon  her; — but  she  could  not  find  the  words  to 
express  herself, — and  she  went,  at  last,  to  bed,  leaving  the  half- 
covered  paper  upon  the  table. 

She  went  to  bed,  and  cried  herself  to  sleep.  It  had  been  so  sweet 
to  have  a  lover, — a  man  of  her  own,  to  whom  she  could  say  what 
she  pleased,  from  whom  she  had  a  right  to  ask  for  counsel  and  pro- 
tection, a  man  who  delighted  to  be  near  her,  and  to  make  much  of 
her.  In  comparison  with  her  old  mode  of  living,  her  old  ideas  of  life, 
her  life  with  such  a  lover  was  passed  in  an  elysium.  She  had  entei-ed 
from  barren  lands  into  so  rich  a  paradise  !  But  there  is  no  paradise, 
as  she  now  found,  without  apples  which  must  be  eaten,  and  which 
lead  to  sorrow.  She  regretted  in  this  hour  that  she  had  ever  seen 
Brooke  Bui'gess.  After  all,  with  her  aunt's  love  and  care  for  her, 
vrith  her  mother  and  sister  near  her,  with  the  respect  of  those  who 
knew  her,  why  should  the  lands  have  been  barren,  even  had  there 
been  no  entrance  for  her  into  that  elysium  ?  And  did  it  not  all  result 
in  this, — that  the  elysium  to  be  desired  should  not  be  here ;  that 
the  paradise,  without  the  apples,  must  be  waited  for  till  beyond  the 
grave  ?  It  is  when  things  go  badly  with  us  here,  and  for  most  of  us 
only  then,  that  wo  think  that  we  can  see  through  the  dark  clouds  into 
the  joys  of  heaven.  But  at  last  she  slept,  and  in  her  dreams  Brooke 
was  sitting  -with  her  in  Niddon  Park  with  his  arm  tight  clasped  round 
her  waist. 

She  slept  so  soundly,  that  when  a  step  crept  silently  into  her  room, 
and  when  a  light  was  held  for  awhile  over  her  face,  neither  the  step 
nor  the  light  awakened  her.  She  was  lying  with  her  head  back 
upon  the  pillow,  and  her  arm  hung  by  the  bedside,  and  her  lips  were 
open,  and  her  loose  hair  was  spread  upon  the  pillow.  The  person 
who  stood  there  with  the  light  thought  that  there  never  had  been  a 
fairer  sight.    Everything  there  was  so  pure,  so  sweet,  so  good !     She 


3 

< 

O 

m 
a 

2 
< 


O 


DOROTHY  KETURNS  TO  EXETER.  183 

was  ono  wboso  only  selfish  happiness  coiild  come  to  her  from  the 
belief  that  others  loved  her.  The  step  had  been  very  soft,  and  even 
the  breath  of  the  intruder  was  not  allo^ved  to  pass  heavily  into  the 
au",  but  the  light  of  the  candle  shone  upon  the  eyelids  of  the  sleeper, 
and  she  moved  her  head  restlessly  on  the  pillow.  "  Dorothy,  are 
you  awake  ?     Can  you  speak  to  me  ?  " 

Then  the  disturbed  girl  gradually  opened  her  eyes  and  gazed 
upwards,  and  raised  herself  in  her  bed,  and  sat  wondering.  *'  Is 
anything  the  matter,  aunt  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Only  the  vagaries  of  au  old  woman,  my  pet, — of  an  old  woman 
who  cannot  sleep  in  her  bed." 

"But  what  is  it,  aunt?" 

*'  Kiss  me,  dearest."  Then,  with  something  of  slumber  still  about 
her,  Dorothy  raised  herself  in  her  bed,  and  placed  her  arm  on  her 
aunt's  shoulder  and  embraced  her.  "And  now  for  my  news,"  said 
Miss  Stanbur}-. 

"  "\^^lat  news,  aunt.     It  isn't  morning  yet ;  is  it  ?  " 

"  No  ; — it  is  not  morning.  You  shall  sleep  again  presently.  "  I 
have  thought  of  it,  and  you  shall  be  Brooke's  wife,  and  I  will  have  it 
here,  and  we  will  all  be  fiiends." 

"  What !  " 

"  You  will  like  that ;— will  you  not  ?  " 

"  And  you  will  not  quarrel  with  him  ?  "WTiat  am  I  to  say  ?  What 
am  I  to  do?"  She  was,  in  truth,  awake  now,  and,  not  knowing 
what  she  did,  she  jumped  out  of  bed,  and  stood  holding  her  aunt  by 
the  arm. 

"  It  is  not  a  dream,"  said  Miss  Stanbury. 

"  Ai-e  you  sure  that  it  is  not  a  dream  ?  And  may  he  come  hero 
to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Of  course  he  will  come  to-morrow." 

"  And  may  I  see  him,  Aunt  Stanbury  ?" 

"  Not  if  you  go  home,  my  dear." 

"But  I  won't  go  home.  And  will  you  tell  him?  Oh  dear,  oh 
dear!     Aunt  Stanbury,  I  do  not  think  that  I  believe  it  yet." 

"  You  will  catch  cold,  my  dear,  if  j-ou  stay  there  trying  to  believe 
it.  You  have  nothing  on.  Get  into  bed  and  believe  it  there.  You 
mil  have  time  to  think  of  it  before  the  morning."  Then  Miss  Stau- 
bmy  went  back  to  her  own  chamber,  and  Dorothy  was  left  alone  to 
realise  her  bliss. 

She  thought  of  all  her  life  for  the  last  twelvemonths, — of  the  first 
invitation  to  Exeter,  and  the  doubts  of  the  family  as  to  its  accept- 


184  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

fvncc,  of  Lev  arrival  and  of  lior  own  doubts  as  to  the  possibility  of 
her  remaining,  of  Mr.  Gibson's  courtship  and  her  aunt's  disappoint- 
ment, of  Brooke's  coming,  of  her  love  and  of  his, — and  then  of  her 
departure  back  to  Nuncombe.  After  that  had  come  the  triumph  of 
Brooke's  visit,  and  then  the  terrible  sadness  of  her  aunt's  displeasure. 
But  now  everything  was  good  and  glorious.  She  did  not  care  for 
money  herself.  She  thought  that  she  never  could  care  much  for 
being  rich.  But  had  she  made  Brooke  poor  by  marrying  him,  that 
must  always  have  been  to  her  matter  of  regret,  if  not  of  remorse. 
But  now  it  was  all  to  be  smooth  and  sweet.  Now  a  paradise  was 
to  be  opened  to  her,  with  no  apples  which  she  might  not  eat ; — no 
apples  which  might  not,  but  still  must,  be  eaten.  She  thought  that 
it  would  be  impossible  that  she  should  sleep  again  that  night  ;  but 
she  did  sleep,  and  dreamed  that  Brooke  was  holding  her  in  Kiddon 
Park,  tighter  than  ever. 

When  the  morning  came  she  trembled  as  she  walked  down  into 
the  parlour.  Might  it  not  still  be  possible  that  it  was  ail  a  dream  ?  or 
what  if  her  aunt  should  again  have  changed  her  purpose  ?  But  the 
first  moment  of  her  aunt's  presence  told  her  that  there  was  nothing 
to  fear.      "  How  did  you  sleep,  Dorothy  ?  "  said  the  old  lady. 

"  Dear  aunt,  I  do  not  know.     "Was  it  all  sleep  ?" 

"  What  shall  we  say  to  Brooke  when  he  comes  ?" 

''You  shall  tell  him." 

"  No,  dearest,  you  must  tell  him.  And  you  must  say  to  him  that 
if  he  is  not  good  to  my  girl,  and  does  not  love  her  always,  and  cling 
to  her,  and  keep  her  from  harm,  and  be  in  truth  her  loving  husband, 
I  will  hold  him  to  be  the  most  ungrateful  of  human  beings."  And 
before  Brooke  came,  she  spoke  again.  "  I  wonder  whether  he  thinks 
you  as  pretty  as  I  do,  Dolly?" 

"  He  never  said  that  he  thought  me  pretty  at  all." 

"  Did  he  not  ?  Then  he  shall  say  so,  or  he  shall  not  have  j'ou.  It 
was  your  looks  won  me  first,  Dolly, — like  an  old  fool  as  I  am.  It  is 
so  pleasant  to  have  a  little  nature  after  such  a  deal  of  artifice."  In 
which  latter  remarks  it  was  quite  understood  that  Miss  Stanbmy 
was  alluding  to  her  enemies  at  Heavitree. 


THE   LIONESS   AROUSED.  185 

CHAPTER  LXXIV. 

THE   LIONESS   AROUSED. 

Brooke  Burgess  bad  been  to  Exeter  aiul  bad  gone, — for  be  only 
remained  tberc  one  nigbt, — and  cverytbing  was  apparently  settled. 
It  was  not  exactly  told  tbrougb  Exeter  tbat  Miss  Stanbury's  beir  was 
to  be  allowed  to  marry  Miss  Stanbury's  niece ;  but  Martba  knew  it, 
and  Giles  Hickbody  guessed  it,  and  Dorotby  was  allowed  to  tell  ber 
motber  and  sister,  and  Brooke  bimself,  in  bis  own  cai'eless  Avay,  bad 
mentioned  tbe  matter  to  bis  uncle  Barty.  As  Miss  Stanbury  bad  also 
told  tbe  secret  in  confidence  to  Mrs.  MacHugb,  it  cannot  bo  said  tbat 
it  was  altogetber  well  kept.  Four  days  after  Brooke's  departure  tbe 
news  reacbed  tbe  Frencbes  at  Heavitree.  It  was  wbispcred  to 
Camilla  by  one  of  tbe  sbopmeu  witb  wbom  sbe  was  still  arranging 
ber  marriage  trousseau,  and  was  repeated  by  ber  to  ber  motber  and 
sister  witb  some  additions  wbicb  were  not  intended  to  be  good- 
natured.  "He  gets  ber  and  tbe  money  togetber  as  a  bargain — of 
course,"  said  Camilla.  "  I  only  bope  tbe  money  won't  be  found  too 
dear." 

"  Pcrbaps  be  won't  get  it  after  all,"  said  Arabella. 

"  Tbat  would  be  cruel,"  replied  Camilla.  "  I  don't  tbink  tbat  even 
Miss  Stanbuiy  is  so  false  as  tbat." 

Tbings  were  going  very  badly  at  Heavitree.  Tbcre  was  war  tbere, 
almost  everlastingly,  tbougb  sucb  little  playful  conversations  as  tbe 
above  shewed  tbat  tbere  migbt  be  an  occasional  lull  in  tbe  battle. 
Mr.  Gibson  was  not  doing  bis  duty.  Tbat  was  clear  enougb.  Even 
Mrs.  Freucb,  wbcn  sbe  was  appealed  to  witb  almost  frantic  energy 
by  her  younger  daughter,  could  not  but  acknowledge  tbat  he  Avas 
vei-y  remiss  as  a  lover.  And  Camilla,  in  ber  fury,  was  very  impru- 
dent. Tbat  veiy  frantic  energy  wbicb  mduced  her  to  appeal  to  ber 
mother  was,  in  itself,  proof  of  ber  imprudence.  Sbe  knew  tbat  she 
was  foolish,  but  sbe  coujd  not  control  ber  passion.  Twice  bad  she 
detected  ^\a-abella  in  receiving  notes  from  Mr.  Gibson,  wbicb  sbe  did 
not  see,  and  of  which  it  bad  been  intended  tbat  sbe  should  know 
nothing.  And  once,  when  sbe  spent  a  nigbt  away  at  Ottery  St. 
Miiry  witb  a  friend, — a  visit  wbicli  was  specially  prefatory  to  mar- 
riage, and  made  in  reference  to  bridesmaids'  dresses, — Arabella  had 
bad, — so  at  least  Camilla  was  made  to  believe, — a  secret  meeting 
with  Mr.  Gibson  in  some  of  the  lanes  which  lead  down  from  Heavi- 
tree to  tbe  Topsham  road. 

VOL.  II.  I--' 


186  TIE   KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

''I  happened  to  meet  him,  and  spoke  two  "words  to  him,"  said 
Arabella.     "  Would  you  have  me  cut  him  ?" 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Bella; — if  there  is  any  underhand  game 
going  on  that  I  don't  understand,  all  Exeter  shall  be  on  fii-e  before 
you  shall  carry  it  out." 

Bella  made  no  answer  to  this,  but  shrugged  her  shoulders.  Camilla 
was  almost  at  a  loss  to  guess  what  might  be  the  truth.  Would  not 
any  sister,  so  accused  on  such  an  occasion,  rebut  the  accusation  with 
awful  -wi-ath?  But  Ai'abella  simply  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  went 
her  way.  It  was  now  the  15th  of  April,  and  there  wanted  but  one 
short  fortnight  to  their  man-iage.  The  man  had  not  the  courage  to 
jilt  her  !  She  felt  sm-e  that  he  had  not  heart  enough  to  do  a  deed  of 
such  audacit}-.  And  her  sister,  too,  was  weak  and  a  coward,  and 
would  lack  the  power  to  stand  on  her  legs  and  declare  herself  to  be 
the  pei-petrator  of  such  villany.  Her  mother,  as  she  knew  well,  would 
always  have  preferred  that  her  elder  daughter  should  be  the  bride ; 
but  her  mother  was  not  the  woman  to  have  the  hardihood,  now,  in  the 
eleventh  hour,  to  favour  such  an  intrigue.  Let  her  wish  be  what  it 
might,  she  would  not  be  strong  enough  to  carry  through  the  accom- 
plishment of  it.  They  would  all  know  that  that  threat  of  hers  of 
setting  Exeter  on  tire  would  be  carried  out  after  some  fashion  that 
would  not  be  inadequate  to  the  occasion.  A  sister,  a  mother,  a  pro- 
mised lover,  all  false,— all  so  damnably,  cruelly  false !  It  was  impos- 
sible. No  histoiy,  no  novel  of  most  sensational  interest,  no  wonderful 
villany  that  had  ever  been  wrought  into  prose  or  poetry,  would  have 
been  equal  to  this.  It  was  impossible.  She  told  herself  so  a  score  of 
times  a  day.  And  j^et  the  circumstances  were  so  terribly  suspicious  ! 
Mr.  Gibson's  conduct  as  a  lover  was  simply  disgraceful  to  him  as  a 
man  and  a  clergyman.  He  was  full  of  excuses,  which  she  knew  to  be 
false.  He  would  never  come  near  her  if  he  could  help  it.  When  he 
was  with  her,  he  was  as  cold  as  an  archbishop  both  in  word  and  in 
action.  Nothing  would  tempt  him  to  any  outward  manifestation  of 
afiection.  He  would  talk  of  nothing  but  the  poor  women  of  St.  Peter- 
cum-Pumpkin  in  the  city,  and  the  fraudulent  idleness  of  a  certain  col- 
league in  the  cathedral  services,  who  was  always  shirking  his  work. 
He  made  her  no  presents.  He  never  walked  vdth  her.  He  was 
always  gloomy, — and  he  had  indeed  so  behaved  himself  in  public  that 
people  were  beginning  to  talk  of  "poor  Mr.  Gibson."  And  yet  he 
could  meet  Arabella  on  the  sly  in  the  lanes,  and  send  notes  to  her  by 
the  green-grocer's  boy  !  Poor  Mr.  Gibson  indeed  !  Let  her  once  get 
him  well  over  the  29th  of  April,  and  the  people  of  Exeter  might  talk 


THE    IJONESS    AROUSED.  187 

about  poor  Mr.  Gibson  if  tbcy  pleased.  And  Bella's  conduct  was  more 
wonderful  almost  tban  that  of  Mr.  Gibson.  With  all  her  cowardice, 
she  still  held  up  her  head, — held  it  perhaps  a  little  higher  than  was 
usual  with  her.  And  when  that  grievous  accusation  was  made  against 
her, — made  and  repeated, — an  accusation  the  very  thought  and  sound 
of  which  would  almost  have  annihilated  her  had  there  been  a  decent 
feeling  in  her  bosom,  she  would  simply  shrug  her  shoulders  and  v.alk 
away.  "  Camilla,"  she  had  once  said,  "  you  will  drive  that  man  mad 
before  you  have  done."  ""What  is  it  to  j'ou  how  I  drive  him?" 
Camilla  had  answered  in  her  fury.  Then  Arabella  had  again  shrugged 
her  shoulders  and  walked  away.  Between  Camilla  and  her  mother, 
too,  there  had  come  to  be  an  almost  internecine  quarrel  on  a  collateral 
point.  Camilla  was  still  carrying  on  a  vast  arrangement  which  she 
called  the  preparation  of  her  trousseau,  but  which  both  Mrs.  French 
and  Bella  regarded  as  a  spoliation  of  the  domestic  nest,  for  the  proud 
pui-poses  of  one  of  the  younger  birds.  And  this  had  grown  so  fear- 
fully that  in  two  different  places  Mrs.  French  had  found  herself  com- 
pelled to  reqiiest  that  no  further  articles  might  be  supplied  to  Miss 
Camilla.  The  bride  elect  had  rebelled,  alleging  that  as  no  fortune  was 
to  be  provided  for  her,  she  had  a  right  to  take  with  her  such  things  as 
she  could  carry  away  in  her  trunks  and  boxes.  Money  could  be  had 
at  the  bank,  she  said ;  and,  after  all,  what  were  fifty  pounds  more  or 
less  on  such  an  occasion  as  this  ?  And  then  she  went  into  a  calcula- 
tion to  prove  that  her  mother  and  sister  would  be  made  so  much  richer 
by  her  absence,  and  that  she  was  doing  so  much  for  them  by  her 
marriage,  that  nothing  could  be  more  mean  in  them  than  that  they 
should  hesitate  to  supply  her  with  such  things  as  she  desired  to  make 
her  entrance  into  Mr.  Gibson's  house  respectable.  But  Mrs.  French 
was  obdurate,  and  Mr.  Gibson  was  desired  to  speak  to  her.  Mr.  Gib- 
son, in  fear  and  trembling,  told  her  that  she  ought  to  repress  her  spirit 
of  extravagance,  and  Camilla  at  once  foresaw  that  he  would  avail  him- 
self of  this  plea  against  her  should  he  find  it  possible  at  any  time  to 
avail  himself  of  any  plea.  She  became  ferocious,  and,  turning  upon 
him,  told  him  to  mind  his  own  business.  Was  it  not  all  for  him  that 
she  was  doing  it  ?  "  She  was  not,"  she  said,  "  disposed  to  submit  to 
any  control  in  such  matters  from  him  till  ho  had  assumed  his  legal 
right  to  it  by  standing  with  her  before  the  altar."  It  came,  however, 
to  be  known  all  over  Exeter  that  Miss  Camilla's  expenditure  had  beon- 
chccked,  and  that,  in  spite  of  the  joys  naturally  incidental  to  a  wedding, 
things  were  not  going  well  with  tbe  ladies  at  Ileavitree. 

At   last   the   blow  came,     Camilla   was  aware  that  on  a  certain 


188  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    KIGHT. 

morning  her  mother  had  been  to  Mr.  Gibson's  house,  and  had  held  a 
long  conference  with  him.  She  could  learn  nothing  of  what  took 
place  there,  for  at  that  moment  she  had  taken  upon  herself  to  place 
herself  on  non-speaking  terms  with  her  mother  in  consequence  of 
those  disgraceful  orders  which  had  been  given  to  the  tradesmen.  But 
Bella  had  not  been  at  Mr.  Gibson's  house  at  the  time,  and  Camilla, 
though  she  presumed  that  her  own  conduct  had  been  discussed  in  a 
manner  very  injurious  to  herself,  did  not  believe  that  any  step  was 
being  then  arranged  which  would  be  positively  antagonistic  to  her  own 
views.  The  day  fixed  was  now  so  very  near,  that  there  could,  she 
felt,  be  no  escape  for  the  victim.     But  she  was  wrong. 

Mr.  Gibson  had  been  found  by  Mrs,  French  in  a  very  excited  state 
on  that  occasion.     He  had  wept,  and  pulled  his  hair,  and  torn  open 
his  waistcoat,  had  spoken  of  himself  as  a  wi'etch, — pleading,  however, 
at  the  same  time,  that  he  was  more  sinned  against  than  sinning,  had 
paced  about  the  room  wth  his  hands  dashing  against  his  brows,  and 
at  last  had  flung  himself  prostrate  on  the  ground.     The  meaning  of  it 
all  was,  that  he  had  tried  very  hard,  and  had  found  at  last  that  "ho 
couldn't  do  it."     "  I  am  ready  to  submit,"  said  he,  "  to  any  verdict 
that  you  may  pronounce  against  me,  but  I  should  deceive  you  and 
deceive  her  if  I  didn't  say  at  once  that  I  can't  do  it."     He  went  on  to 
explain   that   since  he   had   unfortunately  entered   into   his  present 
engagement   with  Camilla, — of  whose  position  he  spoke  in  quite  a 
touching  manner, — and  since  he  had  found  what  was  the  condition  of 
his  own  heart  and  feelings  he  had  consulted  a  friend, — who,  if  any 
merely  human  being  was   capable  of   advising,   might  be  implicitly 
trusted  for  advice  in  such  a  matter, — and  that  this  friend  had  told  him 
that  he  was  bound  to  give  up  the  marriage  let  the  consequences  to 
himself  or   to    others  be  what  they  might.     "  Although    the   skies 
should  fall  on  me,  I  cannot  stand  at  the  hymeneal  altar  with  a  lie  in 
my  mouth,"  said  Mr.   Gibson  immediately  upon  his  rising  from  his 
prostrate  condition  on  the  floor.    In  such  a  position  as  this  a  mother's 
fury   would   surely   be   very  great !     But  Mrs.  French  was  hardly 
furious.     She  cried,  and  begged  him  to  think  better  of  it,  and  assured 
him  that  Camilla,  when  she  should  be  calmed  down  by  matrimony, 
would  not  be  so  bad  as  she  seemed  ; — but  she  was  not  furious.     "The 
truth  is,  Mr.  Gibson,"  she  said  through  her  tears,  "that,  after  all,  you 
like  Bella  best."     Mr.  Gibson  owned  that  he  did  like  Bella  best,  and 
although  no  bargain  was  made  between  them  then  and  there, — and 
such  making  of  a  bargain  then  and  there  would  hardly  have  been 
practicable, — it  was  understood  that  Mrs.  French  would  not  proceed 


TIIK    LIONESS    AROVSED.  189 

to  extremities  if  Mr.  Gilison  wouUl  still  make  himself  fortbcomiiif;  as 
a  husband  for  the  advantiifje  of  one  of  the  daughters  of  the  family. 

So  far  Mr.  Gibson  had  progressed  towards  a  partial  liberation  from 
his  thraldom  with  a  considerable  amount  of  coiUMge  ;  but  he  was  well 
aware  that  the  great  act  of  daring  still  remained  to  be  done.  He  bad 
suggested  to  Mrs.  French  that  she  should  settle  the  matter  with 
Camilla, — but  this  Mrs.  French  had  altogether  declined  to  do.  It 
must,  she  said,  come  from  himself.  If  she  were  to  do  it,  she  must 
sympathise  with  her  child  ;  and  such  sympathy  would  be  obstructive 
of  the  future  arrangements  which  were  still  to  bo  made.  "She 
always  knew  that  I  liked  Bella  best,"  said  Mr.  Gibson, — still  sobbing, 
still  tearing  his  hair,  still  pacing  the  room  with  his  waistcoat  torn 
open.  "  I  would  not  advise  you  to  tell  her  that,"  said  Mrs.  French. 
Then  Mrs.  French  went  home,  and  early  on  the  following  morning  it 
was  thought  good  by  Arabella  that  she  also  should  pay  a  visit  at 
Otteiy  St.  Mary's.  "  Good-bye,  Cammy,"  said  Arabella  as  she  went, 
"  Bella,"  said  Camilla,  "I  wonder  whether  you  are  a  serpent.  I  do 
not  think  you  can  be  so  base  a  serpent  as  that."  "  I  declare,  Cammy, 
you  do  say  such  odd  things  that  no  one  can  understand  what  you 
mean."     And  so  she  went. 

On  that  morning  Mr.  Gibson  was  Avalking  at  an  early  hour  along 
the  road  from  Exeter  to  Cowley,  contemplating  his  position  and 
.striving  to  arrange  his  plans.  What  was  he  to  do,  and  how  was  ho 
to  do  it  ?  He  was  prepared  to  throw  up  his  living,  to  abandon  the 
cathedral,  to  leave  the  diocese, — to  make  any  sacrifice  rather  than  take 
Camilla  to  his  bosom.  Within  the  last  six  weeks  he  had  learned  to 
regard  her  with  almost  a  holy  horror.  He  could  not  understand  by 
what  miracle  of  self-neglect  he  had  fallen  into  so  perilous  an  abyss. 
He  had  long  kno'svn  Camilla's  temper.  But  in  those  days  in  which 
he  had  been  beaten  like  a  shuttlecock  between  the  Stanburys  and  the 
Frenches,  he  had  lost  his  head  and  had  done, — he  knew  not  what. 
"Those  whom  the  God  chooses  to  destroy,  he  first  maddens,"  said 
Mr.  Gibson  to  himself  of  himself,  throwing  himself  back  upon  early 
erudition  and  pagan  philosophy.  Then  be  looked  across  to  the  river 
Exe,  and  thought  that  there  was  hardly  water  enough  there  to  cover 
the  multiplicity  of  his  sorrows. 

But  something  must  be  done.  He  had  proceeded  so  far  in  forming 
a  resolution,  as  he  reached  St.  David's  Church  on  his  return  home- 
wards. His  sagacious  friend  had  told  him  that  as  soon  as  he  had 
altered  his  mind,  he  was  bound  to  let  the  lady  know  of  it  without 
delay.     "You  must  remember,"  said  the  sagacious  friend,  "  that  you 


190  HE    KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

will  owe  her  much, — very  much."  Mr.  Gibson  was  perplexed  in  his 
mind  when  he  reflected  how  much  he  might  possibly  be  made  to  owe 
her  if  she  should  decide  on  appealing  to  a  jury  of  her  countrymen  for 
justice.  But  anything  would  be  better  than  his  home  at  St.  Pcter's- 
cum-Pumpkin  with  Camilla  sitting  opposite  to  him  as  his  wife.  Were 
there  not  distant  lands  in  which  a  clergyman,  unfortunate  but  still 
energetic,  might  find  work  to  do  ?  Was  there  not  all  America  ? — and 
wei'e  there  not  Australia,  New  Zealand,  Natal,  all  open  to  him  ? 
Vfould  not  a  missionary  career  among  the  Chinese  be  better  for  him 
than  St.  Peter's-cum-Pumpkin  with  Camilla  French  for  his  wife  ?  By 
the  time  he  had  reached  home  his  mind  vras  made  up.  He  would 
write  a  letter  to  Camilla  at  once ;  and  he  would  marry  Ai-abella  at 
once, — on  any  day  that  might  be  fixed, — on  condition  that  Camilla 
would  submit  to  her  defeat  without  legal  redi-ess.  If  legal  redress 
should  be  demanded,  he  would  put  in  evidence  the  fact  that  her  own 
mother  had  been  compelled  to  caution  the  tradesmen  of  the  city  in 
regard  to  her  extravagance. 

He  did  write  his  letter, — in  an  agony  of  spirit.  "I  sit  down, 
Camilla,  with  a  sad  heart  and  a  reluctant  hand,"  he  said,  "to  com- 
municate to  you  a  fatal  truth.  But  truth  should  be  made  to  pre- 
vail, and  there  is  nothing  in  man  so  cowardly,  so  detrimental,  and  so 
unmanly  as  its  concealment.  I  have  looked  into  myself,  and  have 
enquired  of  myself,  and  have  assured  myself,  that  were  I  to  become 
j^our  husband,  I  should  not  make  you  happy.  It  would  be  of  no 
use  for  me  now  to  dilate  on  the  reasons  which  have  convinced  me  ; 
— but  I  am  convinced,  and  I  consider  it  my  duty  to  inform  you  so 
at  once.  I  have  been  closeted  with  your  mother,  and  have  made 
her  understand  that  it  is  so. 

"  I  have  not  a  word  to  say  in  my  own  justification  but  this, — 
that  I  am  sure  I  am  acting  honestly  in  telling  you  the  truth.  I  would 
not  wish  to  say  a  word  animadverting  on  yourself.  If  there  must 
be  blame  in  this  matter,  I  am  willing  to  take  it  all  on  my  own 
shoulders.  But  things  have  been  done  of  late,  and  words  have  been 
spoken,  and  habits  have  displayed  themselves,  which  would  not,  I 
am  sure,  conduce  to  our  mutual  comfort  in  this  world,  or  to  our 
assistance  to  each  other  in  our  struggles  to  reach  the  happiness  of  the 
vrorld  to  come. 

*'  I  think  that  you  will  agree  with  me,  Camilla,  that  when  a  man 
or  a  woman  has  fallen  into  such  a  mistake  as  that  which  I  have 
now  made,  it  is  best  that  it  should  be  acknowledged.  I  know 
well  that  such  a  change  of  arrangements  as  that  which  I  now  propose 


Tin;    LTONKSS   AROrSKP.  101 

vlll  be  rogardcil  most  unfavourably.  But  will  not  nnytbhit^  bo 
better  tban  the  binding  of  a  uiatrimoniiil  knot  which  cannot  bo 
again  unloosed,  and  which  we  should  both  regret? 

'•  I  do  not  know  that  I  need  add  anything  further.  "WTjat  can  I 
add  further  ?  Only  this  ; — that  I  am  inflexible.  Having  resolved  to 
take  this  step, — and  to  bear  the  evil  things  that  may  be  said  of  me, 
— for  your  happiness  and  for  mj'  o^^•n  tranquillity, — I  shall  not  now 
relinquish  my  resolution.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  forgive  me.  I  doubt 
much  whether  I  shall  ever  be  quite  able  to  forgive  myself.  The  mis- 
take which  I  have  made  is  one  which  should  not  have  been  com- 
mitted. I  do  not  ask  you  to  forgive  me ;  but  I  do  ask  you  to  pray 
that  I  may  be  forgiven. 

"  Yours,  with  feelings  of  the  truest  friendship, 

"  Thomas  Gibson." 

The  letter  bad  been  very  difficult,  but  he  was  rather  proud  of  it 
than  otherwise  when  it  was  completed.  He  had  felt  that  he  was 
wTiting  a  letter  which  not  improbably  might  become  public  property. 
It  was  necessary  that  he  should  be  firm,  that  he  should  accuse  himself 
a  little  in  order  that  he  might  excuse  himself  much,  and  that  he 
should  hint  at  causes  which  might  justify  the  rupture,  though  he 
should  so  veil  them  as  not  to  appear  to  defend  his  own  delinquency 
by  ungenerous  counter  accusation.  ^Vhcn  he  had  completed  the 
letter,  he  thought  that  he  had  done  all  this  rather  well,  and  he  sent 
the  despatch  off  to  Heavitree  by  the  clerk  of  St.  Peter's  Church,  with 
something  of  that  feeling  of  expressible  relief  which  attends  the  final 
conquest  over  some  fatal  and  all  but  insuperable  misfortune.  He 
thought  that  he  was  sure  now  that  he  would  not  have  to  marry 
Camilla  on  the  29th  of  the  month, — and  there  would  probably  be  a 
period  of  some  hours  before  he  would  be  called  upon  to  hear  or  read 
Camilla's  reply. 

Camilla  was  alone  when  she  received  the  letter,  but  she  rushed  at 
once  to  her  mother.  "  There,"  said  she ;  "  there — I  knew^  that  it 
w;iB  coming!"  Mrs.  French  took  the  paper  into  her  hands,  and 
gasped,  and  gazed  at  her  daughter  without  speaking.  "  You  knew  of 
it,  mother." 

"YcBterday, — when  he  told  me,  I  knew  of  it." 

"  And  Bella  knows  it." 

"  Not  a  word  of  it." 

"  She  docs.  I  am  sure  she  does.  But  it  is  all  nothing.  I  will 
not  accept  it.  He  cannot  treat  mo  so.  I  will  drag  him  there ; — but 
lio  shall  come." 


192  HE    K>^EW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

"You  can't  make  Lim,  my  dear." 

"I  will  make  him.  And  you  would  help  mc,  mamma,  if  you  Lad 
any  spirit.  "What, — a  fortnight  before  the  time,  when  the  things  are 
all  bought !  Look  at  the  presents  that  have  been  sent !  Mamma,  he 
doesn't  know  me.  And  he  never  would  have  done  it,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  Bella, — never.  She  had  better  take  care,  or  there  shall  be 
such  a  tragedy  that  nobody  every  heard  the  like.  If  she  thinks  that 
she  is  going  to  be  that  man's  wife, — she  is — mistaken."  Then  there 
was  a  pause  for  a  moment.  "Mamma,"  she  said,  "  I  shall  go  to  him 
at  once.  I  do  not  care  in  the  least  what  anybody  may  say.  I  shall 
■ — go  to  him, — at  once."  Mrs.  French  felt  that  at  this  moment  it  was 
best  that  she  should  be  silent. 


CHAl^TER  LXXY. 


IIIE  nOWLEXS  GO  OVER  THE  ALPS. 


11=°^  Y  the  tlili-tcentli  of  May  the  Rowley 
family  hud  established  itself  in  Flo- 
rence, pui'posing  to  remain  either 
there  or  at  the  baths  of  Lucca  till 
the  end  of  June,  at  which  time  it  was 
thought  that  Sii-  Marmaduke  should 
begin  to  make  preparations  for  his 
journey  back  to  the  Islands.  Their 
future  prospects  were  not  altogether 
settled.  It  was  not  decided  whether 
Lady  Rowley  should  at  once  retm'n 
with  him,  whether  Mrs.  Trevelyan 
should  return  with  him, — nor  was 
it  settled  among  them  what  should 
~  •'--'-• --^  -  -^  "  be  the  fate  of  Nora  Rowley.     Nora 

Rowley  was  quite  resolved  herself  that  she  would  not  go  back 
to  the  Islands,  and  had  said  as  much  to  her  mother.  Lady  Rowley 
had  not  repeated  this  to  Sir  Marmaduke,  and  was  herself  in 
doubt  as  to  what  might  best  bo  done.  Girls  are  understood 
by  their  mothers  better  than  they  are  by  their  fathers.  Lady 
Rowley  was  beginning  to  be  aware  that  Nora's  obstinacy  was  too 
strong  to  be  overcome  by  mere  words,  and  that  other  steps  must  be 
taken  if  she  were  to  be  weaned  from  her  pernicious  passion  for  Hugh 
Stanburj'.  Mr.  Glascock  was  still  in  Florence.  Might  she  not  bo 
cured  by  further  overtures  from  Mr.  Glascock  ?  The  chance  of 
securing  such  a  son-in-law  was  so  important,  so  valuable,  that  no 
trouble  was  too  great  to  bo  incurred,  even  though  the  probability  of 
success  might  not  be  great. 

It  must  not,  however,  be  supposed  that  Lady  Rowley  carried  off  all 
the  family  to  Italy,  including  Sir  Marmaduke,  simply  in  chase  of  Mr. 
Glascock.  Anxious  as  she  was  on  the  subject,  she  was  too  proud, 
and  also  too  well-conditioned,  to  have  suggested  to  herself  such  a 

VOL.  II.  K 


194  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

journey  with  sucli  an  object,  Trevelyan  Liad  escaped  from  Willesden 
witli  the  child,  and  they  had  heard, — again  through  Stanhury, — that 
he  had  returned  to  Italy.  They  had  all  agreed  that  it  would  be  well 
that  they  should  leave  London  for  awhile,  and  see  something  of  the 
continent ;  and  when  it  was  told  to  them  that  little  Louis  was  pro- 
bably in  Florence,  that  alone  was  reason  enough  for  them  to  go 
thither.  They  would  go  to  the  city  till  the  heat  was  too  great  and 
the  mosquitoes  too  powerful,  and  then  they  would  visit  the  baths  of 
Lucca  for  a  month.  This  was  their  plan  of  action,  and  the  cause  for 
their  plan  ;  but  Lady  Rowley  found  herself  able  to  weave  into  it 
another  little  plan  of  her  own  of  which  she  said  nothing  to  anybody. 
She  was  not  running  after  Mr.  Glascock ;  but  if  Mr.  Glascock  should 
choose  to  run  after  them, — or  her,  who  could  say  that  any  harm  had 
been  done  ? 

Nora  had  answered  that  proposition  of  her  lover's  to  walk  out  of 
the  house  in  Manchester  Street,  and  get  married  at  the  next  church, 
in  a  most  discreet  manner.  She  had  declared  that  she  would  be  true 
and  firm,  but  that  she  did  not  wish  to  draw  upon  herself  the  displeasure 
of  her  father  and  mother.  She  did  not,  she  said,  look  upon  a  clan- 
destine marriage  as  a  happy  resource.  But, — this  she  added  at  the 
end  of  a  long  and  very  sensible  letter, — she  intended  to  abide  by  her 
engagement,  and  she  did  not  intend  to  go  back  to  the  Mandarins. 
She  did  not  say  what  alternative  she  would  choose  in  the  event  of  her 
being  unable  to  obtain  her  father's  consent  before  his  return.  She 
did  not  suggest  what  was  to  become  of  her  when  Sir  Marmaduke's  leave 
of  absence  should  be  expired.  But  her  statement  that  she  would  not  go 
back  to  the  islands  was  certainly  made  with  more  substantial  vigour, 
though,  perhaps,  with  less  of  reasoning,  than  any  other  of  the  proposi- 
tions made  in  her  letter.  Then,  in  her  postscript,  she  told  him  that  they 
were  all  going  to  Italy.  "  Papa  and  mamma  think  that  we  ought  to 
follow  poor  Mr.  Trevelyan.  The  lawyer  says  that  nothing  can  be  done 
while  he  is  away  with  the  boy.  We  are  therefore  all  going  to  start  to 
Florence.  The  journey  is  delightful.  I  will  not  say  whose  presence 
Avill  be  wanting  to  make  it  perfect." 

Before  they  started  there  came  a  letter  to  Nora  from  Dorothy, 

which  shall  be  given  entire,  because  it  will  tell  the  reader  more  of 

Dorothy's  happiness  than  would  be  learned  from  any  other  mode  of 

narrative. 

"  The  Close,  Thursday. 

"De.^est  Nora, 

"  I  have  just  had  a  letter  from  Hugh,  and  that  makes  me  feel 
that  I  should  Hke  to  vrriie  to  you.  Dear  Hugh  has  told  me  all  about  it, 


THE   ROWLEYS   GO   OVER   THE   ALPS.  195 

ami  I  do  so  hope  that  things  may  come  right  and  that  ^vo  may  bo 
bisters.  IIo  is  so  good  that  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  should  love 
him.  Ho  has  been  the  best  son  and  the  best  brother  in  the  world, 
and  everybody  speaks  well  of  him, — except  my  dear  aunt,  who  is  pre- 
judiced because  she  does  not  like  newspapers.  I  need  not  praise  him 
to  you,  for  I  dare  say  you  think  quite  as  well  of  him  as  I  do.  I  can- 
not tell  you  all  the  beautiful  things  he  says  about  you,  but  I  dare  say 
he  has  told  them  to  you  himself. 

"I  seem  to  know  you  so  well  because  Priscilla  has  talked  about 
you  so  often.  She  says  that  she  knew  that  you  and  my  brother  were 
fond  of  each  other  because  you  growled  at  each  other  when  you  were 
together  at  the  Clock  House,  and  never  had  any  civil  words  to  say 
before  people.  I  don't  know  whether  growling  is  a  sign  of  love,  but 
Hugh  does  growl  sometimes  when  he  is  most  affectionato.  He  growls 
at  me,  and  I  understand  him,  and  I  like  to  bo  growled  at.  I  wonder 
whether  you  like  him  to  growl  at  you. 

"  And  now  I  must  tell  you  something  about  myself, — because  if 
you  are  to  be  my  sister  you  ought  to  know  it  all.  I  also  am 
going  to  be  married  to  a  man  whom  I  love, — oh,  so  dearly !  His 
name  is  Mr.  Brooke  Bui-gess,  and  he  is  a  great  friend  of  my  aunt's. 
At  first  she  did  not  like  our  being  engaged,  because  of  some  family 
reason  ; — but  she  has  got  over  that,  and  nothing  can  be  Idnder  and 
nicer  than  she  is.  We  are  to  be  married  here,  some  day  in  June, — 
the  11th  I  think  it  will  be.  How  I  do  wish  you  could  have  been 
here  to  be  my  bridesmaid.  It  would  have  been  so  nice  to  have  had 
Hugh's  sweetheart  with  me.  He  is  a  friend  of  Hugh's,  and  no  doubt 
you  will  hear  all  about  him.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  we  must  live  in 
London,  because  my  husband  as  will  be, — you  see  I  call  him  mine 
already, — is  in  an  office  there.  And  so  poor  Aunt  Stanbury  will  be 
left  all  alone.  It  will  be  very  sad,  and  she  is  so  wedded  to  Exeter 
that  I  fear  we  shall  not  get  her  up  to  London. 

"  I  would  describe  Mr.  Burgess  to  you,  only  I  do  not  suppose  you 
would  care  to  hear  about  him.  He  is  not  so  tall  as  Hugh,  but  he  is 
a  great  deal  better  looking.  With  you  two  the  good  looks  are  to  be 
with  the  wife ;  but,  with  us,  with  the  husband.  Perhaps  you  think 
Hugh  is  handsome.  We  used  to  declare  that  ho  was  the  ugliest  boy 
in  the  countrj'.  I  don't  suppose  it  makes  very  much  difference. 
Brooke  is  handsome,  but  I  don't  tliiuk  I  should  like  him  the  less  if 
he  were  ever  so  ugly. 

"Do  you  remember  hearing  about  the  Miss  Frenches  when  you 
•were  in  Devonshire  ?  There  has  come  up  such  a  terrible  affair  about 
them.    A  Mr.  Gibson,  a  clergyman,  was  going  to  marry  the  younger ; 


196  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

but  Las  changed  liis  mind  and  wants  to  take  tbe  elder,  I  think  ho 
•was  in  love  with  her  first."  Dorothy  did  not  say  a  word  about  the 
little  intermediate  stage  of  attachment  to  herself.  "  All  tliis  is  making 
a  great  noise  in  the  city,  and  some  people  think  he  should  be  punished 
severely.  It  seems  to  me  that  a  gentleman  ought  not  to  make  such  a 
mistake  ;  but  if  he  does,  he  ought  to  own  it.  I  hope  they  will  let  him 
marry  the  elder  one.  Aunt  Stanbury  says  it  all  comes  from  their 
wearing  chignons.  I  wish  you  knew  Aunt  Stanbmy,  because  she  is 
so  good.  Perhaps  you  wear  a  chignon.  I  think  Priscilla  said  that 
3-0U  did.     It  must  not  be  large,  if  you  come  to  see  Aunt  Stanbury. 

"Pray  write  to  me, — and  believe  that  I  hope  to  bo  your  most 
affectionate  sister, 

"  DoEOTHY  Stanbury. 

"P.S. — I  am  so  happy,  and  I  do  so  hope  that  you  will  be  the 
same." 

This  was  received  only  a  day  before  the  departure  of  the  Rowleys 
for  Italy,  and  was  answered  by  a  short  note  promising  that  Nora 
would  write  to  her  correspondent  from  Florence. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  that  Trevelyan  had  started  with  his  boy, 
fearing  the  result  of  the  medical  or  legal  interference  with  his  affairs 
which  was  about  to  be  made  at  Sir  Marmaduke's  instance.  He  had 
written  a  few  words  to  his  wife,  neither  commencing  nor  ending  his 
note  after  any  usual  fashion,  telling  her  that  he  thought  it  expedient 
to  travel,  that  he  had  secured  the  services  of  a  nurse  for  the  little  boy, 
and  that  during  his  absence  a  certain  income  would,  as  heretofore, 
be  paid  to  her.  He  said  nothing  as  to  his  probable  return,  or  as  to 
her  future  life ;  nor  was  there  anything  to  indicate  whither  he  was 
going.  Stanbury,  however,  had  learned  from  the  faithless  and  fright- 
ened Bozzlo  that  Trevelyan's  letters  were  to  be  sent  after  him  to 
Florence.  Mr.  Bozzle,  in  giving  this  information,  had  acknowledged  ■ 
that  his  employer  was  "  becoming  no  longer  quite  himself  under  his 
troubles,"  and  had  expressed  his  opinion  that  he  ought  to  be  "  looked 
after."  Bozzle  had  nxade  his  money ;  and  now,  with  a  grain  of 
humanity  mixed  with  many  grains  of  faithlessness,  reconciled  it  to 
himself  to  tell  his  master's  secrets  to  his  master's  enemies.  What 
would  a  counsel  be  able  to  say  about  his  conduct  in  a  court  of  law  ? 
That  was  the  question  which  Bozzle  was  always  aslcing  himself  as  to 
his  own  business.  That  he  should  be  abused  by  a  barrister  to  a 
jury,  and  exposed  as  a  spy  and  a  fiend,  was,  he  thought,  a  matter 
of  course.     To   be   so   abused  was  a  part  of  his  profession.      But 


TIIF,    ROWLKYS    CO    OVER   THE    ALPS.  107 

it  was  expeJicnt  for  bim  in  all  cases  to  secure  some  loop-hole  of 
apparent  duty  by  which  he  might  in  part  escape  from  such  censures. 
Ho  was  untrue  -to  his  employer  now,  because  ho  thought  that  his 
employer  ought  to  be  "looked  after."  He  did,  no  doubt,  take  a  five- 
pouud  note  from  Hugh  Stanbury ;  but  then  it  was  necessary  that  he 
should  live.  He  must  be  paid  for  his  time.  In  this  way  Trevelyan 
started  for  Florence,  and  ■s\'ithiu  a  week  afterwards  the  Rowleys  were 
upon  his  track. 

Nothing  had  been  said  by  Sir  Marmaduke  to  Nora  as  to  her  lover 
since  that  stormy  interview  in  which  both  father  and  daughter  had 
expressed  their  opinions  very  strongly,  and  very  little  had  been  said 
by  Lady  Rowley.  Lady  Rowley  had  spoken  more  than  once  of 
Nora's  return  to  the  Mandarins,  and  had  once  alluded  to  it  as  a 
certainty.  "  But  I  do  not  know  that  I  shall  go  back,"  Nora  had  said. 
**  My  dear,"  the  mother  had  replied,  "  unless  you  are  married,  I  sup- 
pose your  home  must  be  with  your  parents."  Nora,  having  made 
her  protest,  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  persevere,  and  so  the  matter 
was  dropped.  It  was  known,  however,  that  they  must  all  come  back 
to  Loudon  before  they  started  for  their  seat  of  government,  and 
therefore  the  subject  did  not  at  present  assume  its  difficult  aspect. 
There  was  a  tacit  understanding  among  them  that  everything  should 
be  done  to  make  the  journey  pleasant  to  the  young  mother  who  was 
in  search  of  her  son ;  and,  in  addition  to  this.  Lady  Rowley  had  her 
own  little  understanding,  which  was  very  tacit  indeed,  that  in  Mr. 
Glascock  might  be  found  an  escape  from  one  of  their  great  family 
difficulties. 

"  You  had  better  take  this,  papa,  Mrs.  Trevelyan  had  said,  when 
she  received  from  the  office  of  Mr.  Bideawhile  a  cheque  payable  to 
her  order  for  the  money  sent  to  her  by  her  husband's  direction. 

"  I  do  not  want  the  man's  money,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke. 

"  But  you  are  going  to  this  place  for  my  sake,  papa ; — and  it  is 
right  that  he  should  bear  the  expense  for  his  own  wife.  And,  papa, 
you  must  remember  always  that  though  his  mind  is  distracted  on  this 
horrible  business,  he  is  not  a  bad  man.  No  one  is  more  liberal  or 
more  just  about  money."  Sir  Marmaduke's  feelings  on  the  matter 
were  very  much  the  same  as  those  which  had  troubled  Mr.  Outhouse, 
and  he,  personally,  refused  to  touch  the  money ;  but  his  duuglitcr 
paid  her  own  share  of  the  expenses  of  the  journey. 

They  travelled  at  their  case,  stopping  at  Paris,  and  at  Geneva,  and 
at  Milan.  Lady  Rowley  thought  that  she  was  taken  very  fast,  be- 
cause she  was  allowed  to  sleep  only  two  nights  at  each  of  these  places, 


198  IIK    KNEW    TIE    WAS   RIGHT. 

and  Sir  Rowley  himself  thought  that  ho  had  achieved  something  of 
a  Ilaiinibalian  enterprise  in  taking  five  ladies  and  two  maids  over  tho 
Simplon  and  down  into  the  plains  of  Lombardy,  with  nobody  to  pro- 
tect him  but  a  single  courier.     He  had  been  a  little  nervous  about  it, 
being  unaccustomed  to  European   travelling,   and   had  not   at  first 
realised  the  fact  that  the  journey  is  to  be  made  with  less  trouble  than 
one  from  the  Marble  Arch  to  Mile  End.     "  My  dears,"  he  said  to  his 
younger  daughters,  as  they  were  rattling  round  the  steep  downward 
twists  and  turns  of  the  great  road,  "  you  must  sit  quite  still  on  these 
descents,  or  you  do  not  knov/  where  you  may  go.     The  least  thing 
would  overset  us."     But  Lucy  and  Sophy  soon  knew  better,  and 
became  so  intimate  with  the  mountain,  under  the  friendly  guidance  of 
their  courier,  that  before  the  plains  were  reached,  they  were  in  and 
out,  and  here  and  there,  and  up  and  down,  as  though  they  had  been 
bred  among  the  valleys  of  the  pass.     There  would  come  a  ringing- 
laugh  from  some  rock  above  their  head,  and  Lady  Rowley  looking  up 
would  see  their  dresses  fluttering  on  a  pinnacle  which  appeared  to  her 
to  be  fit  only  for  a  bird ;  and  there  would  be  the  courier  behind  them, 
with  two  parasols,  and  a  shawl,  and  a  cloak,  and  an  eye-glass,  and  a 
fine  pair  cf  grizzled  whiskers.     They  made   an  Alpine  club  of  their 
own,  refusing  to  admit  their  father  because  he  would  not  climb  up  a 
rock,  and  Nora  thought  of  the  letters  about  it  w^hich  she  would  write 
to  her  lover, — only  that  she  had  determined  that  she  would  not  write 
to  him  at  all  without  telling  her  mother, — and  Mrs.  Trevelyan  would 
for  moments  almost  forget  that  she  had  been  robbed  of  her  child. 

From  Milan  they  went  on  to  Florence,  and  though  they  were  by 
that  time  quite  at  home  in  Italy,  and  had  become  critical  judges  of 
Italian  inns  and  Italian  railways,  they  did  not  find  that  journey  to 
be  quite  so  pleasant.  There  is  a  romance  to  us  still  in  the  name 
of  Italy  which  a  near  view  of  many  details  in  the  country  fails  to 
realise.  Shall  we  say  that  a  journey  through  Lombardy  is  about  as 
interesting  as  one  through  the  flats  of  Cambridgeshire  and  the  fens 
of  Norfolk  ?  And  the  station  of  Bologna  is  not  an  interesting  spot  in 
which  to  spend  an  hour  or  two,  although  it  may  be  conceded  that  pro- 
visions may  be  had  there  much  better  than  any  that  can  be  procured 
at  our  own  railway  stations.  From  thence  they  went,  still  by  rail, 
over  the  Apennines,  and  unfortunately  slept  during  the  whole  time. 
The  courier  had  assured  them  that  if  they  would  only  look  out  they 
would  see  the  castles  of  which  they  had  read  in  novels ;  but  the  day 
had  been  very  hot,  and  Sir  Marmaduke  had  been  cross,  and  Lady 
Rowley  had  been  weary,  and  so  not  a  castle  was  seen.     "  Pistoia,  me 


TIIK    ROWLEYS   GO   OVER   THE    ALPS.  199 

lady,  this,"  said  the  courier  opening  the  door; — "  to  stop  half  an  hour." 
''Oh,  why  was  it  not  Florence?"  Another  hour  and  a  half!  So 
Ihcy  all  went  to  sleep  again,  and  wore  very  tired  when  they  reached 
the  heautiful  city. 

During  the  next  day  they  rested  at  their  inn,  and  sauntered  through 
the  Duomo,  and  broke  their  necks  looking  up  at  the  inimitable  glories 
of  the  campanile.  Such  a  one  as  Sii*  Marmadukc  had  of  course  not 
come  to  Florence  without  introductions.  The  Foreign  Office  is  always 
vcr)'  civil  to  its  next-door  neighbour  of  the  colonies, — civil  and  cordial, 
though  perhaps  a  little  patronising.  A  minister  is  a  bigger  man  than 
a  governor ;  and  the  smallest  of  the  diplomatic  fry  are  greater  swells  than 
even  secretaries  in  quite  important  dependencies.  The  attache,  though 
he  be  unpaid,  dwells  in  a  capital,  and  flii-ts  with  a  countess.  The 
governor's  right-hand  man  is  confined  to  an  island,  and  dances  with  a 
planter's  daughter.  The  distinction  is  quite  understood,  but  is  not 
incompatible  with  much  excellent  good  feeling  on  the  part  of  the 
superior  department.  Sii"  Marmaduke  had  come  to  Florence  fairly 
provided  with  passports  to  Florentine  society,  and  had  been  mentioned 
in  more  than  one  letter  as  the  distinguished  Governor  of  the  Man- 
darins, who  had  been  called  home  from  his  seat  of  government  on  a 
special  mission  of  great  importance.  On  the  second  day  he  went  out 
to  call  at  the  embassy  and  to  leave  his  cards.  "  Have  you  been  able 
to  learn  whether  he  is  here  ?"  asked  Lady  Rowley  of  her  husband  in 
a  whisper,  as  soon  as  they  were  alone. 

"  Who  ;— Trevelyan  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  suppose  you  could  learn  about  him,  because  he  would 
be  hiding  himself.     But  is  Mr.  Glascock  here  ?" 

"I  forgot  to  ask,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke. 

Lady  Rowley  did  not  reproach  him.  It  is  impossible  that  any 
father  should  altogether  share  a  mother's  anxiety  in  regard  to  the 
marriage  of  their  daughters.  But  what  a  thing  it  would  be  !  Lady 
Rowley  thought  that  she  could  compound  for  all  misfortunes  in  other 
respects,  if  she  could  have  a  daughter  married  to  the  future  Lord 
Peterborough.  She  had  been  told  in  England  that  he  was  faultless, 
— not  very  clever,  not  very  active,  not  likely  to  be  very  famous ;  but, 
as  a  husband,  simply  faultless.  He  was  very  rich,  very  good-natured, 
easily  managed,  more  likely  to  be  proud  of  his  wife  than  of  himself, 
addicted  to  no  jealousies,  afflicted  by  no  vices,  so  respectable  in  every 
way  that  he  was  sure  to  become  great  as  an  English  nobleman  by 
the  very  weight  of  his  virtues.  And  it  had  been  represented  also 
to  Lady  Rowley  that  this  paragon  among  men  had  been  passionately 


300  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

nttacbed  to  her  daughter !  Perhaps  she  magnitied  a  little  the  romanco 
of  the  story ;  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  this  greatly  endowed  lover  had 
rushed  away  from  his  country  in  despair,  because  her  daughter  Nora 
would  not  smile  upon  him.  Now  they  were,  as  she  hoped,  in  the 
same  city  with  him.  But  it  was  indispensable  to  her  success  that 
she  should  not  seem  to  be  running  after  him.  To  Nora,  not  a  word 
had  been  said  of  the  prospect  of  meeting  Mr.  Glascock  at  Florence. 
Hardly  more  than  a  word  had  been  said  to  her  sister  Emily,  and  that 
under  injunction  of  strictest  secrecy.  It  must  be  made  to  appear  to 
all  the  world  that  other  motives  had  brought  them  to  Florence, — as, 
indeed,  other  motives  had  brought  them.  Not  for  worlds  would 
LadyKowley  have  run  after  a  man  for  her  daughter  ;  but  still,  still, — • 
still,  seeing  that  the  man  was  himself  so  unutterably  in  love  with  her 
girl,  seeing  that  he  was  so  fully  justified  by  his  position  to  be  in  love 
with  anj'  girl,  seeing  that  such  a  maximum  of  happiness  would  be  the 
result  of  such  a  marriage,  she  did  feel  that,  even  for  his  sake,  she 
must  be  doing  a  good  thing  to  bring  them  together !  Something, 
though  not  much  of  all  this,  she  had  been  obliged  to  explain  to  Sir 
Marmaduke  ; — and  yet  he  had  not  taken  the  trouble  to  inq[uire  whether 
Mr.  Glascock  was  in  Florence  ! 

On  the  third  day  after  their  arrival,  the  wife  of  the  British  minister 
came  to  call  upon  Lady  Rowley,  and  the  wife  of  the  British  minister 
was  good-natured,  easy-mannered,  and  very  much  given  to  conversa- 
tion. She  preferred  talking  to  listening,  and  in  the  course  of  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  had  told  Lady  Rowley  a  good  deal  about  Florence  ;  but 
she  had  not  mentioned  Mr.  Glascock's  name.  It  would  have  been  so 
pleasant  if  the  requisite  information  could  have  been  obtained  without 
the  asking  of  any  du-ect  question  on  the  subject !  But  Lady  Rowley, 
who  from  many  years'  practice  of  similar,  though  perhaps  less  dis- 
tinguished, courtesies  on  her  part,  knew  well  the  first  symptom  of  the 
coming  end  of  her  guest's  visit,  found  that  the  minister's  wife  Avas 
about  to  take  her  departure  without  an  allusion  to  Mr.  Glascock. 
And  yet  the  names  had  been  mentioned  of  so  many  English  residents 
in  Florence,  who  neither  in  wealth,  rank,  or  virtue,  were  competent 
to  hold  a  candle  to  that  phoenix  !  She  was  forced,  therefore,  to  pluck 
up  courage,  and  to  ask  the  question.  "  Have  you  had  a  Mr.  Glascock 
here  this  spring  ?  "  said  Lady  Rowley. 

"What; — Lord  Peterborough's  son?  Oh,  dear,  yes.  Such  a 
singular  being  ! " 

Lady  Rowley  thought  that  she  could  perceive  that  her  phoenix  had 
not  made  himself  agreeable  at  the  embassy.     It  might  perhaps  bo 


WE    STIAT.L    BE    SO    POOR.  201 

that  he  had  huricd  himself  away  from  society  because  of  his  love. 
**  And  is  hero  now  ?  "  asked  Lady  Rowley. 

"  I  cannot  say  at  all.  Ho  is  sometimes  here  and  sometimes  with 
his  father  at  Naples.  But  when  here,  he  lives  chielly  with  tho 
Americans.  They  say  he  is  going  to  marry  an  American  gu'l, — their 
minister's  niece.  There  are  three  of  them,  I  think,  and  he  is  to  take 
the  eldest."  Lady  Rowley  asked  no  more  questions,  and  let  her 
august  visitor  go,  almost  without  another  word. 


CHAPTER  LXXVI. 
«  WE  SHALL   BE  SO  FOOn." 


Mr.  Gl.\scock  at  that  moment  was  not  only  in  Florence,  but  was 
occupying  rooms  in  the  very  hotel  in  which  the  RoAvleys  were  stay- 
ing. Lady  Rowley,  when  she  heard  that  he  was  engaged  to  marry 
an  American  lady,  became  suddenly  very  sick  at  heart, — sick  with  a 
sickness  that  almost  went  beyond  her  heart.  She  felt  ill,  and  was 
glad  to  be  alone.  The  rumour  might  be  untrue.  Such  rumours 
generally  are  untrue.  But  then,  as  Lady  Rowley  knew  very  well, 
they  generally  have  some  foundation  in  truth.  Mr.  Glascock,  if  ho 
Avere  not  actually  engaged  to  the  American  girl,  had  probably  been 
flu-ting  with  her; — and,  if  bo,  where  was  that  picture  which  Lady 
Rowley  had  been  painting  for  herself  of  a  love-lorn  swain  to  bo 
brought  back  to  the  pleasures  and  occupations  of  the  world  only  by 
the  gu-1  of  whom  he  was  enamoured  ?  But  still  she  would  not  quite 
give  up  the  project.  Mr.  Glascock,  if  he  was  in  Italy,  would  no 
doubt  see  by  the  newspapers  that  Sir  Marmaduke  and  his  family 
were  in  Florence, — and  would  probably  come  to  them.  Then,  if 
Nora  would  only  behave  herself,  the  American  girl  might  still  bo 
conquered. 

Dui-ing  two  or  three  days  after  this  nothing  was  seen  or  heard  of  Mr. 
Glascock.  Had  Lady  Rowley  thought  of  mentioning  the  name  to  the 
waiter  at  the  hotel,  she  would  have  learned  that  he  was  living  in  tho 
next  passage  ;  but  it  did  not  occur  to  her  to  seek  information  in  that 
fashion.  Nor  did  she  ask  direct  questions  in  other  quarters  about  Mr. 
Glascock  himself.  She  did,  however,  make  inquiry  about  Americans 
living  in  Florence, — especially  about  the  American  Minister, — and, 
before  a  week  had  passed  overhead,  had  been  introduced  to  tho 
Spaldings.  Mrs.  Spalding  was  very  civil,  and  invited  Lady  Rowley 
and  all  the  girls  and  Sir  Miu-maduke  to  come  to  her  on  her  "  Fridays." 


202  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

Sho  received  her  friends  every  Friday,  aud  would  continue  to  do  so 
till  the  middle  of  Juno.  She  had  nieces  who  would,  she  said,  be 
so  happy  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  Miss  Eowleys. 

By  this  time  the  picture  galleries,  the  churches,  and  the  palaces  in 
Florence  had  nearly  all  been  visited.  Poor  Lady  Rowley  had  dragged 
herself  wearily  from  sight  to  sight,  hoping  always  to  meet  with  Mr. 
Glascock,  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  residents  in  a  town  do  not  pass 
their  mornings  habitually  in  looking  after  pictures.  During  this  time 
inquiries  were  being  made,  through  the  police,  respecting  Trevelyan ; 
and  Sir  Marmaduke  had  obtained  information  that  an  English  gentle- 
man, with  a  little  boy,  had  gone  on  to  Siena,  and  had  located  himself 
there.  There  seemed  to  be  but  little  doubt  that  this  was  Trevelyan, 
— though  nothing  had  been  learned  with  certainty  as  to  the  gentleman's 
name.  It  had  been  decided  that  Sir  Marmaduke,  with  his  courier  and 
Mrs.  Trevelyan,  should  go  on  to  Siena,  and  endeavour  to  come  upon 
the  fugitive,  and  they  had  taken  their  departure  on  a  certain  morning. 
On  that  same  day  Lady  Eowley  was  walking  with  Nora  and  one  of 
the  other  girls  through  the  hall  of  the  hotel,  when  they  were  met  in 
full  face — by  Mr.  Glascock  !  Lady  Rowley  and  Lucy  were  in  front,  and 
they,  of  course,  did  not  know  the  man.  Nora  had  seen  him  at  once, 
and  in  her  confusion  hardly  knew  how  to  bear  herself.  Mr.  Glascock 
was  passing  by  her  without  recognising  her, — had  passed  her  mother 
and  sister,  and  had  so  far  gone  on,  that  Nora  had  determined  to  make 
no  sign,  when  he  chanced  to  look  up  and  see  who  it  was  that  was  so 
close  to  him.  "Miss  Rowley,"  he  said,  "who  thought  of  meeting 
you  in  Florence  !  "  Lady  Rowley,  of  course,  turned  round,  and 
there  was  an  introduction.  Poor  Nora,  though  she  knew  nothing  of 
her  mother's  schemes,  was  confused  and  ill  at  ease.  Mr.  Glascock 
was  very  civil,  but  at  the  same  time  rather  cold.  Lady  Rowley  was 
all  smiles  and  courtesy.  She  had,  she  said,  heard  his  name  from  her 
daughters,  and  was  very  happy  to  make  his  acquaintance.  Lucy 
looked  on  somewhat  astonished  to  find  that  the  lover  whom  her  sister 
had  been  blamed  for  rejecting,  and  who  was  spoken  of  with  so  many 
encomiums,  was  so  old  a  man.  Mr.  Glascock  asked  after  Mrs.  Tre- 
velyan ;  and  Lady  Rowley,  in  a  low,  melancholy  whisper,  told  him 
that  they  were  now  all  in  Florence,  in  the  hope  of  meeting  Mr.  Tre- 
velyan. "  You  have  heard  the  sad  story,  I  know,  Mr.  Glascock, — and 
therefore  I  do  not  mind  telling  you."  Mr.  Glascock  acknowledged 
that  he  did  know  the  story,  and  informed  her  that  he  had  seen  Mr. 
Trevelyan  in  Florence  within  the  last  ten  days.  This  was  so  interest- 
ing, that,  at  Lady  Rowley's  request,  he  went  with  them  up  to  their- 


WE   SHALL    BE   SO   POOR.  203 

rooms,  and  in  this  way  the  acquaintance  was  made.  It  lurnctl  out 
that  ]\Ir.  Glascock  had  spoken  to  Mr.  Trcvelyan,  and  that  Trevelyan 
had  told  him  that  he  meant  for  the  present  to  take  up  his  residence 
in  some  small  Italian  town.  "  And  how  was  ho  looking,  Mr.  Glas- 
cock?" 

"  Very  ill.  Lady  Rowley; — very  ill,  indeed." 

"  Do  not  tell  her  so,  Mr.  Glascock.  She  has  gone  now  with  her 
father  to  Siena.  We  think  that  he  is  there,  with  the  boy, — or,  at  least, 
that  he  maybe  heard  of  there.  And  you; — you  are  living  here?" 
Mr.  Glascock  said  that  he  was  living  between  Naples  and  Florence, — 
going  occasionally  to  Naples,  a  place  that  he  hated,  to  see  his  father, 
and  coming  back  at  intervals  to  the  capital.  Nora  sat  by,  and  hardly 
spoke  a  word.  She  was  nicely  dressed,  with  an  exquisite  little 
bonnet,  which  had  been  bought  as  they  came  through  Paris ;  and 
Lady  Eowley,  with  natural  pride,  felt  that  if  he  was  ever  in  love 
with  her  child,  that  love  must  como  back  upon  him  now.  American 
girls,  she  had  been  told,  were  hard,  and  dry,  and  sharp,  and  angular. 
She  had  seen  some  at  the  Mandarins,  with  v/hom  she  thought  it  must 
be  impossible  that  any  Englishman  should  be  in  love.  There  never, 
sui-ely,  had  been  an  American  girl  like  her  Nora.  "Are  you  fond  of 
pictures,  Mr.  Glascock  ?"  she  asked.  Mr.  Glascock  was  not  very  fond 
of  pictures,  and  thought  that  he  was  rather  tii-ed  of  them.  "\Miat 
was  he  fond  of  ?  Of  sitting  at  home  and  doing  nothing.  That  was 
his  reply,  at  least ;  and  a  very  unsatisfactory  reply  it  was,  as  Lady 
Rowley  could  hardly  propose  that  they  should  come  and  sit  and  da 
nothing  with  him.  Could  he  have  been  lured  into  churches  or  gal- 
leries, Nora  might  have  been  once  more  thrown  into  his  company. 
Then  Lady  Rowley  took  courage,  and  asked  him  whether  he  knew 
the  Spaldings.  They  were  going  to  Mrs.  Spalding's  that  very  even- 
ing,— she  and  her  daughters.  Mr.  Glascock  replied  that  he  did  know 
the  Spaldings,  and  that  he  also  should  be  at  their  house.  Lady 
Rowley  thought  that  she  discovered  something  like  a  blush  about  his 
cheekbones  and  brow,  as  he  made  his  answer.  Then  he  left  them, 
giving  his  hand  to  Nora  as  he  went ; — but  there  was  nothing  in  his 
manner  to  justify  the  slightest  hope. 

"  I  don't  think  ho  is  nice  at  all,"  said  Lucy. 

•'  Don't  be  so  foolish,  Lucy,"  said  Lady  Rowley  angrily. 

•*  I  think  he  is  very  nice,"  said  Nora.  "  He  was  only  talking  non- 
sense when  he  said  that  he  liked  to  sit  still  and  do  nothing.  Ho  is 
not  at  all  an  idle  man ; — at  least  I  am  told  so." 

"But  ho  is  as  old  as  Methuselah,"  said  Lucy. 


204  HE    KNEW    HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

"  He  is  between  thirty  and  forty,"  said  Lady  Rowley.  "  Of  course 
we  know  that  from  the  peerage."  Lady  Rowley,  however,  was 
wrong.  Had  she  consulted  the  peerage,  she  would  have  seen  that 
Mr.  Glascock  was  over  forty. 

Nora,  as  soon  as  she  was  alone  and  could  think  about  it  all,  felt 
quite  sui'e  that  Mr.  Glascock  would  never  make  her  another  offer. 
This  ought  not  to  have  caused  her  any  sorrow,  as  she  was  very  well 
aware  that  she  would  not  accept  him,  should  he  do  so.  Yet,  perhaps, 
there  was  a  moment  of  some  feeling  akin  to  disappointment.  Of 
course  she  would  not  have  accepted  him.  How  could  she  ?  Her  faith 
was  so  plighted  to  Hugh  Stanbm-y  that  she  would  be  a  by-word 
among  women  for  ever,  were  she  to  be  so  false.  And,  as  she  told  her- 
self, she  had  not  the  slightest  feeling  of  affection  for  Mr.  Glascock.  It 
was  quite  out  of  the  question,  and  a  matter  simply  for  speculation. 
Nevertheless  it  would  have  been  a  very  gi-and  thing  to  be  Lady 
Peterborough,  and  she  almost  regretted  that  she  had  a  heart  in  her 
bosom. 

She  had  become  fully  aware  during  that  inter%dew  that  her  mother 
still  entertained  hopes,  and  almost  suspected  that  Lady  Rowley  had 
known  somethius;  of  Mr.  Glascock's  residence  in  Florence.  She  had 
seen  that  her  mother  had  met  Mr.  Glascock  almost  as  though  some  such 
meeting  had  been  expected,  and  had  spoken  to  him  almost  as  though 
she  had  expected  to  have  to  speak  to  him.  Would  it  not  be  better 
that  she  should  at  once  make  her  mother  understand  that  all  this 
could  be  of  no  avail  ?  If  she  were  to  declare  plainly  that  nothing 
could  bring  about  such  a  marriage,  would  not  her  mother  desist  ? 
She  almost  made  up  her  mind  to  do  so ;  but  as  her  mother  said 
nothing  to  her  before  they  started  for  Mr.  Spalding's  house,  neither 
did  she  say  anything  to  her  mother.  She  did  not  wish  to  have  angry 
words  if  they  could  be  avoided,  and  she  felt  that  there  might  be  anger 
and  unpleasant  words  were  she  to  insist  upon  her  devotion  to  Hugh 
Stanbury  while  this  rich  prize  was  in  sight.  II  her  mother  should 
speak  to  her,  then,  indeed,  she  would  declare  her  own  settled  pui-pose; 
but  she  would  do  nothing  to  accelerate  the  evil  hour. 

There  were  but  few  people  in  Mrs.  Spalding's  drawing-room  when 
they  were  announced,  and  Mr.  Glascock  was  not  among  them.  Miss 
Wallachia  Petrie  was  there,  and  in  the  confusion  of  the  introduction 
was  presumed  by  Lady  Rowley  to  be  one  of  the  nieces  introduced. 
She  had  been  distinctly  told  that  Mr.  Glascock  was  to  marry  the 
eldest,  and  this  lady  was  certainly  older  than  the  other  two.  In  this 
way   Lady   Rowley   decided   that   Miss   Wallachia   Petrie   was   her 


■\VE    SHALL    BE    SO    TOOTl.  205 

daughter's  bated  rival,  and  slic  certainly  was  much  surprised  at  the 
gentleman's  taste.  But  there  is  nothing, — nothing  in  the  way  of  an 
absurd  matrimonial  engagement, — into  which  a  man  will  not  allow 
himself  to  be  entrapped  by  pique.  Nora  would  have  a  great  deal  to 
answer  for,  Lady  ilowley  thought,  if  the  unfortunate  man  should 
be  driven  by  her  cruelty  to  marry  such  a  woman  as  this  one  now 
before  her. 

It  happened  that  Lady  Ilowley  soon  found  herself  seated  by  Miss 
Petrie,  and  she  at  once  commenced  her  questionings.  She  intended 
to  be  very  discreet,  but  the  subject  was  too  near  her  heart  to  allow 
her  to  be  altogether  silent.  "  I  believe  you  know  Mr.  Glascock  ?  "  she 
said. 

"Yes,"  said  "Wallachia,  "  I  do  know  him."  Now  the  peculiar  nasal 
twang  which  our  cousins  over  the  water  have  learned  to  use,  and 
which  has  grown  out  of  a  certain  national  instinct  which  coerces 
them  to  express  themselves  with  self-assertion  ; — let  the  reader  go 
into  his  closet  and  talk  through  his  nose  for  awhile  with  steady  atten- 
tion to  the  eflect  which  his  own  voice  will  have,  and  he  will  find  that 
this  theory  is  correct ; — this  intonation,  which  is  so  peculiar  among 
intelligent  Americans,  had  been  adopted  con  amore,  and,  as  it  were, 
taken  to  her  bosom  by  Miss  Petrie.  Her  ears  had  taught  themselves 
to  feel  that  there  could  be  no  vitality  in  speech  without  it,  and  that 
all  utterance  unsustained  by  such  tone  was  effeminate,  vapid,  useless, 
unpersuasive,  unmusical, — and  English.  It  was  a  complaint  frequently 
made  by  her  against  her  friends  Caroline  and  Olivia  that  they  debased 
thcii"  voices,  and  taught  themselves  the  puling  British  mode  of  speech. 
"I  do  know  the  gentleman,"  said  Wallachia; — and  Lady  Rowley 
shuddered.  Could  it  be  that  such  a  woman  as  this  was  to  reign 
over  Monkhams,  and  become  the  future  Lady  Peterborough  ? 

"  He  told  me  that  he  is  acquainted  with  the  family,"  said  Lady 
Rowley.  "He  is  staying  at  our  hotel,  and  my  daughter  knew  him 
very  well  when  he  was  living  in  London." 

"  I  dare  say.  I  believe  that  in  London  the  titled  aristocrats  do 
hang  pretty  much  together."  It  had  never  occurred  to  poor  Lady 
Rowley,  since  the  day  in  which  her  husband  had  been  made  a  knight, 
at  the  advice  of  the  Colonial  Minister,  in  order  that  the  inhabitants 
of  some  island  might  be  gratified  by  the  opportunity  of  using  the 
title,  that  she  and  her  children  had  thereby  become  aristocrats.  Were 
her  daughter  Nora  to  marry  'Mr.  Glascock,  Nora  would  become  an 
aristocrat, — or  would,  rather,  be  ennobled, — all  which  Lady  Rowley 
understood  perfectly. 


20G  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

"I  don't  know  that  London  society  is  very  exclusive  in  tliat  re- 
spect," said  Lady  Rowley. 

"  I  guess  you  are  pretty  particular,"  said  Miss  Pctrie,  "  and  it 
seems  to  me  you  don't  have  much  regard  to  intellect  or  erudition, — 
but  fix  things  up  straight  according  to  birth  and  money." 

"I  hope  we  arc  not  quite  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Lady  Rowley.  "I 
do  not  know  London  well  myself,  as  I  have  passed  my  life  in  very 
distant  places." 

"  The  distant  places  are,  in  my  estimation,  the  best.  The  further 
the  mind  is  removed  from  the  contamination  incidental  to  the  centres 
of  long-established  luxury,  the  more  chance  it  has  of  developing  itself 
according  to  the  intention  of  the  Creator,  when  he  bestowed  his  gifts 
of  intellect  upon  us."  Lady  Rowley,  when  she  heard  this  eloquence, 
could  hardly  believe  that  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Glascock  should  really 
be  intent  upon  marrying  such  a  lady  as  this  who  was  sitting  next  to 
her. 

In  the  meantime,  Nora  and  the  real  rival  were  together,  and  they 
also  were  talking  of  Mr.  Glascock.  Caroline  Spalding  had  said  that 
Mr.  Glascock  had  spoken  to  her  of  Nora  Rowley,  and  Nora  acknow- 
ledged that  there  had  been '  some  acquaintance  between  them  in 
London.  "  Almost  more  than  that,  I  should  have  thought,"  said 
Miss  Spalding,  "  if  one  might  judge  by  his  manner  of  speaking  of 

you." 

"He  is  a  little  given  to  be  enthusiastic,"  said  Nora,  laughing. 

"  The  least  so  of  all  mankind,  I  should  have  said.  You  must  know 
he  is  very  intimate  in  this  house.  It  begun  in  this  way ; — Olivia  and 
I  were  travelling  together,  and  there  was — a  difficulty,  as  we  say  in 
our  country  when  three  or  four  gentlemen  shoot  each  other.  Then 
there  came  up  Mr.  Glascock  and  another  gentleman.  By-the-bye,  the 
•other  gentleman  was  your  brother-in-law." 

"  Poor  Mr.  Trevelyan  !  " 

"  He  is  very  ill ; — is  he  not  ?  " 

"We  think  so.  My  sister  is  with  us,  you  know.  That  is  to  say, 
-she  is  at  Siena  to-day." 

"I  have  heard  about  him,  and  it  is  so  sad.  Mr.  Glascock  knows 
him.  As  I  said,  they  were  travelling  together,  when  Mr.  Glascock 
came  to  our  assistance.  Since  that,  we  have  seen  him  very  fre- 
quently. I  don't  think  he  is  enthusiastic, — except  when  he  talks  of 
you." 

"  I  ought  to  be  very  proud,"  said  Nora. 

"  I  think  you  ought^ — as  Mr.  Glascock   is   a   man  whose   good 


THE    RIVALS. 


\\1^   SHALL    BE   SO    POOR.  207 

opiuiou  is  certainly  worth  baviug.  Here  he  is.  Mr.  Glascock,  I 
hope  your  ears  arc  tingling.  They  ought  to  do  so,  because  ^ve  are 
saying  all  manner  of  fino  things  about  you." 

"I  could  not  be  ■well  spoken  of  by  two  on  whoso  good  word  I 
should  set  a  higher  value,"  said  he. 

"  And  whose  do  you  value  the  most  ?  "  said  Caroline. 

"  I  must  first  know  whose  eulogium  will  run  the  highest." 

Then  Nora  answered  him.  "  Mr.  Glascock,  other  people  may 
praise  you  louder  than  I  can  do,  but  no  one  will  ever  do  so  with 
more  sincerity."  There  was  a  pretty  earnestness  about  her  as  she 
spoke,  which  Lady  Rowley  ought  to  have  heard.  Mr.  Glascock 
bowed,  and  Miss  Spalding  smiled,  and  Nora  blushed. 

"If  you  are  not  overwhelmed  now,"  said  Miss  Spalding,  "you 
must  be  so  used  to  flattery,  that  it  has  no  longer  any  efl'cct  upon  you. 
You  must  be  like  a  drunkard,  to  whom  wine  is  as  water,  and  who 
thinks  that  brandy  is  not  strong  enough." 

"I  think  I  had  better  go  away,"  said  Mr.  Glascock,  "for  fear  the 
brandy  should  be  watered  by  degrees."     And  so  he  left  them. 

Nora  had  become  quite  aware,  without  much  process  of  thinking 
about  it,  that  her  former  lover  and  this  American  young  lady  were 
very  intimate  with  each  other.  The  tone  of  the  conversation  had 
shewn  that  it  was  so ; — and,  then,  how  had  it  come  to  pass  that  Mr. 
Glascock  had  spoken  to  this  American  girl  about  her, — Nora  Rowley  ? 
It  was  evident  that  he  had  spoken  of  her  with  warmth,  and  had  done 
so  in  a  manner  to  impress  his  hearer.  For  a  minute  or  two  they  sat 
together  in  silence  after  ]\Ir,  Glascock  had  left  them,  but  neither  of 
them  stirred.  Then  Caroline  Spalding  turned  suddenly  upon  Nora, 
and  took  her  by  the  hand.  "I  must  tell  you  something,"  said  she, 
"  only  it  must  be  a  secret  for  awhile." 

"  I  will  not  repeat  it." 

"  Thank  you,  dear.  I  am  engaged  to  him, — as  his  wife.  He 
asked  me  this  very  afternoon,  and  nobody  knows  it  but  my  aunt. 
"WTien  I  had  accepted  him,  he  told  me  all  the  story  about  you.  Ho 
had  very  often  spoken  of  you  before,  and  I  had  guessed  how  it  must 
have  been.  He  wears  his  heart  so  open  for  those  whom  he  loves, 
that  there  is  nothing  concealed.  He  had  seen  you  just  before  he 
came  to  me.  But  perhaps  I  am  ^^a•ong  to  tell  you  that  now.  He 
ought  to  have  been  thinking  of  you  again  at  such  a  time." 

"  I  did  not  want  him  to  think  of  me  again." 

"  Of  course  you  did  not.  Of  course  I  am  joking.  You  might 
have  been  his  wife  if  you  wished  it.     He  has  told  me  all  that.     And 


208  HE   KNEW   HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

lie  especially  Avants  us  to  be  frielids.  Is  there  anything  to  pre- 
vent it  ? " 

"  On  my  part  ?  Oh,  dear,  no  ; — except  that  j'ou  will  be  such  grand 
folk,  and  wo  shall  be  so  poor." 

"  Wc !  "  said  Caroline,  laughing.  "  I  am  so  glad  that  there  is  a 
'  wc.'  " 


CHAPTER  LXXVII. 

THE  FUTUBE  LADY  TETERBOTvOVGU. 

"  If  you  have  not  sold  j'ourself  for  British  gold,  and  for  British  acres, 
and  for  British  rank,  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  it,"  said  Miss 
Wallachia  Petrie  that ^ same  evening  to  her  friend  Caroline  Spalding. 

"  Yon  know  that  I  have  not  sold  myself,  as  you  call  it,"  said 
Caroline.      There  had   been  a  long   friendship   between  these  two 
ladies,  and  the  younger  one  knew  that  it  behoved  her  to  bear  a  good 
deal  from  the  elder.     Miss  Petrie  was  honest,  clever,  and  in  earnest. 
"We  in  England  are  not  usually  favourably  disposed  to  women  who 
take  a  pride  in  a  certain  antagonism  to  men  in  general,  and  who  are 
anxious  to  shew  the  world  that  they  can  get  on  very  well  without  male 
assistance ;    but   there  are  many  such  in  America  who   have  noble 
aspirations,  good  intellects,  much  energy,  and  who  are  by  no  means 
unworthy  of  friendship.     The  hope  in  regard  to  all  such  women, — 
the  hope  entertained  not  by  themselves,  but  by  those  who  are  soli- 
citous for  them, — is  that  they  will  be  cured  at  last  by  a  husband  and 
half-a-dozen  children.     In  regard  to  Wallachia  Petrie  there  was  not, 
perhaps,  much  ground  for  such  hope.     She  was  so  po-sitively  wedded 
to  women's  rights  in  general,  and  to  her  own  rights  in  particular, 
that  it  was  improbable  that  she  should  ever  succumb  to  any  man ; — 
and  where  would  be  the  man  brave  enough  to  make  the  eflbrt  ?    From 
circumstances  Caroline  Spalding  had  been  the  beloved  of  her  heart 
since  Caroline  Spalding  w^as  a  very  little  girl ;  and  she  had  hoped 
that  Caroline  \vould  through  life  have  borne  arms  along  with  her  in 
that  contest  which  she  was  determined  to  wage  against  man,  and 
which  she  always  waged  with  the  greatest  animosity  against  men  of 
the  British  race.      She  hated  rank ;    she   hated  riches ;    she   hated 
monarchy  ; — and  with  a  true  woman's  instinct  in  battle,  felt  that  she 
had  a  specially  strong  point  against  Englishmen,  in  that  they  sub- 
mitted themselves  to  dominion  from  a  woman  monarch.     And  now 
the  chosen  friend  of  her  youth, — the  friend  who  had  copied  out  alL 


THE  FUTURE  LADY  rETERBOROUGII.  209 

her  i^oetry,  who  had  IcaruccI  by  heart  all  her  sonnets,  who  had,  as  she 
thought,  reciprocated  all  her  ideas,  was  going  to  be  married, — and  to 
be  married  to  an  English  lord  !  She  had  seen  that  it  was  coming  for 
some  time,  and  had  spoken  out  very  plainly,  hoping  that  she  might 
still  save  the  brand  from  the  burning.  Now  the  evil  was  done  ;  and 
Caroline  Spalding,  Avhen  she  told  her  news,  knew  well  that  she  would 
have  to  boar  some  hca\'5'  reproaches. 

"  How^  many  of  us  are  there  who  never  know  whether  wc  sell  our- 
selves or  not  ?  "  said  "Wallachia.  "  The  senator  who  longs  for  office, 
and  who  votes  this  way  instead  of  that  in  order  that  he  may  get  it, 
thinks  that  he  is  voting  honestly.  The  minister  who  calls  himself  a 
teacher  of  God's  word,  thinks  that  it  is  God's  word  that  he  preaches 
when  he  strains  his  lungs  to  fill  his  church.  The  question  is  this, 
Caroline ; — would  you  have  loved  the  same  man  had  he  come  to  you 
with  a  woodman's  %xe  in  his  hand  or  a  clerk's  quill  behind  his  ear  ? 
I  guess  not." 

"As  to  the  woodman's  axe,  Wally,  it  is  very  well  in  theory; 
but " 

"  Things  good  in  theory,  Caroline,  will  bo  good  also  when  prac- 
tised. You  may  be  sure  of  that.  We  dislike  theory  simply  because 
our  intelligences  ai-e  higher  than  our  wills.  But  we  wdll  let  that 
pass." 

"  Pray  let  it  pass,  Wally.  Do  not  preach  me  sermons  to-night.  I 
am  so  happy,  and  you  ought  to  wish  me  joy." 

"  If  wishing  you  joy  would  get  you  joy,  I  would  wish  it  you  while 
I  lived.  I  cannot  be  happy  that  you  should  be  taken  from  us  whither 
I  shall  never  see  you  again." 

*'  But  you  are  to  come  to  us.   I  have  told  him  so,  and  it  is  settled." 

"  No,  dear ;  I  shall  not  do  that.  AVhat  should  I  be  in  the  glittering 
halls  of  an  English  baron  ?  Could  there  be  any  visiting  less  fitting, 
any  admixtui'c  less  appropriate  ?  Could  I  who  have  held  up  my  voice 
in  the  Music  Hall  of  Laceda^mon,  amidst  the  glories  of  the  West, 
in  the  great  and  free  State  of  Illinois,  against  the  corruption  of  an 
English  aristocracy, — could  I,  who  have  been  listened  to  by  two  thou- 
sand of  my  country^vomen, — and  men, — while  I  spurned  the  unmanly, 
inhuman  errors  of  primogeniture, — could  I,  think  you,  hold  my  tongue 
beneath  the  roof  of  a  feudal  lord  ! "  CaroHne  Spalding  knew  that  her 
friend  could  not  hold  her  tongue,  and  hesitated  to  answer.  There 
had  been  that  fatal  triumph  of  a  lecture  on  the  joint  rights  of  men 
and  women,  and  it  had  rendered  poor  Wallachia  Pctric  unfit  for 
ordinary  society. 

VOL.  n.  K  • 


210  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

"You  miglat  come  there  without  talkmg  politics,  Wiilly,"  said 
Caroline. 

"  No,  Caroline  ;  no.  I  ■will  go  into  the  house  of  no  man  in  which 
the  free  expression  of  my  opinion  is  debarred  me,  I  wdll  not  sit  even 
at  your  table  with  a  muzzled  tongue.  When  you  are  gone,  Caroline,  I 
shall  devote  myself  to  what,  after  all,  must  be  the  work  of  my  life, 
and  I  shall  finish  the  biographical  history  of  our  gi-eat  hero  in  verse, — 
Avhich  I  hope  may  at  least  be  not  ephemeral.  From  month  to  month 
I  shall  send  you  what  I  do,  and  you  will  not  refuse  me  your  friendly 
criticism, — and,  perhaps,  some  slight  meed  of  approbation, — because 
you  are  dwelling  beneath  the  shade  of  a  throne.  Oh,  Caroline,  let  it 
not  be  a  upas  tree  !  " 

The  Miss  Petries  of  the  world  have  this  advantage, — an  advantage 
which  rarely  if  ever  falls  to  the  lot  of  a  man, — that  they  are  never 
convinced  of  error.  Men,  let  them  be  ever  so  much  devoted  to  their 
closets,  let  them  keep  their  work  ever  so  closely  veiled  from  public 
scrutiny,  still  iind  themselves  subjected  to  criticism,  and  under  the 
necessity  of  either  defending  themselves  or  of  succumbing.  If,  indeed, 
a  man  neither  speaks,  nor  WTites, — if  he  be  dumb  as  regards  opinion, 
• — he  passes  simply  as  one  of  the  crowd,  and  is  in  the  way  neither  of 
convincing  nor  of  being  convinced ;  but  a  woman  may  speak,  and 
almost  write,  as  she  likes,  without  danger  of  being  wounded  by 
sustained  conflict.  Who  would  have  the  courage  to  begin  with  such 
a  one  as  Miss  Petrie,  and  endeavour  to  prove  to  her  that  she  is  wi'ong 
from  the  beginning.  A  little  word  of  half-dissent,  a  smile,  a  shrug, 
and  an  ambiguous  compliment  which  is  misunderstood,  are  all  the 
forms  of  argument  which  can  be  used  against  her.  Wallachia  Petrie, 
in  her  heart  of  hearts  conceived  that  she  had  fairly  discussed  her 
great  projects  from  year  to  year  with  indomitable  eloquence  and 
unanswerable  truth, — and  that  none  of  her  opponents  had  had  a  leg 
to  stand  upon.  And  this  she  believed  because  the  chivalry  of  men 
had  given  to  her  sex  that  protection  against  which  her  life  was  one 
continued  protest. 

"  Here  he  is,"  said  Caroline,  as  Mr.  Glascock  came  up  to  them. 
"  Try  and  say  a  civil  word  to  him,  if  he  speaks  about  it.  Though  he 
is  to  be  a  lord,  still  he  is  a  man  and  a  brother." 

"  Caroline,"  said  the  stern  monitress,  "  you  are  already  learning  to 
laugh  at  principles  which  have  been  dear  to  you  since  you  left  your 
mother's  breast.  Alas,  how  true  it  is,  '  You  cannot  touch  pitch  and 
not  be  defiled.'  " 

The  further  progress  of  these  friendly  and  feminine  amenities  was 


THE  FUTURE  LADY  PETERBOKOUGH.  211 

stopped  by  the  presence  of  the  gentleman  who  bad  occasioned  them. 
"Miss  Pctrie,"  said  the  hero  of  tbe  hour,  "  Caroline  was  to  tell  you 
of  my  good  fortune,  and  no  doubt  sbe  bas  done  so." 

"  I  cannot  wait  to  bear  tbe  pretty  tbings  be  bas  to  say,"  said  Caro- 
line, "  and  I  must  look  after  my  aunt's  guests.  Tbere  is  poor  Signor 
Bernarosci  witbout  a  soul  to  say  a  syllable  to  bim,  and  I  must  go 
and  use  my  ten  Italian  words." 

"  You  are  about  to  take  witb  you  to  your  old  country,  Mr.  Glas- 
cock," said  Miss  Petrie,  "  one  of  tbe  brightest  stars  in  our  young 
American  firmament."  Tbere  could  be  no  doubt,  from  the  tone  of 
Miss  Petrie's  voice,  that  sbe  now  regarded  this  star,  however  bright, 
as  one  of  a  sort  which  is  subjected  to  fulling. 

"  I  am  going  to  take  a  very  nice  young  woman,"  said  Mr.  Glascock. 

"I  hate  that  word  woman,  sir,  uttered  with  the  half-hidden  sneer 
which  always  accompanies  its  expression  from  the  mouth  of  a  man." 

"  Sneer,  ]\Iiss  Petrie  !  " 

"  I  quite  allow  that  it  is  involuntary,  and  not  analysed  or  under- 
stood by  yourselves.  If  you  speak  of  a  dog,  j'ou  intend  to  do  so 
with  affection,  but  there  is  always  contempt  mixed  with  it.  The 
so-called  chivalry  of  man  to  woman  is  all  begotten  in  the  same  spuit. 
I  want  no  favour,  but  I  claim  to  be  your  equal." 

' '  I  thought  that  American  ladies  were  generally  somewhat  exacting 
as  to  those  privileges  which  chivalry  gives  them." 

"It  is  true,  sir,  that  the  only  rank  we  know  in  otir  country  is  in 
that  precedence  which  man  gives  to  woman.  Whether  we  maintain 
that,  or  whether  we  abandon  it,  we  do  not  intend  to  purchase  it  at 
the  price  of  an  acknowledgment  of  intellectual  inferiority.  Fcr 
myself,  I  bate  chivalry ; — what  you  call  chivalry.  I  can  carry  my 
own  chair,  and  I  claim  the  right  to  carry  it  whithersoever  I  may  please." 

Mr.  Glascock  remained  with  her  for  some  time,  but  made  no  oppor- 
tunity for  giving  that  invitation  to  Monkhams  of  which  Caroline  bad 
spoken.  As  be  said  afterwards,  be  found  it  impossible  to  expect  her 
to  attend  to  any  subject  so  trivial ;  and  when,  afterwards,  Carohue 
told  bim,  witb  some  slight  mirth, — the  capability  of  which  on  such  a 
subject  was  coming  to  her  with  her  new  ideas  of  life, — that,  though 
he  was  partly  saved  as  a  man  and  a  brother,  still  bo  was  partly  the 
reverse  as  a  feudal  lord,  bo  began  to  reflect  that  Wallacbia  Petrie 
would  be  a  guest  ■with  whom  be  would  find  it  very  diflicult  to  make 
things  go  pleasantly  at  Monkhams.  "  Docs  she  not  bully  }ou 
boiTibly  ?  "  be  asked. 

"Of  course  she  bullies  me,"  Caroline  answered ;  "and  I  cannot 


212  HE   KNEW    HE    "WAS   RIGHT. 

expect  you  to  uiiderstancl  as   j'ct  how  it  is  that  I  love  her  and  like 
her ;  but  I  do.     If  I  were  in  distress    to-morrow,  she    woukl   give 
everything  she  has  in  the  world  to  put  me  right." 
"  So  would  I,"  said  he. 

"Ah,  you; — that  is  a  matter  of  course.  That  is  your  Lusincss 
now.  And  she  would  give  everything  she  has  in  the  world  to  set  the 
world  right.     Would  you  do  that  ?  " 

"  It  would  depend  on  the  amount  of  my  faith.  If  I  could  believe 
in  the  resiUt,  I  suppose  I  should  do  it." 

"  She  would  do  it  on  the  slightest  hope  that  such  giving  would 
have   any  tendency   that  way.      Her  philanthropy  is  all  real.     Of 
course  she  is  a  bore  to  you." 
"I  am  very  patient." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  find  you  so, — always.  And,  of  course,  she  is  ridi- 
culous— in  your  eyes.  I  have  learned  to  see  it,  and  to  regret  it ;  but 
I  shall  never  cease  to  love  her." 

"I  have  not  the  slightest  objection.  Her  lessons  will  come  from 
over  the  water,  and  mine  will  come  from — where  shall  I  say  ? — over 
the  table.  If  I  can't  talk  her  dovm.  with  so  much  advantage  on  my 
side,  I  ought  to  be  made  a  woman's-right  man  myself." 

Poor  Lady  Rowley  had  watched  Miss  Petrie  and  Mr.  Glascock 
during  those  moments  that  they  had  been  together,  and  had  half 
believed  the  rumour,  and  had  half  doubted,  thinking  in  the  moments 
of  her  belief  that  Mr.  Glascock  must  be  mad,  and  in  the  moments  of 
unbelief  that  the  rumours  had  been  set  afloat  by  the  English  Minis- 
ter's wife  with  the  express  intention  of  turning  Mr.  Glascock  into 
ridicule.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her  to  doubt  that  Wallachia  was 
the  eldest  of  that  family  of  nieces.  Could  it  be  possible  that  a  man 
who  had  known  her  Nora,  who  had  undoubtedly  loved  her  Nora, — 
who  had  travelled  all  the  way  from  London  to  Nuncombe  Putney  to 
ask  Nora  to  be  his  wife, — should  within  twelve  months  of  that  time 
have  resolved  to  marry  a  woman  whom  he  must  have  selected  simply 
as  being  the  most  opposite  to  Nora  of  any  female  human  being  that 
he  could  find  ?  It  was  not  credible  to  her  ;  and  if  it  were  not  true, 
there  might  still  be  a  hope.  Nora  had  met  him,  and  had  spoken  to 
him,  and  it  had  seemed  that  for  a  moment  or  two  they  had  spoken  as 
friends.  Lady  Rowley,  when  talking  to  Mrs.  Spalding,  had  watched 
them  closely ;  and  she  had  seen  that  Nora's  eyes  had  been  bright, 
and  that  there  had  been  something  between  them  which  was  pleasant. 
Suddenly  she  found  herself  close  to  Wallachia,  and  thought  that  she 
would  trust  herself  to  a  word. 


THE    FUTURE    T.ADY   rETERlJOROUmr.  213 

"  Have  you  been  long  in  Florence  ?"  asked  Lady  Rowley  in  licr 
softest  voice. 

"  A   pretty  considerable    time,    ma'am  ; — thiit   is,    since   the   fall 

began." 

"^Miat  a  voice  ; — what  an  accent ; — and  wbat  words  !  Was  tlicro 
a  man  living  with  sufficient  courage  to  take  this  woman  to  England, 
and  shew  her  to  the  world  as  Lady  Peterborough  ? 

"Are  you  going  to  remain  in  Italy  for  the  summer?"  continued 
Lady  Rowley. 

"I  guess  I  shall; — or,  perhaps,  locate  myself  in  the  purer  atmo- 
sphere of  the  Swiss  mountains." 

"  Switzerland  in  summer  must  certainly  be  much  plcasanter." 

"  I  was  thinking  at  the  moment  of  the  political  atmosphere,"  said 
Miss  Petrie  ;  "for  although,  certainly,  much  has  been  done  in  this 
country  in  the  way  of  striking  off  shackles  and  treading  sceptres 
under  foot,  still.  Lady  Rowdey,  there  remains  here  that  pernicious 
thing, — a  king.  The  feeling  of  the  dominion  of  a  single  man, — and 
that  of  a  single  woman  is,  for  aught  I  know,  worse, — with  me  so 
clouds  the  air,  that  the  breath  I  breathe  fails  to  fill  my  lungs." 
Wallachia,  as  she  said  this,  put  forth  her  hand,  and  raised  her  chin, 
and  extended  her  arm.  She  paused,  feeling  that  justice  demanded 
that  Lady  Rowley  should  have  a  right  of  reply.  But  Lady  Rowley 
had  not  a  word  to  say,  and  Wallachia  Petrie  went  on,  "I  cannot 
adapt  my  body  to  the  sweet  savours  and  the  soft  luxuries  of  the  outer 
world  with  any  comfort  to  my  inner  self,  w^hile  the  circumstances  of 
the  society  around  me  are  oppressive  to  my  spirit.  When  our  war 
was  raging  all  around  me  I  was  light-spirited  as  the  lark  that  mounts 
through  the  morning  sky." 

"I  should  have  thought  it  was  very  dreadful,"  said  Lady  Rowley. 

"  Full  of  dread,  of  awe,  and  of  horror,  w^ere  those  fiery  daj^s  of 
indiscriminate  slaughter ;  but  they  were  not  da5'S  of  desolation,  be- 
cause hope  was  always  there  by  our  side.  There  was  a  hope  in 
which  the  soul  could  trust,  and  the  trusting  soul  is  ever  light  and 
buoyant." 

"  I  dare  say  it  is,"  said  Lady  Rowley. 

"But  apathy,  and  serfdom,  and  kinghood,  and  dominion,  drain 
the  fountain  of  its  living  springs,  and  the  soul  becomes  like  the 
plummet  of  lead,  whose  only  tendency  is  to  hide  itself  in  subaqueous 
mud  and  unsavoury  slush." 

Subaqueous  mud  and  unsavoury  slush  !  Ludy  Rowley  repeated 
the  words  to  herself  as  she  made  good  her  escape,  and  again  ex- 


214 


HE   KXEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 


pressed  to  herself  her  conviction  that  it  coukl  not  possibly  bo  so. 
The  "subaqueous  mud  and  unsavoury  slush,"  with  all  that  had  gono 
before  it  about  the  soul  was  altogether  unintelligible  to  her  ;  but  she 
knew  that  it  was  American  buncom  of  a  high  order  of  eloquence,  and 
she  told  herself  again  and  again  that  it  could  not  be  so.  She  con- 
tinued to  keep  her  eyes  upon  Mr.  Glascock,  and  soon  saw  him  again 
talking  to  Nora.  It  was  hardly  possible,  she  thought,  that  Nora 
should  speak  to  him  with  so  much  animation,  or  he  to  her,  unless 
there  was  some  feeling  between  them  which,  if  properly  handled, 
might  lead  to  a  renewal  of  the  old  tenderness.  She  went  up  to  Nora, 
having  collected  the  other  girls,  and  said  that  the  carriage  was  then 
waiting  for  them.  Mr.  Glascock  immediately  offered  Lady  Rowley 
his  arm,  and  took  her  down  to  the  hall.  Could  it  be  that  she  was 
Icanmg  upon  a  future  son-in-law?  There  was  something  in  the 
thought  which  made  her  lay  her  weight  upon  him  with  a  freedom 
which  she  would  not  otherwise  have  used.  Oh! — that  her  Nora 
should  live  to  be  Lady  Peterborough  !  We  are  apt  to  abuse  mothers 
for  wanting  high  husbands  for  their  daughters ;— but  can  there  be 
any  point  in  which  the  true  maternal  instinct  can  shew  itself  with 
more  affectionate  enthusiasm  ?  This  poor  mother  Avanted  nothing  for 
herself  from  Mr.  Glascock.  She  knew  very  well  that  it  v^uas  her  fate 
to  go  back  to  the  Mandarins,  and  probably  to  die  there.  She  knew 
also  that  such  men  as  Mr.  Glascock,  when  they  marry  beneath  them- 
selves in  rank  and  fortune,  will  not  ordinarily  trouble  themselves 
much  with  their  mothers-in-law.  There  was  nothing  desired  for  her- 
self. Were  such  a  match  accomplished,  she  might,  perhaps,  indulge 
herself  in  talking  among  the  planter's  wives  of  her  daughter's  coronet ; 
but  at  the  present  moment  there  was  no  idea  even  of  this  in  her  mind. 
It  was  of  Nora  herself,  and  of  Nora's  sisters,  that  she  was  thinking, — 
for  them  that  she  was  plotting, — that  the  one  might  be  rich  and 
splendid,  and  the  others  have  some  path  opened  for  them  to  riches 
and  splendour.  Husband-hunting  mothers  may  be  injudicious  ;  but 
surely  they  are  maternal  and  unselfish.  Mr.  Glascock  put  her  into 
the  carriage,  and  squeezed  her  hand  ; — and  then  he  squeezed  Nora's 
hand.  She  saw  it,  and  was  sure  of  it.  "I  am  so  glad  you  are  coin<y 
to  be  happy,"  Nora  had  said  to  him  before  this.  "  As  far  as  I  have 
seen  her,  I  like  her  so  much."  "  If  you  do  not  come  and  visit  her  in 
her  own  house,  I  shall  think  you  have  no  spirit  of  friendship,"  he 
said.  "  I  Avill,"  Nora  had  replied;— "I  will."  This  had  been  said 
up-stairs,  just  as  Lady  Rowley  was  coming  to  them,  and  on  this 
understanding,  on  this  footing,  Mr.  Glascock  had  pressed  her  hand. 


THE    FUTURE    LADY    TETERnOIlOUGH.  215 

As  bLc  "went  homo,  Lady  Ro^Ylcy's  mind  was  full  of  doubt  as  to 
the  course  which  it  was  best  that  she  should  follow  with  her  daughter. 
She  was  not  unaware  how  great  was  the  difficulty  before  her.  Hugh 
Stanbury's  name  had  not  been  mentioned  since  they  left  London,  but 
at  that  time  Nora  was  obstinately  bent  on  throwing  herself  away 
upon  the  "  penny-a-liner."  She  had  never  been  brought  to  aclcnow- 
Icdge  that  such  a  marriage  would  be  even  inappropriate,  and  had 
withstood  gallantly  the  expression  of  her  father's  displeasure.  But 
■R-ith  such  a  spirit  as  Nora's,  it  might  be  easier  to  prevail  by  silence 
than  by  many  words.  Lady  Rowley  was  quite  sure  of  this, — that  it 
would  be  far  better  to  say  nothing  further  of  Hugh  Stanbury.  Let 
the  cure  come,  if  it  might  be  possible,  from  absence  and  from  her 
daughter's  good  sense.  The  only  question  was  whether  it  would  be 
wise  to  say  any  word  about  Mr.  Glascock.  In  the  carriage  she  was 
not  only  forbearing  but  flattering  in  her  manner  to  Nora.  She 
caressed  her  gii-l's  hand  and  spoke  to  her, — as  mothers  know  how 
to  speak  when  they  want  to  make  much  of  their  girls,  and  to  have  it 
understood  that  those  girls  are  behaving  as  girls  should  behave. 
There  was  to  be  nobody  to  meet  them  to-night,  as  it  had  been 
arranged  that  Sir  Marmaduke  and  Mrs.  Trevelyan  should  sleep  at 
Siena.  Hardly  a  word  had  been  spoken  in  the  carriage ;  but 
up-stairs,  in  their  drawing-room,  there  came  a  moment  in  which 
Lucy  and  Sophie  had  left  them,  and  Nora  was  alone  with  her 
mother.  Lady  Rowley  almost  knew  that  it  would  be  most  prudent 
to  bo  silent ; — but  a  word  spoken  in  season ; — how  good  it  is ! 
And  the  thing  was  so  near  to  her  that  she  could  not  hold  her 
peace.  "I  must  say,  Nora,"  she  began,  "  that  I  do  like  yom-  Mr. 
Glascock." 

"  He  is  not  my  Mr.  Glascock,  mamma,"  said  Nora,  smiling. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,  dear."  Lady  Rowley  had  not  intended 
to  utter  a  word  that  should  appear  like  pressure  on  her  daughter  at 
this  moment.  She  had  felt  how  imprudent  it  would  be  to  do  so.  But 
now  Nora  seemed  to  be  leading  the  way  herself  to  such  discourse. 
"  Of  course,  he  is  not  your  Mr.  Glascock.  You  cannot  eat  your 
cake  and  have  it,  nor  can  you  throw  it  away  and  have  it." 

"I  have  thrown  my  cake  away  altogether,  and  certainly  I  cannot 
have  it."  She  was  still  smiling  as  she  spoke,  and  seemed  to  be  quite 
merry  at  the  idea  of  regarding  Mr.  Glascock  as  the  cake  Avhich  she 
had  declined  to  eat. 

"  I  can  see  one  thing  quite  plainly,  dear." 

**  What  is  that,  mamma  ?  " 


21G  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS    RIGHT. 

"  That  in  spite  of  wluit  yon  Lave  done,  you  can  still  liave  your 
cake  wlicnevcr  you  choose  to  take  it." 

"  Why,  mamma,  he  is  engaged  to  be  married  !  " 

"  Mr.  Glascock  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Glascock.     It's  quite  settled.     Is  it  not  sad  ?  " 

"To  whom  is  he  engaged?"  Lady  Kowley's  solemnity  as  she 
asked  this  question  was  piteous  to  behold. 

"  To  Miss  Spalding, — Caroline  Spalding." 

"  The  eldest  of  those  nieces  ?  " 

"Yes;— the  eldest." 

"  I  cannot  believe  it." 

"  Mamma,  they  both  told  me  so.  I  have  sworn  an  eternal  friend- 
ship with  her  already." 

"  I  did  not  see  you  speaking  to  her." 

"  But  I  did  talk  to  her  a  great  deal." 

"  And  he  is  really  going  to  marry  that  dreadful  woman  ?"' 

"  Dreadful,  mamma  !  " 

"  Perfectl)'  awful !  She  talked  to  me  in  a  way  that  I  have  read 
about  in  books,  but  which  I  did  not  before  believe  to  be  possible. 
Do  you  mean  that  he  is  going  to  be  married  to  that  hideous  old  maid, 
■ — that  bell-clapper  '?  " 

"  Oh,  mamma,  what  slander!     I  think  her  so  pretty." 

"Pretty!" 

"  Very  pretty.  And,  mamma,  ought  I  not  to  be  happy  that  he 
should  have  been  able  to  make  himself  so  happy  ?  It  was  quite,  quite, 
quite  impossible  that  I  should  have  been  his  Avife.  I  have  thought 
about  it  ever  so  much,  and  I  am  so  glad  of  it !  I  think  she  is  just  the 
girl  that  is  fit  for  him." 

Lady  EoAvley  took  her  candle  and  went  to  bed,  professing  to  her- 
self that  she  could  not  understand  it.  But  what  did  it  signify  ?  It 
was,  at  any  rate,  certain  now  that  the  man  had  put  himself  out  of 
Nora's  reach,  and  if  he  chose  to  marry  a  republican  virago,  with  a 
red  nose,  it  could  now  make  no  difference  to  Xora.  Lady  Rowlo}' 
almost  felt  a  touch  of  satisfaction  in  reflecting  on  the  future  misery  of 
his  married  life. 


CHAPTER  LXXVm. 


CAS  A  LUNG  A. 


^r^ 


f^  IE  MARMADUKE  had  been  told  at  the 
Florence  post-office  that  he  would  no 
doubt  be  able  to  hear  tidings;  of  Trevel- 
j-an,  and  to  learn  his  address,  from  the 
officials  in  the  post-office  at  Siena.  At 
Florence  he  had  been  introduced  to 
some  gentleman  who  was  certainly  of 
importance, — a  superintendent  who  had 
clerks  under  him  and  who  was  a  big 
man.  This  person  had  been  very 
courteous  to  him,  and  he  had  gone  to 
Siena  thinking  that  he  would  find  it  easy 
to  obtain  Trevelyan's  address, — or  to 
learn  that  there  was  no  such  person 
there.  But  at  Siena  he  and  his  courier 
together  could  obtain  no  information.  They  rambled  about  the  huge 
cathedral  and  the  picturesque  market-place  of  that  quaint  old  city  fox 
the  whole  day,  and  on  the  next  morning  after  breakfast  they  returned 
to  Florence.  They  had  learned  nothing.  The  young  man  at  the 
post-office  had  simply  protested  that  he  knew  nothing  of  the  name  of 
Trevelyan.  If  letters  should  come  addressed  to  such  a  name,  he  would 
keep  them  till  they  were  called  for ;  but,  to  the  best  of  his  know- 
ledge, he  had  never  seen  or  heard  the  name.  At  the  guard-houso 
of  the  gendarmerie  they  could  not,  or  would  not,  give  him  any 
information,  and  Sir  Marmadukc  came  back  with  an  impression  that 
everybody  at  Siena  was  ignorant,  idiotic,  and  brutal.  Mrs.  Trevelyan 
was  so  dispirited  as  to  be  ill,  and  both  Sir  Marmadukc  and  Lady 
llowley  were  disposed  to  think  that  the  world  was  all  against  them. 
"  You  have  no  conception  of  the  sort  of  woman  that  man  is  going  to 
marry,"  said  Lady  Rowley. 

VOL.  II.  L 


218  TIE    KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

"Whatman?" 

"Mr.  Glascock!  A  horrid  American  female,  as  old  almost  as  I 
am,  who  talks  through  her  nose,  and  preaches  sermons  about  the 
rights  of  women.  It  is  incredible !  And  Nora  might  have  had  him 
just  for  lifting  up  her  hand."  But  Sir  Marmaduke  could  not  interest 
himself  much  about  Mr.  Glascock.  When  he  had  been  told  that  his 
daughter  had  refused  the  heir  to  a  gi'eat  estate  and  a  peerage,  it  had 
been  matter  of  regi'et ;  but  he  had  looked  upon  the  affair  as  done,  and 
cared  nothing  now  though  Mr.  Glascock  should  marry  a  transatlantic 
Xantippe.  He  was  angry  with  Nora  because  by  her  obstinacy  she 
was  adding  to  the  general  perplexities  of  the  family,  but  he  could  not 
make  comparisons  on  Mr.  Glascock's  behalf  between  her  and  Miss 
Spalding, — as  his  wife  was  doing,  either  mentally  or  aloud,  from  hour 
to  hour.  "  I  suppose  it  is  too  late  now,"  said  Lady  Rowley,  shaking 
her  head. 

"  Of  course  it  is  too  late.  The  man  must  marry  whom  he  pleases. 
I  am  beginning  to  wonder  that  anybody  should  ever  want  to  get 
married.     I  am  indeed." 

"  But  what  are  the  girls  to  do  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  anybody  is  to  do.  Here  is  a  man  as  mad  as 
a  March  hare,  and  yet  nobody  can  touch  him.  If  it  was  not  for  the 
child,  I  should  advise  Emily  to  put  him  out  of  her  head  altogether." 

But  though  Sir  Marmaduke  could  not  bring  himself  to  take  any 
interest  in  Mr.  Glascock's  afiairs,  and  would  not  ask  a  single  question 
respecting  the  fearfid  American  female  whom  this  unfortunate  man 
was  about  to  translate  to  the  position  of  an  English  peeress,  yet  cii'- 
cumstances  so  fell  out  that  before  three  days  were  over  he  and  Mr. 
Glascock  were  thrown  together  in  very  intimate  relations.  Sia*  Mar- 
maduke had  learned  that  Mr.  Glascock  was  the  only  Englishman  in 
Florence  to  whom  Trevelyan  had  been  known,  and  that  he  was  the 
only  person  with  whom  Trevelyan  had  been  seen  to  speak  while 
passing  through  the  city.  In  his  despair,  therefore.  Sir  Marmaduke 
had  gone  to  Mr.  Glascock,  and  it  was  soon  arranged  that  the  two 
gentlemen  should  renew  the  search  at  Siena  together,  without  having 
with  them  either  Mrs.  Trevelyan  or  the  courier.  Mr.  Glascock  knew 
the  ways  of  the  people  better  than  did  Sir  Marmaduke,  and  could 
speak  the  language.  He  obtained  a  passport  to  the  good  offices  of 
the  police  at  Siena,  and  went  prepared  to  demand  rather  than  to  ask 
for  assistance.  They  started  very  early,  before  breakfast,  and  on 
arriving  at  Siena  at  about  noon,  fh'st  emploj'ed  themselves  in  recruiting 
exhausted  nature.     By  the  time  that  they  had  both  declared  that  the 


CASALUNCA.  219 

Lotol  at  Siona  was  tlic  very  ■worst  in  all  Italy,  and  that  a  breakfast 
■without  eatable  butter  was  not  to  be  considered  a  breakfast  at  all, 
tbcy  bad  become  so  intimate  that  Mr.  Glascock  spoke  of  his  own 
intended  maiTiage.  He  must  have  done  this  with  the  conviction  on 
his  mind  that  Nora  Rowley  would  have  told  her  mother  of  his  former 
intention,  and  that  Lady  Kowley  would  have  told  Sir  Marniaduke ; 
but  he  did  not  feel  it  to  be  incumbent  on  himself  to  say  anything  on 
that  subject.  He  had  nothing  to  excuse.  He  had  behaved  fairly 
iind  honom-ably.  It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  he  should  remain 
unmarried  for  ever  for  the  sake  of  a  gu'l  who  had  twice  refused  him. 
"Of  course  there  are  very  many  in  England,"  he  said,  "who  will 
ihink  me  foolish  to  marry  a  girl  from  another  country." 

"  It  is  done  every  day,"  said  Sir  Marmadukc, 

"  No  doubt  it  is.  I  admit,  however,  that  I  ought  to  be  more  careful 
than  some  other  persons.  There  is  a  title  and  an  estate  to  be  per- 
petuated, and  I  cannot,  jperhaps,  be  justified  in  taking  quite  so  much 
libcrtj'  as  some  other  men  may  do ;  but  I  think  I  have  chosen  a 
woman  born  to  have  a  high  position,  and  who  will  make  her  own  way 
in  any  society  in  which  she  may  be  placed." 

"I  have  no  doubt  she  will,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  who  had  still 
sounding  in  his  ears  the  alarming  description  which  his  wife  had 
given  him  of  this  infatuated  man's  proposed  bride.  But  he  would 
have  been  bound  to  say  as  much  had  Mr.  Glascock  intended  to  marry 
as  lowly  as  did  Iving  Cophetua. 

"  She  is  highly  educated,  gentle-mannered,  as  sweetly  soft  as  any 
English  girl  I  ever  met,  and  very  pretty.    You  have  met  her,  I  think." 

"  I  do  not  remember  that  I  have  observed  her." 

"  She  is  too  young  for  me,  perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Glascock;  "  but  that 
is  a  fault  on  the  right  side."  Sir  Marmaduke,  as  he  wiped  his  beard 
after  his  breakfast,  remembered  what  his  wife  had  told  him  about  the 
lady's  age.  But  it  was  nothing  to  him.  "  She  is  four-and-twenty,  I 
think,"  said  Mr.  Glascock.  If  Mr.  Glascock  chose  to  believe  that  his 
intended  wife  was  four-and-twenty  instead  of  something  over  forty, 
that  was  nothing  to  Sir  Marmaduke. 

"  The  very  best  ago  in  the  world,"  said  ho. 

They  had  sent  for  an  officer  of  the  police,  and  before  they  had  been 
three  hours  in  Siena  they  had  been  told  that  Trevelyan  lived  about 
seven  miles  from  the  town,  in  a  small  and  very  remote  country  house, 
which  he  had  hired  for  twelve  months  from  one  of  the  city  hospitals. 
He  had  hired  it  furnished,  and  had  purchased  a  horse  and  small 
■carriage  from  a  man  in  the  town.     To  this  man  they  went,  and  it 


2'20  II r.  KXEAv  HE  was  right. 

soon  became  evident  to  them  that  he  of  whom  they  were  in  searcb 
■was  living  at  this  house,  which  was  called  Casalunga,  and  was  not, 
as  the  police  officer  told  them,  on  the  way  to  any  place.  They  must 
leave  Siena  by  the  road  for  Eome,  take  a  turn  to  the  left  about  a  mile 
beyond  the  city  gate,  and  continue  on  along  the  country  lane  till  they 
saw  a  certain  round  hill  to  the  right.  On  the  top  of  that  round  hill 
was  Casalunga.  As  the  country  about  Siena  all  lies  in  round  hills, 
this  was  no  adequate  description ; — but  it  was  suggested  that  the- 
country  people  w^ould  know  all  about  it.  They  got  a  small  open 
carriage  in  the  market-place,  and  were  driven  out.  Theu'  driver  knew 
nothing  of  Casalunga,  and  simply  went  whither  he  was  told.  But 
by  the  aid  of  the  country  people  they  got  along  over  the  unmade 
lanes,  and  in  little  more  than  an  hour  were  told,  at  the  bottom  of 
the  hill,  that  thej^  must  now  walk  up  to  Casalunga.  Though  the  hill 
v.'as  round-topped,  and  no  more  than  a  hill,  still  the  ascent  at  last 
was  very  steep,  and  was  paved  with  stones  set  edgew^ay  in  a  manner 
that  could  hardly  have  been  intended  to  accommodate  wheels.  "WTien 
Mr.  Glascock  asserted  that  the  signor  who  lived  there  had  a  carriage 
of  his  own,  the  driver  suggested  that  he  must  keep  it  at  the  bottom 
of  the  hill.  It  was  clearly  not  his  intention  to  attempt  to  drive  up 
the  ascent,  and  Sir  Marmaduke  and  Mr.  Glascock  were  therefore 
obliged  to  walk.  It  w\as  now  in  the  latter  half  of  May,  and  there  was 
a  blazing  Italian  sky  over  theia'  heads.  Mr.  Glascock  was  acclimated 
to  Italian  skies,  and  did  not  much  mind  the  work ;  but  Sir  Mai-ma- 
duke,  w'ho  never  did  much  in  walking,  declared  that  Italy  was  infi- 
nitely hotter  than  the  Mandarins,  and  could  hardly  make  his  way  as 
far  as  the  house  door. 

It  seemed  to  both  of  them  to  be  a  most  singular  abode  for  such  a 
man  as  Trevelyan.  At  the  top  of  the  hill  there  was  a  huge  entrance 
through  a  wooden  gateway,  which  seemed  to  have  been  constructed 
with  the  intention  of  defying  any  intruders  not  provided  with  warlike 
ammunition.  The  gates  were,  indeed,  open  at  the  period  of  their 
visit,  but  it  must  be  supposed  that  they  were  intended  to  be  closed  at 
any  rate  at  night.  Immediately  on  the  right,  as  they  entered  through 
the  gates,  there  was  a  large  barn,  in  which  two  men  were  coopering 
wine  vats.  From  thence  a  path  led  slanting  to  the  house,  of  which 
the  door  was  shut,  and  all  the  front  windows  blocked  •s\'ith  shutters. 
The  house  was  very  long,  and  only  of  one  story  for  a  portion  of  its 
length.  Over  that  end  at  which  the  door  was  placed  there  were 
upper  rooms,  and  there  must  have  been  space  enough  for  a  large 
family  with  many  domestics.     There  was  nothing  round  or  near  the 


CASALIXGA.  2"21 

residence  wliicli  could  bo  called  a  garden,  so  that  its  look  of  desola- 
tion was  extreme.  There  were  various  large  barns  and  outhouses,  as 
though  it  had  been  intended  by  the  builder  that  corn  and  hay  and 
cattle  should  be  kept  there  ;  but  it  seemed  now  that  there  was 
nothing  there  except  the  empty  vats  at  which  the  two  men  were 
coopering.  Had  the  Englishmen  gone  farther  into  the  granary,  they 
would  have  seen  that  there  were  wine-presses  stored  away  in  the 
dark  coi'ners. 

They  stopped  and  looked  at  the  men,  and  the  men  halted  for  a 
moment  from  their  work  and  looked  at  them ;  but  the  men  spoke 
never  a  word.  Mr.  Glascock  then  asked  after  Mr.  Trcvelyan,  and 
one  of  the  coopers  pointed  to  the  house.  Then  they  crossed  over  to 
the  door,  and  Mr.  Glascock  finding  there  neither  knocker  nor  bell, 
first  tapped  with  his  knuckles,  and  then  struck  with  his  stick.  But 
no  one  came.  There  was  not  a  sound  in  the  house,  and  no  shutter 
was  removed.  *'  I  don't  believe  that  there  is  a  soul  here,"  said  Sir 
Marmaduke. 

"  AYe'll  not  give  it  up  till  we've  seen  it  all  at  any  rate,"  said  Mr. 
Glascock.     And  so  they  went  round  to  the  other  front. 

On  this  side  of  the  house  the  tilled  ground,  either  ploughed  or  dug 
with  the  spade,  came  up  to  the  very  windows.  There  was  hardly 
even  a  particle  of  grass  to  be  seen.  A  short  way  down  the  hill  there 
were  rows  of  olive  trees,  standing  in  prim  order  and  at  regular  dis- 
tances, from  which  hung  the  vines  that  made  the  coopering  of  the 
vats  necessary.  Olives  and  vines  have  pretty  names,  and  call  up  asso- 
ciations of  landscape  beauty.  But  here  they  were  in  no  way  beautiful. 
The  ground  beneath  them  was  turned  up,  and  brown,  and  arid,  so 
that  there  was  not  a  blade  of  grass  to  be  seen.  On  some  furrows 
the  maze  or  Indian  corn  was  sprouting,  and  there  were  patches  of 
growth  of  other  kinds, — each  patch  closely  marked  by  its  own 
straight  lines ;  and  there  were  narrow  paths,  so  constructed  as  to 
take  as  little  room  as  possible.  But  all  that  had  been  done  had 
been  done  for  economy,  and  nothing  for  beauty.  The  occupiers  of 
Casaluuga  had  thought  more  of  the  produce  of  their  laud  than  of 
picturesque  or  attractive  appearance. 

The  sun  was  blazing  fiercely  hot,  hotter  on  this  side,  Sir  Marma- 
duke thought,  even  than  on  the  other ;  and  there  was  not  a  wavelet 
of  a  cloud  in  the  sky.  A  balcony  ran  the  whole  length  of  the  house, 
and  under  this  Sii-  Marmaduke  took  shelter  at  once,  leaning  with  his 
back  against  the  wall.     "  There  is  not  a  soul  here  at  all,"  said  he. 

"The  men  in  the  barn  told  us  that  there  was,"  said  Mr.  Glascock ; 


222  HE    KNEW   TIE   ^VVAS    RIGHT. 

and,  at  any  rate,  we  will  try  the  windows."  So  saying,  lie  walked 
along  the  front  of  the  house,  Sir  Marmaduke  following  him  slowly, 
till  they  came  to  a  door,  the  upper  half  of  Avhich  Avas  glazed,  and 
through  which  they  looked  into  one  of  the  rooms.  Two  or  three  of 
the  other  windows  in  this  frontage  of  the  house  came  down  to  the 
ground,  and  were  made  for  egress  and  ingress  ;  but  they  had  all  been 
closed  with  shutters,  as  though  the  house  was  deserted.  But  they 
now  looked  into  a  room  which  contained  some  signs  of  habitation. 
There  was  a  small  table  with  a  marble  top,  on  which  lay  two  or  three 
books,  and  there  were  two  arm-chairs  in  the  room,  with  gilded  arms 
and  legs,  and  a  morsel  of  carpet,  and  a  clock  on  a  shelf  over  a  stove, 
and — a  rocking-horse.  "  The  boy  is  here,  you  may  be  sure,"  said 
Mr.  Glascock.  "  The  rocking-horse  makes  that  certain.  But  how 
are  we  to  get  at  any  one  !  " 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  place  for  an  Englishman  to  come  and  live  in 
before,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke.  "  What  on  earth  can  he  do  here  all 
day  !  "  As  he  spoke  the  door  of  the  room  was  opened,  and  there  was 
Trevelyan  standing  before  them,  looking  at  them  through  the  window. 
He  wore  an  old  red  English  dressing-gown,  which  came  down  to  his 
feet,  and  a  small  braided  Italian  cap  on  his  head.  His  beard  had 
been  allowed  to  groAv,  and  he  had  neither  collar  nor  cravat.  His 
trousers  were  unbraced,  and  he  shuffled  in  with  a  pair  of  slippers, 
which  would  hardly  cling  to  his  feet.  He  was  paler  and  still  thinner 
than  when  he  had  been  visited  at  Willesden,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to 
be  larger,  and  shone  almost  with  a  brighter  brilliancy. 

Mr.  Glascock  tried  to  open  the  door,  but  found  that  it  was  closed. 
"  Sir  Marmaduke  and  I  have  come  to  visit  you,"  said  Mr.  Glascock, 
aloud.  "  Is  there  any  means  by  which  we  can  get  into  the  house  ?  " 
Trevelyan  stood  still  and  stared  at  them.  "  We  knocked  at  the  front 
door,  but  nobody  came,"  continued  Mr.  Glascock.  "I  suppose  this 
is  the  way  you  usually  go  in  and  out." 

"  He  does  not  mean  to  let  us  in,"  whispered  Sir  Marmaduke. 

''Can  you  open  this  door,"  said  Mr.  Glascock,  "or  shall  we  go 
round  again  ?  "  Trevelyan  had  stood  still  contemplating  them,  but 
at  last  came  forward  and  put  back  the  bolt.  "  That  is  all  right," 
said  Mr.  Glascock,  entering.  "I  am  sure  you  will  be  glad  to  see  Sii- 
Marmaduke." 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  see  him, — or  you,  if  I  could  entertain  you," 
said  Trevelyan.  His  voice  was  harsh  and  hard,  and  his  words  were 
uttered  with  a  certain  amount  of  intended  grandeur.  "  Any  of  the 
family  would  be  welcome  were  it  not " 


CASALUNGA. 


223 


"  Were  it  not  what  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Glascock. 

"It  can  be  nothiug  to  you,  sii-,  what  troubles  I  have  here.  Thi;-j 
is  my  own  abode,  in  -whicli  I  had  flattered  myself  that  I  could  be  free 
from  intruders.  I  do  not  want  visitors.  I  am  sony  that  you  should 
Lave  had  trouble  in  coming  here,  but  I  do  not  want  visitors.  I  am 
very  sorry  that  I  have  nothing  that  I  can  offer  you,  Mx.  Glascock." 

"  Emily  is  in  Florence,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke. 

"  "\Mio  brought  her  ?  Did  I  tell  her  to  come  ?  Let  her  go  back 
to  her  home.  I  have  come  here  to  be  free  from  her,  and  I  mean  to 
be  free.     If  she  wants  my  money,  let  her  take  it." 

"  She  wants  her  child,"  said  Mr.  Glascock. 

"  He  is  my  child,"  said  Trcvelyan,  "  and  my  right  to  him  is  better 
than  hers.  Let  her  try  it  in  a  court  of  law,  and  she  shall  see.  "Why 
did  she  deceive  me  with  that  man  ?  Why  has  she  driven  me  to  this  ? 
Look  here,  Mr.  Glascock ; — my  whole  life  is  spent  in  this  seclusion, 
and  it  is  her  fault." 

"  Your  wife  is  innocent  of  all  fault,  Trevelyan,"  said  Mr.  Glascock. 

"  Any  woman  can  say  as  much  as  that ; — and  all  women  do  say  it. 
Yet, — what  are  they  worth  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean,  sir,  to  take  away  your  v/ife's  character  ?  "  said  Sir 
Marmaduke,  coming  up  in  wrath.  "  Kemember  that  she  is  my 
daughter,  and  that  there  are  things  which  flesh  and  blood  cannot 
stand." 

"  She  is  my  wife,  sir,  and  that  is  ten  times  more.  Do  you  think 
that  )-ou  would  do  more  for  her  than  I  would  do, — drink  more  of 
Esill  ?  You  had  better  go  away.  Sir  IMarmaduke.  You  can  do  no 
good  by  coming  here  and  talking  of  your  daughter.  I  would  have 
given  the  world  to  save  her; — but  she  would  not  be  saved." 

"You  are  a  slanderer !"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  in  his  wrath. 

Mr.  Glascock  turned  round  to  the  father,  and  tried  to  quiet  him. 
It  was  so  manifest  to  him  that  the  balance  of  the  poor  man's  mind 
was  gone,  that  it  seemed  to  him  to  be  ridiculous  to  upbraid  the  suflerer. 
He  was  such  a  piteous  sight  to  behold,  that  it  was  almost  impossible 
to  feel  indignation  against  him.  "  You  cannot  wonder,"  said  Mr. 
Glascock,  advancing  close  to  the  master  of  the  house,  "  that  the 
mother  should  want  to  see  her  only  child.  You  do  net  wish  that 
your  wife  should  be  the  most  wretched  woman  in  the  world." 

"  Am  not  I  the  most  wretched  of  men  ?  Can  anything  be  more 
wretched  than  this  ?  Is  her  life  worse  than  mine  ?  And  whose  fault 
was  it?  Had  I  any  friend  to  whom  she  objected?  Was  I  uutruo 
to  her  in  a  single  thought  ?  " 


224  TIE    KXE"\V    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

"If  you  say  that  she  was  untrue,  it  is  a  falsehood,"  said  Sir  Mar- 
maduke. 

"  You  allow  yourself  a  liberty  of  expression,  sir,  because  you  are 
my  wife's  father,"  said  Trevelyan,  "which  you  would  not  dare  to 
take  in  other  chcumstances." 

"  I  say  that  it  is  a  false  calumny, — a  lie !  and  I  would  say  so  to 
any  man  on  earth  who  should  dare  to  slander  my  child's  name." 

"  Your  child,  sir !  She  is  my  wife  ; — my  wife  ; — my  wife  ! "  Tre- 
velyan, as  he  spoke,  advanced  close  up  to  his  father-in-law ;  and  at 
last  hissed  out  his  words,  with  his  lips  close  to  Sir  Marmaduke's  face. 
Your  right  in  her  is  gone,  sir.  She  is  mine, — mine, — mine  !  And 
you  sec  the  way  in  which  she  has  treated  me,  Mr.  Glascock.  Every- 
thing I  had  was  hers  ;  but  the  words  of  a  grey-hahed  sinner  were 
sweeter  to  her  than  all  my  love.  I  wonder  whether  you  think  that  it 
is  a  pleasant  thing  for  such  a  one  as  I  to  come  out  here  and  live  in 
such  a  place  as  this  ?  I  have  not  a  friend, — a  companion, — hardly  a 
book.  There  is  nothing  that  I  can  eat  or  drink '?  I  do  not  stir  cut 
of  the  house, — and  I  am  ill ; — very  ill !  Look  at  me.  See  what  she 
has  brought  me  to  !  Mr.  Glascock,  on  ray  honour  as  a  man,  I  never 
wronged  her  in  a  thought  or  a  word." 

Mr.  Glascock  had  come  to  think  that  his  best  chance  of  doing  any 
good  was  to  get  Trevelyan  into  conversation  with  himself,  free  from 
the  interruption  of  Sir  Marmaduke.  The  father  of  the  injured  woman 
could  not  bring  himself  to  endure  the  hard  words  that  were  sj)oken  of 
his  daughter.  During  this  last  speech  he  had  broken  out  once  or 
twice  ;  but  Trevelyan,  not  heeding  him,  had  clung  to  Mr.  Glascock's 
arm.  "  Sir  Marmaduke,"  said  he,  "  would  you  not  like  to  see  the 
boy?" 

"  He  shall  not  see  the  boy,"  said  Trevelyan.  "You  may  see  him. 
He  shall  not.     "What  is  he  that  he  should  have  control  over  me  ?" 

"  This  is  the  most  fearful  thing  I  ever  heard  of,"  said  Sii'  Mar- 
maduke.    "  "WTiat  are  we  to  do  with  him  ?  " 

Mr.  Glascock  whispered  a  few  words  to  Su*  Marmaduke,  and  then 
declared  that  he  was  ready  to  be  taken  to  the  child.  "  And  he  will 
remain  here  ?  "  asked  Trevelyan.  A  pledge  was  then  given  by  Sir 
Marmaduke  that  he  would  not  force  his  way  farther  into  the  house, 
and  the  two  other  men  left  the  chamber  together.  Sir  Marmaduke, 
as  he  paced  up  and  down  the  room  alone,  perspmng  at  every  pore, 
thoroughly  uncomfortable  and  ill  at  ease,  thoiight  of  all  the  hard 
positions  of  Avhich  he  had  ever  read,  and  that  his  was  harder  than 
them  all.     Here  was  a  man  married  to  his  daughter,  in  possession  of 


CASALUNGA.  225 

Lis  (langlitcr's  child,  manifestly  mad, — and  yet  lie  could  do  notbinj^ 
to  him !  He  was  about  to  return  to  the  seat  of  his  government,  and 
he  must  leave  his  own  child  in  this  madman's  power  !  Of  course,  his 
daughter  could  not  go  with  him,  leaving  her  child  in  this  madman's 
Lands.  He  had  been  told  that  even  were  he  to  attempt  to  prove  the 
man  to  be  mad  in  Italy,  the  process  would  bo  slow ;  and,  before  it 
could  bo  well  •ommencod,  Trerelyan  would  be  off  with  the  child  else- 
where. There  never  wm  arf  embarrassment,  thought  Sir  Marmaduke, 
out  of  which  it  was  so  impossible  to  find  a  clear  way. 

In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Glascock  and  Trevclyan  were  visiting  the 
child.  It  was  evident  that  the  father,  let  him  be  ever  so  mad, 
had  discerned  the  expediency  of  alloAving  some  one  to  see  that 
Lis  son  was  alive  and  in  health.  Mr.  Glascock  did  not  know 
much  of  children,  and  could  only  say  afterwards  that  the  boy 
was  silent  and  very  melancholy,  but  clean,  and  apparently  well. 
It  appeared  that  he  was  taken  out  daily  by  his  father  in  the  cool 
hours  of  the  morning,  and  that  his  father  hardly  left  him  from  the 
time  that  he  was  taken  up  till  he  was  put  to  bed.  But  Mr. 
Glascock's  desire  was  to  see  Trevclyan  alone,  and  this  he  did  after 
they  had  left  the  boy.  "  And  now,  Trcvelyan,"  he  said,  "  what 
do  you  mean  to  do  ?  " 

"To  do?" 

"  In  what  way  do  you  propose  to  live  ?  I  want  you  to  bo 
reasonable  with  me." 

"  They  do  not  treat  me  reasonably." 

"  Are  you  going  to  measure  your  own  conduct  by  that  of  other 
people  ?  In  the  fii'st  place,  you  should  go  back  to  England.  What 
good  can  you  do  here?"  Trevclyan  shook  his  head,  but  remained 
silent.     "  You  cannot  like  this  life." 

"No,  indeed.  But  whither  can  I  go  now  that  I  shall  like  to 
live?" 

"  "\Miy  not  home  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  home." 

•'  \Miy  not  go  back  to  England  ?  Ask  your  vah  to  join  you, 
and  return  with  her.  She  would  go  at  a  word."  The  poor  -wretch 
again  shook  his  head.  "  I  hope  you  think  that  I  speak  as  your 
friend,"  said  Mr.  Glascock. 

"  I  believe  you  do." 

"  I  will  say  nothing  of  any  imprudence ;  but  you  cannot  bclievo 
that  she  has  been  untrue  to  you?"  Trevclyan  would  say  nothing 
to   this,    but   stood   silent   waiting   for   Mr.    Glascock   to    continue. 


226  HE    KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

"Let  her  come  back  to  yoii — here;  aud  tlien,  as  soon  as  you  can 
an-ange  it,  go  to  your  own  liomc." 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  somethmg  ?"  said  Trevelyan. 

"A^^latisit?" 

He  came  up  close  to  Mr.  Glascock,  and  put  his  hand  upon  his 
visitor's  shoulder.  "I  will  tell  you  what  she  would  do  at  once. 
I  dare  say  that  she  would  come  to  me.  I  dare  say  that  she  would 
go  ^\'ith.  me.  I  am  sure  she  would.  And  directly  she  got  me  there, 
she  would — say  that  I  Avas — mad  !  She, — my  Avife,  would  do  it ! 
He, — that  furious,  ignorant  old  man  below,  tried  to  do  it  before. 
His  wife  said  that  I  was  mad."  He  paused  a  moment,  as  though 
waiting  for  a  reply ;  but  Mr,  Glascock  had  none  to  make.  It  had 
not  been  his  object,  in  the  advice  which  he  had  given,  to  entrap 
the  poor  fellow  by  a  snare,  and  to  induce  him  so  to  act  that  he 
should  deliver  himself  up  to  keepers  ;  but  he  was  well  aware  that 
wherever  Trevelyan  might  be,  it  would  be  desirable  that  he  should 
be  placed  for  awhile  in  the  charge  of  some  physician.  He  could 
not  bring  himself  at  the  spur  of  the  moment  to  repudiate  the  idea 
by  which  Trevetyan  was  actuated.  "  Perhaps  you  think  that  she 
would  be  right  ?"  said  Trevelyan. 

"I  am  quite  sure  that  she  would  do  nothing  that  is  not  for 
the  best,"  said  Mr.  Glascock. 

"I  can  see  it  all.  I  will  not  go  back  to  England,  Mr.  Glascock. 
I  intend  to  travel.  I  shall  probably  leave  this  and  go  to — to — to 
Greece,  perhaps.  It  is  a  healthy  place,  this,  and  I  like  it  for  that 
reason  ;  but  I  shall  not  stay  here.  If  my  wife  likes  to  travel  with 
me,  she  can  come.     But, — to  England  I  will  not  go." 

"  You  will  let  the  child  go  to  his  mother  ?" 

*'  Certainly  not.  If  she  wants  to  see  the  child,  he  is  here.  If 
she  will  come, — without  her  father, — she  shall  see  him.  She  shall 
not  take  him  from  hence.  Nor  shall  she  return  to  live  with  me, 
without  full  acknowledgment  of  her  fault,  and  promises  of  an 
amended  life.  I  know  what  I  am  saying,  Mr.  Glascock,  and  have 
thought  of  these  things  perhaps  more  than  you  have  done.  I 
am  obliged  to  you  for  coming  to  me;  but  now,  if  you  please, 
I  would  prefer  to  be  alone." 

Mr.  Glascock,  seeing  that  nothing  further  could  be  done,  joined 
Sir  Marmaduke,  and  the  two  walked  down  to  their  carriage  at 
the  bottom  of  the  hill.  Mr.  Glascock,  as  he  went,  declared  his 
conviction  that  the  unfortunate  man  was  altogether  mad,  and  that 
it  would  be  necessary  to  obtain  some  interference  on  the  part   of 


I    CAX    SLEKP    ON    THE    BOARDS.  227 

tlic  autlioritics  for  tho  protection  of  the  cliikl,  IIow  this  could  bo 
doue,  or  •whether  it  could  be  done  in  time  to  intercept  a  fui'thcr 
flight  on  the  part  of  Trevclyau,  Mr.  Glascock  could  not  say.  It 
was  his  idea  that  Mrs.  Trevelyau  should  herself  go  out  to  Casalunga, 
and  try  the  force  of  her  own  persuasion. 

"  I  beUevo  that  ho  would  murder  hei-,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke. 

"  He  would  not  do  that.  There  is  a  glimmer  of  sense  in  all  his 
madness,  which  will  keep  him  from  any  actual  violence." 


CHAPTER  LXXIX. 
I  CAN  SLEEP  ON  THE  BOAUDS. 


Three  days  after  this  there  came  another  carriage  to  the  bottom  of 
the  hill  on  which  Casalunga  stood,  and  a  lady  got  out  of  it  all  alone. 
It  was  Emily  Trevelyan,  and  she  had  come  thither  from  Siena  in 
quest  of  her  husband  and  her  child.     On  the  previous  day  Sir  Mar- 
madukc's  courier  had  been  at  the  house  with  a  note  from  the  wife 
to  the  husband,  and  had  returned  with  an  answer,  in  which  Mrs. 
Trevelyan  was  told  that,  if  she  would  come  quite  alone,  she  should 
see  her  child.     Sir  Marmaduke  had  been  averse  to  any  further  inter- 
course  with  tho  man,    other   than  what  might  be  made  in  accord- 
ance with  medical  advice,  and,  if  possible,  with  government  authority. 
Lady  Rowley  had  assented  to  her  daughter's  wish,  but  had  suggested 
that  she  should  at  least  be  allowed  to  go  also, — at  any  rate,  as  far  as 
the   bottom  of  the   hill.     But  Emily  had  been  very  firm,  and   Mr. 
Glascock  had  supported  her.     He  was  confident  that  the  man  would 
do  no  harm  to  her,  and  he  was  indisposed  to  believe  that  any  inter- 
ference on  the  part  of  the  Italian  Government  could  be  procured  in 
such  a  case  with  suflicicnt  celerity  to  be  of  use.     He  still  thought  it 
might  be  possible  that  the  wife  might  prevail  over  tho  husband,  or  tho 
mother  over  the  father.     Sir  MaiTQaduke  was  at  last  obliged  to  yield, 
and  Mrs.  Trevelyan  went  to  Siena  with  no  other  companion  but  tho 
courier.     From  Siena  she  made  the  journey  quite  alone  ;  and  having 
learned  the  circumstances  of  the  house  from  Mr.  Glascock,  she  got 
out  of  the  carriage,  and  walked  up  the  hill.     There  were  still  the  two 
men  coopering  at  tho  vats,  but  she  did  not  stay  to  speak  to  them. 
She  went  through  the  big  gates,  and  along  the  slanting  path  to  the 
door,  not  doubting  of  her  way  ; — for  Mr.  Glascock  had  described  it 
all  to  her,  making  a  small  plan  of  the  premises,  and  even  explaining 


228  HE    KNEW    HE    "WAS    IIIGIIT. 

to  her  the  position  of  the  room  in  Avhic-h  her  boy  and  her  husband 
slept.  She  found  the  door  open,  and  an  Italian  maid-servant  at  once 
welcomed  her  to  the  house,  and  assured  her  that  the  signer  would  be 
with  her  immediately.  She  was  sure  that  the  girl  knew  that  she  was 
the  boy's  mother,  and  was  almost  tempted  to  ask  questions  at  once  as 
to  the  state  of  the  household  ;  but  her  knowledge  of  Italian  was 
slight,  and  she  felt  that  she  was  so  utterly  a  stranger  in  the  land  that 
she  could  dare  to  trust  no  one.  Though  the  heat  was  great,  her  fac-e 
was  covered  with  a  thick  veil.  Her  dress  was  black,  from  head  to 
foot,  and  she  was  as  a  woman  who  mourned  for  her  husband.  She 
was  led  into  the  room  which  her  father  had  been  allowed  to  enter 
through  the  window ;  and  here  she  sat,  in  her  husband's  house,  feel- 
ing that  in  no  position  in  the  world  could  she  be  more  utterly  sepa- 
rated from  the  interests  of  all  around  her.  In  a  few  minutes  the  door 
was  opened,  and  her  husband  was  with  her,  bringing  the  boy  in  his 
hand.  He  had  dressed  himself  with  some  care  ;  but  it  may  be 
doubted  whether  the  garments  which  he  wore  did  not  make  him 
appear  thinner  even  and  more  haggard  than  he  had  looked  to  be  in 
his  old  dressing-gown.  He  had  not  shaved  himself,  but  his  long  hair 
was  brushed  back  from  his  forehead,  after  a  fashion  quaint  and  very 
foreign  to  his  former  ideas  of  dress.  His  wife  had  not  expected  that 
her  child  would  come  to  her  at  once, — had  thought  that  some  entrea- 
ties would  be  necessary,  some  obedience  perhaps  exacted  from  her, 
before  she  would  be  allowed  to  see  him  ;  and  now  her  heart  was  sof- 
tened, and  she  was  grateful  to  her  husband.  But  she  could  not  speak 
to  him  till  she  had  had  the  boy  in  her  arms.  She  tore  off  her  bonnet, 
and  then  clinging  to  the  child,  covered  him  with  kisses.  "  Louey, 
my  darling  !  Louey;  you  remember  mamma  ?  "  The  child  pressed 
himself  close  to  his  mother's  bosom,  but  spoke  never  a  word.  Ho 
was  cowed  and  overcome,  not  only  by  the  incidents  of  the  moment, 
but  by  the  terrible  melancholy  of  his  whole  life.  He  had  been  taught 
to  understand,  without  actual  spoken  lessons,  that  he  was  to  live  with 
his  father,  and  that  the  former  woman-given  happinesses  of  his  life 
were  at  an  end.  In  this  second  visit  from  his  mother  he  did  not 
forget  her.  He  recognised  the  luxury  of  her  love ;  but  it  did  not 
occur  to  him  even  to  hope  that  she  might  have  come  to  rescue  him 
from  the  evil  of  his  daj's.  Trevelyan  was  standing  by,  the  while^ 
looking  on ;  but  he  did  not  speak  till  she  addressed  him. 

"I  am  so  thankful  to  you  for  bringing  him  to  me,"  she  said. 

"  I  told  you  that  you  should  see  him,"  he  said.  "  Perhaps  it  might 
have  been  better  that  I  should  have  sent  him  by  a  servant ;  but  there 
are  circnnistances  which  make  me  fear  to  let  him  out  of  my  sight." 


o 

CO 

<; 
a, 

o 

H 
Q 
■< 


t— I 


I  CAN  SLEEP  ON  THE  BOARDS.  209 

"  Do  you  think  tLal  I  did  not  wish  to  see  you  also  ?  Louis,  ^vhy 
do  you  do  mo  so  much  wrong  ?  Why  do  you  treat  mo  with  such 
cruelty  ?  "  Then  she  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  before  ho 
could  repulse  her, — before  he  could  reflect  whether  it  would  be  well 
that  he  should  repulse  her  or  not, — she  had  covered  his  brow  and 
cheeks  and  lips  with  kisses.  "Louis,"  she  said;  "Louis,  speak  to 
me!" 

"  It  is  hard  to  speak  sometimes,"  he  said. 

"  You  love  me,  Louis  ?  " 

"  Yes ; — I  love  you.     But  I  am  afraid  of  you ! " 

"  What  is  it  that  5'ou  fear?  I  would  give  my  life  for  j'ou,  if  you 
would  only  come  back  to  me  and  let  me  feel  that  you  believed  me  to 
be  true."  He  shook  his  head,  and  began  to  think, — while  she  still 
clung  to  him.  He  was  quite  sure  that  her  father  and  mother  had  in- 
tended to  bring  a  mad  doctor  down  upon  him,  and  he  knew  that  his 
wife  was  in  her  mother's  hands.  Should  he  yield  to  her  now, — 
should  he  make  her  any  promise, — might  not  the  result  be  that  he 
would  bo  shut  up  in  dark  rooms,  robbed  of  his  liberty,  robbed  of 
what  he  loved  better  than  his  liberty, — his  power  as  a  man.  She 
would  thus  get  the  better  of  him  and  take  the  child,  and  the  world 
would  say  that  in  this  contest  between  him  and  her  he  had  been  the 
sinning  one,  and  she  the  one  against  whom  the  sin  had  been  done. 
It  was  the  chief  object  of  his  mind,  the  one  thing  for  which  he  was 
eager,  that  this  should  never  come  to  pass.  Let  it  once  be  conceded 
to  him  from  all  sides  that  he  had  been  right,  and  then  she  might  do 
with  him  almost  as  she  willed.  He  knew  well  that  he  was  ill.  Whea 
he  thought  of  his  child,  he  would  tell  himself  that  he  was  dying.  Ha 
was  at  some  moments  of  his  miserable  existence  fearfully  anxious  to 
come  to  terms  with  his  wife,  in  order  that  at  his  death  his  boy  might 
not  be  without  a  protector.  Were  he  to  die,  then  it  would  bo 
better  that  his  child  should  be  with  its  mother.  In  his  happy  days,, 
immediately  after  his  marriage,  he  had  made  a  will,  in  which  he. 
had  left  his  entire  property  to  his  wife  for  her  life,  providing  for 
its  subsequent  descent  to  his  child, — or  children.  It  had  never 
even  occurred  to  his  poor  shattered  brain  that  it  would  be  well  for 
him  to  alter  his  will.  Had  he  really  believed  that  his  wife  had 
betrayed  him,  doubtless  he  would  have  done  so.  He  would  have 
hated  her,  have  distrusted  her  altogether,  and  have  believed  her 
to  be  an  evil  thing.  He  had  no  such  belief.  But  in  his  desire 
to  achieve  empire,  and  in  the  sorrows  which  had  come  upon  him 
in  his  unsuccessful  struggle,  his  mind  had  wavered  so  frequently, 
that  his    spoken  words    were  no  true  indicators  of  his   thoughts; 


230  m:  knew  he  -vvas  right. 

aud  in  all  liis  arguments  lie  failed  to  express  cither  his  convictions 
or  his  desires.  When  ho  would  say  something  stronger  than  ho 
intended,  and  it  "would  be  put  to  him  by  his  wife,  by  her  father 
or  mother,  or  by  some  friend  of  hers,  whether  he  did  believe  that 
she  had  been  untrue  to  him,  he  would  recoil  from  the  answer  which 
his  heart  would  dictate,  lest  he  should  seem  to  make  an  acknow- 
ledgment that  might  weaken  the  ground  upon  which  ho  stood. 
Then  he  would  satisfy  his  own  conscience  by  assm-iug  himself  that 
he  had  never  accused  her  of  such  sin.  She  was  still  clinging  to  him 
now  as  his  mind  was  working  after  this  fashion.  *'  Louis,"  she  said, 
*'  let  it  all  be  as  though  there  had  been  nothing." 
"  How  can  that  be,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Not  to  others  ; — but  to  us  it  can  be  so.  There  shall  be  no  word 
spoken  of  the  past."  Again  he  shook  his  head.  ''Will  it  not  be 
best  that  there  should  be  no  word  spoken  ?  " 

<<  'Forgiveness  may  be  spoken  with  the  tongue,'  "  he  said,  begin- 
ning to  q^uote  from  a  poem  which  had  formerly  been  frequent  in  his 
hands. 

"  Cannot  there  be  real  forgiveness  between  you  and  mc, — between 
husband  and  wife  who,  in  truth,  love  each  other  ?  Do  you  think 
that  I  would  tell  j'ou  of  it  again  ?  "  He  felt  that  in  all  that  she  said 
there  was  an  assumption  that  she  had  been  right,  and  that  he  had 
been  wrong.  She  was  promising  to  forgive.  She  was  undertaking 
to  forget.  She  was  willing  to  take  him  back  to  the  warmth  of  her 
love,  and  the  comfort  of  her  kindness, — but  was  not  asking  to  be 
taken  back.  This  was  what  he  could  not  and  would  not  endure.  He 
had  determined  that  if  she  behaved  well  to  him,  he  would  not  be 
harsh  to  her,  aud  he  was  struggling  to  keep  up  to  his  resolve.  He 
would  accuse  her  of  nothing, — if  he  could  help  it.  But  he  could  not 
say  a  word  that  would  even  imply  that  she  need  forget, — that  she 
should  forgive.  It  was  for  him  to  forgive ; — and  he  was  willing  to 
do  it,  if  she  would  accept  forgiveness.  **  Twill  never  speak  a  word, 
Louis,"  she  said,  laying  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 
"  Your  heart  is  still  hardened,"  he  replied  slowly. 
"Hard  to  you?" 

"And  your  mind  is  dark.  You  do  not  see  what  you  have  done. 
In  our  religion,  Emily,  forgiveness  is  sure,  not  after  penitence,  but 
with  repentance."  ^ 

"  ^Vhat  does  that  mean  ?" 

"  It  means  this,  that  though  I  would  welcome  you  back  to  my 
arms  with  joy,  I  cannot  do  so,  till  you  have — confessed  yom*  fault." 


).    CAN    SLEEP    OX    IHi:    BOARDS.  231 

"  ^Miat  fault,  Louis  ?  If  I  Lave  made  you  unhappy,  I  do,  iucIeeJ, 
grieve  that  it  has  beeu  so." 

"It  is  of  no  use,"  said  ho.  "I  cannot  talk  about  it.  Do  j'Oii 
suppose  that  it  docs  not  tear  mo  to  the  very  soul  to  think  of  it  ?" 

"  "\Miat  is  it  that  you  think,  Louis  ?  "  As  she  had  been  travelling 
ihithcr,  she  had  determined  that  she  would  say  anything  that  he 
wished  her  to  say, — make  any  admission  that  might  satisfy  him. 
That  she  could  be  happy  again  as  other  women  arc  happy,  she  did 
not  expect ;  but  if  it  could  be  conceded  between  them  that  bj'gonos 
should  be  bygones,  she  might  live  with  him  and  do  her  duty,  and,  at 
least,  have  her  child  with  her.  Her  father  had  told  her  that  her  hus- 
band was  mad ;  but  she  was  willing  to  put  up  with  his  madness  on 
such  terms  as  these.  What  could  her  husband  do  to  her  in  his  mad- 
ness that  he  could  not  do  also  to  the  child?  "Tell  mo  what  you 
want  me  to  say,  and  I  will  say  it,"  she  said. 

"  You  have  sinned  against  me,"  he  said,  raising  her  head  gently 
from  his  shoulder. 

"  Never  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  As  God  is  my  judge,  I  never  have  !  " 
As  she  said  this,  she  retreated  and  took  the  sobbing  boy  again  into 
her  arms. 

He  was  at  once  placed  upon  his  guard,  telling  himself  that  he  saw 
the  necessity  of  holding  by  his  child.  How  could  he  tell  ?  Might  there 
not  be  policemen  down  from  Florence,  ready  round  the  house,  to  seize 
the  boy  and  carry  him  away.  Though  all  his  remaining  life  should 
be  a  torment  to  him,  though  infinite  plagues  should  be  poured  upon 
his  head,  though  he  should  die  like  a  dog,  alone,  unfriended,  and  in 
despair,  while  he  was  fighting  this  battle  cf  his,  he  would  not  give 
way.  "  That  is  sufficient,"  he  said.  "  Louey  must  return  now  to  his 
own  chamber." 

"  I  may  go  with  him  ?  " 

"No,  Emily.  You  cannot  go  with  him  now.  I  will  thank  j'ou  to 
release  him,  that  I  may  take  him."  She  still  held  the  little  fellow 
closely  pressed  in  her  arms,  "  Do  not  reward  me  for  my  courtesy  by 
fui-ther  disobedience,"  he  said. 

"  You  will  let  me  come  again  ? "  To  this  he  made  no  replj'.  "Tell 
me  that  I  may  come  again." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  Fshall  remain  here  long." 

"  And  I  may  not  stay  now  '?  " 

"That  would  bo  iihpossiblo.  There  is  no  accommodation  for 
you." 

"I  could  sleep  on  the  boards  beside  his  cot,"  said  Mrs.  Trovclyan, 


232  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS   RIGIIT. 

"  That  is  my  place,"  lie  replied.  "  You  may  know  that  he  is  not 
clisregartlcd.  With  my  own  hands  I  tend  him  every  morning.  I 
take  him  out  myself.  I  feed  him  myself.  He  says  his  prayers  to 
me.  He  learns  from  me,  and  can  say  his  letters  nicely.  You  need 
not  fear  for  him.  No  mother  was  ever  more  tender  with  her  child 
than  I  am  with  him."  Then  he  gently  withdrew  the  hoy  from  her 
arms,  and  she  let  her  child  go,  lest  he  should  learn  to  know  that  there 
was  a  quarrel  between  his  father  and  his  mother.  "  If  you  will  excuse 
me,"  ho  said,  "  I  will  not  come  down  to  you  again  to-day.  My 
servant  will  see  you  to  your  carriage." 

So  he  left  her ;  and  she,  with  an  Italian  girl  at  her  heels,  got  into 
her  vehicle,  and  was  taken  back  to  Siena.  There  she  passed  the 
night  alone  at  the  inn,  and  on  the  next  morning  returned  to  Florence 
by  the  railway. 


CHAPTER  LXXX. 
WILL  THEY  DESPISE  IIIM?     . 


GBA.DUALLY  the  ncws  of  the  intended  marriage  between  Mr.  Glascock 
and  Miss  Spalding  spread  itself  over  Florence,   and  people   talked 
about  it  with  that  energy  which  subjects  of  such  moment  certainly 
deserve.     That  Caroline  Spalding  had  achieved  a  very  great  triumph, 
was,   of  course,  the  verdict  of  all  men  and  of  all  Avomen ;    and  I 
fear  that  there  was  a  corresponding  feeling  that  poor  Mr.  Glascock 
had  been  triumphed  over,   and,   as  it  were,  subjugated.     In  some 
respects  he  had  been  remiss  in  his  duties  as  a  bachelor  visitor  to 
Florence, — as  a  visitor  to  Florence  who  had  manifestly  been  much 
in  want  of   a  wife.     He  had  not  given  other  girls  a  fail-  chance, 
but  had  thrown  himself  down  at  the  feet  of  this  American  female 
in  the  weakest  possible  manner.     And  then  it  got  about  the  town 
that  he  had  been  refused  over  and   over  again  by  Nora   Rowley. 
It  is  too  probable  that  Lady  Rowley  in  her  despair  and   dismay 
had  been  indiscreet,  and  had  told  secrets  which  should  never  have 
been  mentioned  by  her.     And  -the  wife  of  the  English  minister,  who 
had  some  grudges  of  her  OAvn,  lifted  her  eyebrows  and  shook  her 
head  and  declared  that  all  the  Glascocks  at  home  would  be  outraged 
to  the  last  degree.     "  My  dear  Lady  Rowley,"  she  said,  "  I  don't 
know  whether  it  won't  become  a  question  with  them  whether  they 
should  issue   a   commission  de  lunatico."      Lady  Rowley  did   not 


■WILL   THEY    DESriSE    HIM?  2o3 

know  what  a  commission  do  lunatico  meant,  but  was  quite  willing 
to  rcganl  jioor  Mr.  Glascock  as  a  lunatic.  "  And  there  is  poor 
Lord  Peterborough  at  Naples  just  at  death's  door,"  continued  the 
British  Minister's  wife.  In  this  she  was  perhaps  nearly  correct ; 
but  as  Lord  Peterborough  had  now  been  in  the  same  condition  for 
many  months,  as  his  mind  had  altogether  gone,  and  as  the  doctor 
declared  that  ho  might  live  in  his  present  condition  for  a  year,  or 
for  years,  it  could  not  fairly  be  said  that  Mr.  Glascock  was  acting 
without  due  filial  feeling  in  engaging  himself  to  marry  a  young  lady. 
"And  she  such  a  ci'oaturo!"  said  Lady  Rowley,  with  emphasis. 
This  the  British  Minister's  wife  noticed  simply  by  shaking  her  head. 
Caroline  Spalding  was  undoubtedly  a  pretty  girl ;  but,  as  the  British 
Minister's  wife  said  afterwards,  it  was  not  surprising  that  poor 
Lady  Rowley  should  be  nearly  out  of  her  mind. 

This  had  occurred  a  full  week  after  the  evening  spent  at  Mr. 
Spalding's  house  ;  and  even  yet  Lady  Rowley  had  never  been  put 
right  as  to  that  mistake  of  hers  about  Wallachia  Petrie.  That  other 
trouble  of  hers,  and  her  eldest  daughter's  jom-ncy  to  Siena,  had 
prevented  them  from  going  out;  and  though  the  matter  had  often 
been  discussed  between  Lady  Rowley  and  Nora,  there  had  not  as 
yet  come  between  them  any  proper  explanation.  Nora  would  declare 
that  the  future  bride  was  very  pretty  and  vciy  delightful ;  and  Lady 
Rowley  would  throw  up  her  hands  in  despair  and  protest  that  her 
daughter  was  insane.  "Why  should  ho  not  marry  whom  he  likes, 
mamma?"  Nora  once  said,  almost  with  indignation. 

"  Because  he  mil  disgrace  his  family." 

"  I  cannot  understand  what  you  mean,  mamma.  They  are,  at  any 
rate,  as  good  as  we  are.  Mr.  Spalding  stands  quite  as  high  as 
papa  does." 

"  She  is  an  American,"  said  Lady  Rowley. 

"  And  her  family  might  say  that  he  is  an  Englishman,"  said  Nora. 

"My  dear,  if  you  do  not  understand  the  incongruity  between  an 
English  peer  and  a  Yankee — female,  I  cannot  help  you.  I  suppose  it 
is  because  you  have  been  brought  up  within  the  limited  society  of  a 
small  colony.  If  so,  it  is  not  your  fault.  But  I  had  hoped  you 
had  been  in  Europe  long  enough  to  have  learned  Avhat  was  what. 
Do  you  think,  my  dear,  that  she  will  look  well  when  she  is  pre- 
sented to  her  Majesty  as  Lord  Peterborough's  wife  ?" 

"  Splendid,"  said  Nora.     "  She  has  just  the  brow  for  a  coronet." 

"  Heavens  and  earth  !"  said  Lady  Rowley,  throwing  up  her  hands. 
♦'  And  you  believe  that  he  will  bo  proud  of  her  in  England  ?" 

VOL.  II.  L'-' 


234  UK    KNEW   HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

"  I  am  sure  lie  will." 

"  My  belief  is  that  lie  will  leave  her  behind  him,  or  that  they 
■will  settle  somewhere  in  the  wilds  of  America, — out  in  Mexico,  or 
Massachussctts,  or  the  llocky  Mountains.  I  do  not  think  that 
he  will  have  the  courage  to  shew  her  in  London." 

The  marriage  was  to  take  place  in  the  Protestant  church  at 
Florence  early  in  June,  and  then  the  bride  and  bridegroom  were 
to  go  over  the  Alps,  and  to  remain  there  subject  to  tidings  as  to 
the  health  of  the  old  man  at  Naples.  Mr.  Glascock  had  thrown 
up  his  seat  in  Piirliament,  some  month  or  two  ago,  knowing  that 
he  could  not  get  back  to  his  duties  during  the  present  session, 
and  feeling  that  he  would  shortly  be  called  upon  to  sit  in  the 
other  House.  He  was  thus  free  to  use  his  time  and  to  fix  his 
days  as  he  pleased ;  and  it  was  certainly  clear  to  those  who  knew 
him,  that  he  was  not  ashamed  of  his  American  bride.  He  spent 
much  of  his  time  at  the  Spaldings'  house,  and  was  always  to  be 
seen  with  them  in  the  Cascine  and  at  the  Opera.  Mrs.  Spalding, 
the  aunt,  was,  of  course,  in  gi-eat  glory.  A  triumphant,  happy, 
or  even  simply  a  splendid  marriage,  for  the  rising  girl  of  a 
family  is  a  great  glory  to  the  maternal  mind.  Mrs.  Spalding 
could  not  but  be  aware  that  the  very  air  around  her  seemed  to 
breathe  congratulations  into  her  ears.  Her  friends  spoke  to  her, 
even  on  indiiferent  subjects,  as  though  everything  was  going  well 
with  her, — better  with  her  than  with  anybody  else  ;  and  there  came 
upon  her  in  these  days  a  dangerous  feeling,  that  in  spite  of  all 
the  preachings  of  the  preachers,  the  next  world  might  perhaps  be 
not  so  very  much  better  than  this.  She  was,  in  fact,  the  reverse 
of  the  medal  of  which  poor  Lady  Eowley  filled  the  obverse.  And 
the  American  Minister  was  certainly  an  inch  taller  than  before, 
and  made  longer  speeches,  being  much  more  regardless  of  interrup- 
tion. Olivia  was  delighted  at  her  sister's  success,  and  heard  with 
rapture  the  description  of  Monkhams,  which  came  to  her  second-hand 
through  her  sister.  It  was  already  settled  that  she  was  to  spend 
her  next  Christmas  at  Monkhams,  and  perhaps  there  might  be  an 
idea  in  her  mind  that  there  were  other  eldest  sons  of  old  lords  who 
would  like  American  brides.  Everything  around  Caroline  Spalding 
was  pleasant, — except  the  words  of  Wallachia  Petrie. 

Everything  around  her  was  pleasant  till  there  came  to  her  a  touch 
of  a  suspicion  that  the  marriage  which  Mr.  Glascock  was  going  to 
make  would  be  detrimental  to  her  intended  husband  in  his  own 
country.    There  were  many  in  Florence  who  were  saying  this  besides 


AVILL    TIIEY   DESPISE    IIIM  ?  235 

the  wife  of  the  English  Minister  find  Lad)-  Eowloy.  Of  course  Caroline 
Spalding  herself  was  the  last  to  hear  it,  and  to  her  the  idea  was 
brought  by  Wallachia  Petric.  "  I  wish  I  could  think  you  would  make 
yourself  happy, — or  him,"  Wallachia  had  said,  croaking. 

"  Why  should  I  Ml  to  make  him  happy  ?  " 

"  Because  j'ou  are  not  of  the  same  blood,  or  race,  or  manners  as 
himself.  They  say  that  he  is  very  wealthy  in  his  own  country,  and 
that  those  who  live  around  him  will  look  coldly  on  you." 

"  So  that  he  does  not  look  coldly,  I  do  not  care  hoAV  others  may 
look,"  said  Caroline  proudly. 

"  But  when  he  finds  that  he  has  injured  himself  by  such  a  marriage 
in  the  estimation  of  all  his  friends, — how  will  it  be  then  ?" 

This  set  Caroline  Spalding  thinking  of  what  she  was  doing.  She 
began  to  realise  the  feeling  that  perhaps  she  might  not  be  a  fit  bride 
for  an  English  lord's  son,  and  in  her  agony  she  came  to  Nora  Rowley 
for  counsel.  After  all,  how  little  was  it  that  she  knew  of  the  home 
and  the  country  to  which  she  was  to  be  carried !  She  might  not, 
perhaps,  get  adequate  advice  from  Nora,  but  she  would  probably 
learn  something  on  which  she  could  act.  There  was  no  one  else 
among  the  English  at  Florence  to  whom  she  could  speak  with  free- 
dom. "^Tien  she  mentioned  her  fears  to  her  aunt,  her  aunt  of  course 
laughed  at  her.  Mrs.  Spalding  told  her  that  Mr.  Glascock  might  bo 
presumed  to  know  his  own  business  best,  and  that  she,  as  an  American 
lady  of  high  standing, — the  niece  of  a  minister  ! — was  a  fitting  match 
for  any  Englishman,  let  him  be  ever  so  much  a  lord.  But  Caroline 
was  not  comforted  by  this,  and  in  her  suspense  she  went  to  Nora 
Rowley.  She  wrote  a  line  to  Nora,  and  when  she  called  at  the  hotel, 
was  taken  up  to  her  friend's  bed-room.  She  found  great  difficulty  in 
telling  her  story,  but  she  did  tell  it.  "  Miss  Rowley,"  she  said,  "  if 
this  is  a  silly  thing  that  he  is  going  to  do,  I  am  bound  to  save  him 
from  his  own  folly.  You  know  your  own  country  better  than  I  do. 
Will  they  think  that  he  has  disgraced  himself?" 

"  Certainly  not  that,"  said  Nora. 

"Shall  I  be  a  load  round  his  neck ?  Miss  Rowley,  for  my  own 
sake  I  would  not  endure  such  a  position  as  that,  not  even  though  I 
love  him.  But  for  his  sake  !  Think  of  that.  If  I  find  that  people 
think  ill  of  him, — because  of  me 1" 

"  No  one  will  think  ill  of  him." 

"Is  it  esteemed  needful  that  such  a  one  as  he  should  many  a 
woman  of  his  own  rank.  I  can  bear  to  end  it  all  now ;  but  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  bear  his  humiliation,  and  my  o^vn  despair,  if  I  find 


236  TIE    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

that  I  liavc  iiijurecl  him.  Tell  mo  plainly, — is  it  a  marriage  that  ho 
should  not  make?"  Nora  paused  for  a  while  before  she  answered, 
and  as  she  sat  silent  the  other  girl  watched  her  face  carefully.  Xora 
en  being  thus  consulted,  was  very  careful  that  her  tongue  should 
utter  nothing  that  was  not  her  true  opinion  as  best  she  knew  how  to 
express  it.  Her  sympathy  would  have  prompted  her  to  give  such  au 
answer  as  would  at  once  have  made  Caroline  happy  in  her  mind. 
She  would  have  been  delighted  to  have  been  able  to  declare  that 
these  doubts  were  utterly  groundless,  and  this  hesitation  needless. 
But  she  conceived  that  she  owed  it  as  a  duty  from  one  woman  to 
another  to  speak  the  truth  as  she  conceived  it  on  so  momentous  an 
occasion,  and  she  was  not  sure  but  that  Mr.  Glascock  would  be  con- 
sidered by  his  friends  in  England  to  bo  doing  badly  in  marrying  an 
American  gu-1.  AVhat  she  did  not  remember  was  this, — that  her  very 
hesitation  was  in  fact  an  answer,  and  such  an  answer  as  she  was  most 
unwilling  to  give.  "  I  see  that  it  would  be  so,"  said  Caroline  Spalding. 

"No;— not  that." 

"  What  then  ?     Will  they  despise  him, — and  me  ?  " 

"  No  one  who  knows  you  can  despise  you.  No  one  who  sees  you 
can  fail  to  admire  you."  Nora,  as  she  said  this,  thought  of  her 
mother,  but  told  herself  at  once  that  in  this  matter  her  mother's  judg- 
ment had  been  altogether  destroyed  by  her  disappointment.  "  AYhat 
I  think  will  take  place  will  be  this.  His  familj^,  when  first  they  hear 
of  it,  will  be  sorry." 

"  Then,"  said  Caroline,  "  I  will  put  an  end  to  it." 

"You  can't  do  that,  dear.  You  are  engaged,  and  you  haven't  a 
right.  I  am  engaged  to  a  man,  and  all  my  friends  object  to  it.  But 
I  shan't  put  an  end  to  it.  I  don't  think  I  have  a  right.  I  shall  not 
do  it  any  way,  however." 

"  But  if  it  were  for  his  good  ?" 

"  It  couldn't  be  for  his  good.  He  and  I  have  got  to  go  along 
together  somehow." 

"  You  wouldn't  hurt  him,"  said  Caroline. 

"I  won't  if  I  can  help  it,  but  he  has  got  to  take  me  along  with. 
him  any  how ;  and  Mr.  Glascock  has  got  to  take  you.  If  I  were 
you,  I  shouldn't  ask  any  more  questions." 

"It  isn't  the  same.  You  said  that  you  were  to  be  poor,  but  he  is 
very  rich.  And  I  am  beginning  to  understand  that  these  titles  of 
yoiu's  are  something  like  kings'  crowns.  The  man  who  has  to  wear 
them  can't  do  just  as  he  pleases  with  them.  Noblesse  obHge.  I  can 
see  the  meaning  of  that,  even  when  the  obligation  itself  is  trumpery 


AVILT,    TIII.Y    Di:sriSE    HIM 


237 


in  its  nature.  If  it  is  a  man's  duty  to  marry  a  Talbot  because  lie's  a 
Howard,  I  suppose  ho  ought  to  do  his  duty."  After  a  pause  she  went 
on  again.  "  I  do  bnlievc  that  I  have  made  a  mistake.  It  seemed  to 
be  absurd  at  the  first  to  think  of  it,  but  I  do  beUcve  it  now.  Even 
what  you  say  to  me  makes  me  think  it." 

"At  any  rate  you  can't  go  back,"  said  Nora  enthusiastically. 

"I  wintry." 

•'  Go  to  himself  and  ask  him.  You  must  leave  him  to  decide  it  at 
last.  I  don't  sec  how  a  girl  when  she  is  engaged,  is  to  throw  a  man 
over  unless  he  consents.  Of  course  you  can  throw  yourself  into  the 
Ai-no." 

"And  get  the  water  into  my  shoes, — for  it  wouldn't  do  much  more 
at  present." 

"And  you  can — jilt  him,"  said  Nora. 

"  It  would  not  be  jilting  him." 

"He  must  decide  that.  If  he  so  regards  it,  it  will  be  so.  I  advise 
you  to  think  no  more  about  it ;  but  if  you  speak  to  anybody  it  should 
be  to  him."  This  was  at  last  the  result  of  Nora's  wisdom,  and  then 
the  two  girls  descended  together  to  the  room  in  which  Lady  Rowley 
was  sitting  with  her  other  daughters.  Lady  Rowley  was  very  careful 
in  asking  after  Miss  Spalding's  sister,  and  Miss  Spalding  assured  her 
that  Olivia  was  quite  well.  Then  Lady  Rowley  made  some  inquiry 
about  Olivia  and  Mr.  Glascock,  and  Miss  Spalding  assured  her  that 
no  two  persons  were  ever  such  allies,  and  that  she  believed  that  they 
were  together  at  this  moment  investigating  some  old  chiu'ch.  Lady 
Rowley  simpered,  and  declared  that  nothing  could  be  more  proper, 
and  expressed  a  hope  that  Olivia  would  like  England.  Caroline 
Spalding,  having  still  in  her  mind  the  trouble  that  had  brought  her  to 
Nora,  had  not  much  to  say  about  this.  "  If  she  goes  again  to  England 
I  am  sure  she  will  like  it,"  replied  Miss  Spalding. 

"  But  of  course  she  is  going,"  said  Lady  Rowley. 

"  Of  course  she  will  some  day,  and  of  course  she'll  like  it,"  said 
Miss  Spalding.     "  We  both  of  us  have  been  there  already." 

"  But  I  mean  Monkhams,"  said  Lady  Rowley,  still  simpering. 

"  I  declare  I  believe  mamma  thinks  that  your  sister  is  to  be  married 
to  Mr.  Glascock  !  "  said  Lucy. 

"  And  so  she  is  ; — isn't  she  ?"  said  Lady  Rowley. 

"Oh,  mamma!"  said  Nora,  jumping  up.     "It  is  Caroline; — this 
one,  this  one,  this  one," — and  Nora  took  her  friend  by  the  arm  as 
she  spoke, — "  it  is  this  one  that  is  to  be  Mrs.  Glascock." 
"  It  is  a  most  natural  mistake  to  make,"  said  Caroline. 


238  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    KIGIIT. 

Lady  Rowley  becamo  very  red  in  the  face,  and  was  unhappy.  "  I 
declare,"  she  said,  "that  they  told  mo  it  was  your  elder  sister." 

"But  I  have  no  elder  sister,"  said  Caroline,  laughing, 

"  Of  course  she  is  oldest,"  said  Nora, — "and  looks  to  be  so,  ever 
so  much.     Don't  you,  Miss  Spalding?" 

"I  have  always  supposed  so." 

"  I  don't  understand  it  at  all,"  said  Lady  Eowlej^,  who  had  no 
imago  before  her  mind's  eye  but  that  of  Wallachia  Petrie,  and  who 
was  beginning  to  feel  that  she  had  disgraced  her  own  judgment  by 
the  criticisms  she  had  expressed  everywhere  as  to  Mr.  Glascock's 
bride.  "I  don't  understand  it  at  all.  Do  you  mean  that  both  your 
sisters  are  younger  than  you.  Miss  Spalding?" 

"I  have  only  got  one.  Lady  Eowley." 

"  Mamma,  you  are  thinking  of  Miss  Petrie,"  said  Nora,  clapping 
both  her  hands  together. 

"  I  mean  the  lady  that  wears  the  black  bugles." 

"  Of  course  you  do  ; — Miss  Petrie.  Mo,mma  has  all  along  thought 
that  Mr.  Glascock  was  going  to  carry  aAvay  with  him  the  republican 
Browning  !" 

"Oh,  mamma,  how  can  you  have  made  such  a  blunder!"  said 
Sophie  Rowley.     "Mamma  does  make  such  delicious  blunders." 

"  Sophie,  my  dear,  that  is  not  a  proper  way  of  speaking." 

"But,  dear  mamma,  don't  you  ?" 

"If  somebody  has  told  me  w^ong,  that  has  not  been  my  fault," 
said  Lady  Rowley. 

The  poor  woman  was  ?o  evidently  disconcerted  that  Caroline 
Spalding  was  quite  unhappy.  "  My  dear  Lady  Rowley,  there  has 
been  no  fault.  And  why  shouldn't  it  have  been  so.  Wallachia  is  so 
clever,  that  it  is  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  have  thought." 

"I  cannot  say  that  I  agree  with  you  there,"  said  Lady  Rowley, 
somewhat  recovering  herself. 

"You  must  know  the  whole  truth  now,"  said  Nora,  turning  to  her 
friend,  "  and  you  must  not  be  angry  Avith  us  if  Ave  laugh  a  little  at 
your  poetess.  Mamma  has  been  frantic  with  Mr.  Glascock  because 
he  has  been  going  to  marry, — whom  shall  I  say, — her  edition  of  you. 
She  has  sworn  that  he  must  be  insane.  When  we  have  sworn  how 
beautiful  you  were,  and  how  nice,  and  how  jolly,  and  all  the  rest  of 
it, — she  has  sworn  that  you  were  at  least  a  hundred,  and  that  you 
had  a  red  nose.     You  must  admit  that  Miss  Petrie  has  a  red  nose." 

"Is  that  a  sin?" 

"Not  at  all  in  the  woman  who  has  it;  but  in  the  man  who  is 


"SVILL   TilF.Y   DESPISE    IIIM  ?  2-39 

going  to  many  it, — yes.  Cau't  you  see  how  wc  have  all  been  at 
cross-purposes,  and  "what  mamma  has  been  thinking  and  saying  of 
poor  Mr.  Glascock  ?  You  mustn't  repeat  it,  of  course  ;  but  wo  have 
had  such  a  battle  hero  about  it.  We  thought  that  mamma  had  lost 
her  eyes  and  her  ears  and  her  knowledge  of  things  in  general.  And 
now  it  has  all  come  out !  You  won't  be  angry  ?  " 
"  Why  should  I  be  angry  ?  " 

"Miss  Spalding,"  said  Lady  Rowley,  "I  am  really  unhappy  at 
what  has  occuiTcd,  and  I  hope  that  there  may  be  nothing  more  sai'l 
about  it.  I  am  quite  sure  that  somebody  told  mc  •\\Tong,  or  I  should 
not  have  fallen  into  such  an  error.  I  beg  your  pardon, — and  Mr. 
Glascock's ! " 

"  Beg  Mr.  Glascock's  pardon,  certainly,"  said  Lucy. 
Miss  Spalding  looked  very  pretty,  smiled  very  gracefully,  and 
coming  up  to  Lady  Rowley  to  say  good-bye,  kissed  her  on  her  cheeks. 
This  overcame  the  spii'it  of  the  disappointed  mother,  and  Lady 
Rowley  never  said  another  word  against  Caroline  Spalding  or  her 
marriage.  "Now,  mamma,  what  do  you  think  of  her?"  said  Nora, 
as  soon  as  Caroline  was  gone. 

"  Was  it  odd,  my  dear,  that  I  should  be  astonished  at  his  wanting 
to  marry  that  other  woman  ?" 

"  But,  mamma,  when  we  told  you  that  she  was  young  and  pretty 
and  bright!" 

"  I  thought  that  you  were  all  demented.  I  did  indeed.  I  still 
think  it  a  pity  that  he  should  take  an  American.  I  think  that  Miss 
Spalding  is  very  nice,  but  there  are  English  girls  quite  as  nice-looking 
as  her."  After  that  there  was  not  another  word  said  by  Lady 
Rowley  against  Caroline  Spalding. 

Nora,  when  she  thought  of  it  all  that  night,  felt  that  she  had  hardlj- 
spokeu  to  Miss  Spalding  as  she  should  have  spoken  as  to  the  treat- 
ment in  England  which  would  be  accorded  to  Mr.  Glascock's  wife. 
She  became  aware  of  the  efiect  which  her  own  hesitation  must  have 
had,  and  thought  that  it  was  her  duty  to  endeavour  to  remove  it. 
Perhaps,  too,  the  conversion  of  her  mother  had  some  efloct  in  making 
her  feel  that  she  had  been  wrong  in  supposing  that  there  would  be 
any  difficulty  in  Caroline's  position  in  England.  She  had  heard  so 
much  adverse  criticism  from  her  mother  that  she  had  doubted  in  spite 
of  her  own  convictions ; — but  now  it  had  come  to  light  that  Lady 
Rowley's  criticisms  had  all  come  from  a  most  absurd  blunder.  "  Only 
fancy;" — she  said  to  herself; — "Miss  Petric  coming  out  as  Lady 
Peterborough  !   Poor  mamma  ! "  And  then  she  thought  of  the  reception 


240  HE   KNEW   HE   "WAS   RIGTIT. 

whicli  would  be  given  to  Caroline,  and  of  the  place  the  future  Lady- 
Peterborough  would  fill  in  the  world,  and  of  the  glories  of  Monkhams! 
Resolving  that  she  would  do  her  best  to  counteract  any  evil  which 
she  might  have  done,  she  seated  herself  at  her  desk,  and  wrote  the 
following  letter  to  Miss  Sjialding  : — 

"  My  deae  C.\kolixe, 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  let  me  call  you  so,  as  had  you  not 
felt  towards  me  like  a  friend,  you  would  not  have  come  to  me  to-day 
and  told  me  of  yom*  doubts.  I  think  that  I  did  not  answer  you  as  I 
ought  to  have  done  when  you  spoke  to  me.  I  did  not  like  to  say 
anything  off-hand,  and  in  that  way  I  misled  you.  I  feel  quite  sure 
that  you  will  encounter  nothing  in  England  as  Mr.  Glascock's  wife  to 
make  you  uncomfortable,  and  that  he  will  have  nothing  to  repent. 
Of  course  Englishmen  generally  marry  Englishwomen  ;  and,  perhaps, 
there  may  be  some  people  Avho  will  think  that  such  a  prize  should 
not  be  lost  to  their  countrywomen.  But  that  will  be  all.  Mr. 
Glascock  commands  such  universal  respect  that  his  "wife  will  cer- 
tainly be  respected,  and  I  do  not  suppose  that  anything  will  ever 
come  in  your  way  that  can  possibly  make  you  feel  that  he  is  looked 
down  upon.     I  hope  j'ou  "will  understand  what  I  mean. 

"As  for  your  changing  now,  that  is  quite  impossible.  If  I  were 
you,  I  would  not  say  a  word  about  it  to  any  living  being ;  but  just 
go  on, — straight  forward, — in  your  own  way,  and  take  the  good  the 
gods  provide  you, — as  the  poet  saj^s  to  the  king  in  the  ode.  And  I 
think  the  gods  have  provided  for  you  very  well, — and  for  him. 

"I  do  hope  that  I  may  see  you  sometimes.  I  cannot  explain  to 
you  how  very  much  out  of  your  line  'we'  shall  be; — for  of  course 
there  is  a  'we.'  People  are  more  separated  with  us  than  they  are,  I 
suppose,  with  you.  And  my  'we'  is  a  very  poor  man,  who  works 
hard  at  writing  in  a  dingy  newspaper  office,  and  we  shall  live  in  a 
garret  and  have  brown  sugar  in  our  tea,  and  eat  hashed  mutton.  And 
I  shall  have  nothing  a  year  to  buy  my  clothes  with.  Still  I  mean  to 
do  it ;  and  I  don't  mean  to  be  long  before  I  do  do  it.  When  a  girl  has 
made  up  her  mind  to  be  married,  she  had  better  go  on  \vith  it  at 
once,  and  take  it.  all  afterwards  as  it  may  come.  Nevertheless,  per- 
haps, we  may  see  each  other  somewhere,  and  I  may  be  able  to  intro- 
duce you  to  the  dearest,  honestest,  very  best,  and  most  affectionate 
man  in  the  world.     And  he  is  very,  very  clever. 

"  Yours  very  affectionately, 

"  Thm-sday  mornmg."  "  NoEA  RoWLEY. 


CHAPTER  LXXXI. 


jMR.  GLASCOCK  IS  MASTER. 


'AEOLINE  SPALDING,  when  slie  received 
Nora's  letter,  was  not  disposed  to  give 
much  weight  to  it.  She  declared  to 
herself  that  the  girl's  unpremeditated 
expression  of  opinion  was  worth  more 
than  her  studied  words.  But  she  was 
not  the  less  grateful  or  the  less  loving 
towards  her  new  friend.  She  thought 
how  nice  it  would  he  to  have  Nora 
at  that  splendid  ahodc  in  England  of 
which  she  had  heard  so  much, — hut  she 
thought  also  that  in  that  splendid  ahode 
she  herself  ought  never  to  have  part  or 
share.  If  it  were  the  case  that  this 
wore  an  unfitting  match,  it  was  clearly 
lior  duty  to  decide  that  there  should 
be  no  marriage.  Nora  had  been  quite 
right  in  Lidding  her  speak  to  Mr.  Glascock  himself,  and  to  Mr.  Glas- 
cock she  would  go.  But  it  was  very  difficult  for  her  to  determine  on 
the  manner  in  which  she  would  discuss  the  subject  with  him.  She 
thought  that  she  could  be  firm  if  her  mind  were  once  made  up.  She 
believed  that  perhaps  she  was  by  nature  more  firm  than  he.  In  all 
their  intercourse  together  he  had  ever  yielded  to  her  ;  and  though 
she  had  been  always  pleased  and  grateful,  there  had  grown  upon  her 
an  idea  that  he  was  perhaps  too  easy, — that  he  was  a  man  as  to 
whom  it  was  necessary  that  they  who  loved  him  should  see  that 
he  was  not  led  aAvay  by  weakness  into  folly.  But  she  would 
want  to  learn  something  from  him  before  her  decision  was  finally 
reached,  and  in  this  she  foresaw  a  great  difficulty.     In  her  trouble 

VOL.  11.  M 


242  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

slio  went  to  her  usual  counsellor, — the  Eepublicau  Browning.  In 
such  an  emergency  she  could  hardly  have  done  worse.  "Wally," 
she  said,  "we  talk  about  England,  and  Italy,  and  France,  as 
though  we  knew  all  about  them;  but  how  hard  it  is  to  realise 
the  difference  between  one's  own  country  and  others." 

"  We  can  at  least  learn  a  great  deal  that  is  satisfactory,"  said 
Wallachia.  ''About  one  out  of  every  five  Italians  can  read  a  book, 
about  two  out  of  every  five  Englishmen  can  read  a  book.  Out  of  every 
five  New  Englanders  four  and  four-fifths  can  read  a  book.  I  guess 
that  is  knowing  a  good  deal." 

"  I  don't  mean  in  statistics." 

"I  cannot  conceive  how  you  are  to  learn  anything  about  any 
country  except  by  statistic.?.  I  have  just  discovered  that  the  number 
of  illegitimate  children " 


-'&•' 


"  Oh,  Wally,  I  can't  talk  about  that, — not  now  at  least.  YvTiat 
I  cannot  realise  is  this, — what  sort  of  a  life  it  is  that  they  will 
lead  at  Monkhams." 

"  Plenty  to  eat  and  drink,  I  guess ;  and  you'll  always  have  to  go 
round  in  fine  clothes." 

"And  that  will  be  all?" 

"No; — not  all.  There  will  be  carriages  and  horses,  and  all 
manner  of  people  there  who  won't  care  much  about  you.  If  he 
is  firm, — very  firm ; — if  ha  have  that  firmness  which  one  does 
not  often  meet,  even  in  an  American  man,  he  will  be  able,  after 
a  while,  to  give  you  a  position  as  an  English  woman  of  rank," 
It  is  to  be  feared  that  Wallachia  Petrie  had  been  made  aware  of 
Caroline's  idea  as  to  Mr.  Glascock's  want  of  purpose. 

"And  that  will  be  all?" 

"If  you  have  a  baby,  they'll  let  you  go  and  see  it  two  or  three 
times  a  day.  I  don't  suppose  you  will  be  allowed  to  nurse  it, 
because  they  never  do  in  England.  You  have  read  what  the 
Saturday  Eeview  says.  In  every  other  respect  the  Saturday  Review 
has  been  the  falsest  of  all  false  periodicals,  but  I  guess  it  has  been 
pretty  true  in  what  it  has  said  about  English  v»'omen." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  more  about  it  really." 

"When  a  man  has  to  leap  through  a  Tvindow  in  the  dark, 
Caroline,  of  course  he  doubts  whether  the  feather  bed  said  to  be 
below  will  be  soft  enough  for  him." 

"  I  shouldn't  fear  the  leap  for  myself,  if  it  wouldn't  hui-t  him.  Do 
you  think  it  possible  that  society  can  be  so  formed  that  a  man  should 
lose  caste  because  he  doesn't  marry  just  one  of  his  own  set?" 


MR.    GLASCOCK    IS   MASTER.  243 

"  It  has  bccu  so  all  over  tho  world,  my  dear.  If  like  to  like  is  to 
1)C  true  anywbcrc,  it  should  be  true  in  marriage." 

(t  Yes  ; — but  with  a  difference.  Ho  and  I  are  like  to  like.  Wo 
como  of  the  same  race,  we  speak  the  same  language,  wo  worship 
the  same  God,  wo  have  the  same  ideas  of  culture  and  of  plea- 
sures. The  difference  is  one  that  is  not  patent  to  the  eyo  or  to  tho 
oar.  It  is  a  difference  of  accidental  incident,  not  of  nature  or  of 
acquu'ement." 

"  I  guess  j'ou  would  find,  Caroline,  that  a  jury  of  English  matrons 
swom  to  try  you  fairly,  would  not  find  you  to  be  entitled  to  come 
among  them  as  one  of  themselves." 

"  And  how  will  that  affect  him  ?  " 

"Less  powerfully  than  many  others,  because  he  is  not  impassioned, 
lie  is,  perhaps — lethargic." 

"  No,  Wally,  he  is  not  lethargic." 

"If  you  ask  me  I  must  speak.  It  would  harass  some  men  almost 
to  death ;  it  will  not  do  so  with  him.  He  would  probably  find 
his  happiness  best  in  leaving  his  old  country  and  coming  among 
your  people." 

The  idea  of  Mr.  Glascock, — the  future  Lord  Peterborough, — 
leaving  England,  abandoning  Monkhams,  deserting  his  duty  in  the 
House  of  Lords,  and  going  away  to  live  in  an  American  town,  in 
order  that  he  might  escape  the  miseries  which  his  wife  had  brought 
upon  him  in  his  o-wn  country,  was  more  than  Caroline  could  bear. 
She  knew  that,  at  any  rate,  it  would  not  come  to  that.  The  lord 
of  Monkhams  would  live  at  Monkhams,  though  the  heavens  should 
fall — in  regard  to  domestic  comforts.  It  was  clear  to  Caroline  that 
Wallachia  Petrie  had  in  truth  never  brought  home  to  her  own 
imagination  the  position  of  an  English  peer.  "  I  don't  think  you 
imderstand  the  people  at  all,"  she  said  angrily. 

"You  think  that  you  can  understand  them  better  because  3-ou 
are  engaged  to  this  man!"  said  jMiss  Petrie,  with  well-pronounced 
irony.  "You  have  found  generally  that  when  the  sun  shines  in 
your  eyes  your  sight  is  improved  by  it !  You  think  that  tho  love- 
talk  of  a  few  weeks  gives  clearer  instruction  than  the  laborious 
reading  of  many  volumes  and  thoughtful  converse  with  thinking 
persons  !  I  hope  that  you  may  find  it  so,  Caroline."  So  saying 
AVallachia  Petrie  walked  off  in  great  dudgeon. 

Miss  Petrie,  not  having  learned  from  her  many  volumes  and  her 
much  converse  with  thoughtful  persons  to  read  human  nature  aright, 
was  convinced  by  this  conversation  that  her  friend  Caroline   was 


244  HE    KXEW    HE    "WAS    UTOTIT. 

blind  to  all  results,  aud  was  determined  to  go  on  with  this  dangcroua 
marriage,  having  the  rays  of  that  sun  of  Monkhams  so  full  upon 
her  eyes  that  she  could  not  see  at  all.  She  was  specially  indignant 
at  finding  that  her  ovra  words  had  no  effect.  But,  unfortunately,  her 
words  had  had  much  effect ;  and  Caroline,  though  she  had  contested 
her  points,  had  done  so  only  with  the  intention  of  producing  her 
Mentor's  admonitions.  Of  course  it  was  out  of  the  question  that 
Mr.  Glascock  should  go  and  live  in  Providence,  Ehodc  Island,  from 
which  thriving  to"svn  Caroline  Spalding  had  come  ;  hut,  because  that 
was  impossible,  it  was  not  the  less  probable  that  he  might  be  de- 
graded and  made  miserable  in  his  own  home.  That  suggested  jury  of 
British  matrons  was  a  frightful  conclave  to  contemplate,  and  Caroline 
was  disposed  to  believe  that  the  verdict  given  in  reference  to  herself 
would  be  adverse  to  her.  So  she  sat  and  meditated,  and  spoke  not  a 
word  further  to  any  one  on  the  subject  till  she  was  alone  with  the 
man  that  she  loved. 

Mr.   Spalding  at  this  time  inhabited  the  ground  floor  of  a  large 
palace  in  the  city,  from  which  there  was  access  to  a  garden  which  at 
this  period  of  the  year  was  green,  bright,  and  shady,  and  which  as 
being  in  the  centre  of  a  city  was  large  and  luxurious.     From  one  end 
of  the  house  there  projected  a  covered  terrace,  or  loggia,  in  which 
there  were  chairs  and  tables,  sculptured  ornaments,  busts,  and  old 
monumental   relics   let   into   the   wall   in   profusion.      It   was    half 
chamber  and  half  garden, — such  an  adjunct  to  a  house  as  in  our  climate 
would  give  only  an  idea  of  cold,  rheumatism,  and  a  false  romance, 
but  under  an  Italian  sky  is  a  luxury  daily  to  be  enjoyed  during  most 
months  of  the  year.     Here  Mr.  Glascock  and  Caroline  had  passed 
many  hours, — and  hero  they  were  now  seated,  late  in  the  evening, 
while  all  others  of  the  family  were  away.     As  far  as  regarded  the 
rooms  occupied  by  the  American  Minister,  they  had  the  house  and 
garden   to   themselves,    and   there   never  could  come  a  time  more 
appropriate  for  the  saying  of  a  thing  difficult  to  be  said.     Mr.  Glas- 
cock had  heard  from  his  father's  physician,  and  had  said  that  it  was 
nearly  certain  now  that  he  need  not  go  down  to  Naples  again  before 
his  marriage.     Caroline  was  trembling,  not  knowing  how  to  speak, 
not  knowing  how  to  begin ; — but  resolved  that  the  thing  should  be 
done.     "  He  will  never  know  you,  Carry,"  said  Mr.  Glascock.     "It 
is,  perhaps,  hardly  a  sorrow  to  me,  but  it  is  a  regret." 

"  It  would  have  been  a  sorrow  perhaps  to  him  had  he  been  able  to 
know  me,"  said  she,  taking  the  opportunity  of  rushing  at  her  subject. 

"  Why  so  ?     Of  all  human  beings  he  was  the  softest-hearted." 


MR.    GLASCOCK    IS   MASTER.  2i^) 

"  Not  softer-heartcil  thau  you,  Charles.  But  soft  hearts  have  to 
bo  bartlcned." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     Am  I  becoming  obdurate  ?" 

"  I  aui,  Charles,"  she  said.  "  I  have  got  something  to  say  to  you. 
"What  will  your  uncles  and  aunts  and  your  mother's  relations  say  of 
me  -when  they  see  me  at  Monkhams?" 

"  They  will  swear  to  me  that  you  arc  charming  ;  and  then, — when 
my  back  is  turned, — they'll  pick  you  to  pieces  a  little  among  them- 
selves. I  believe  that  is  the  way  of  the  world,  and  I  don't  suppose 
that  we  are  to  do  better  than  others." 

"And  if  you  had  married  an  English  girl,  a  Lady  Augusta  Some- 
body,— Avould  the}'»pick  her  to  pieces  '?" 

"I  guess  they  would, — as  you  say." 

"Just  the  same?" 

"I  don't  think  anybody  escapes,  as  far  as  I  can  see.  But  that 
won't  prevent  their  becoming  your  bosom  friends  in  a  few  weeks 
time." 

"No  one  will  say  that  you  have  been  wrong  to  marry  an  American 
girl?" 

"  Now,  Carry,  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?" 

"  Do  yon  know  any  man  in  your  position  who  ever  did  marry  an 
American  girl ; — any  man  of  your  rank  in  England  ?"  Mr.  Glascock 
began  to  think  of  the  case,  and  could  not  at  the  moment  remember 
any  instance.     "  Charles,  I  do  not  think  you  ought  to  be  the  first." 

"And  yet  somebody  must  be  first,  if  the  thing  is  ever  to  bo 
done  ; — and  I  am  too  old  to  wait  on  the  chance  of  being  the  second." 

She  felt  that  at  the  rate  she  was  now  progressing  she  would  only 
run  from  one  little  suggestion  to  another,  and  that  he,  either  Avilfully 
or  in  sheer  simplicity,  would  take  such  suggestions  simply  as  jokes  ; 
and  she  was  aware  that  she  lacked  the  skill  to  bring  the  conversation 
round  gi-adually  to  the  point  which  she  was  bound  to  reach.  She 
must  make  another  dash,  let  it  bo  ever  so  sudden.  Ilcr  mode  of 
doing  so  would  be  crude,  ugly, — almost  vulgar  she  feared ;  but  she 
would  attain  her  object  and  say  what  she  had  to  saj'.  "When  once 
she  had  warmed  herself  with  the  heat  which  argument  would  produce, 
then,  she  was  pretty  sure,  she  would  find  herself  at  least  as  strong  as 
he.  "  I  don't  know  that  the  thing  ought  to  be  done  at  all,"  she  said. 
During  the  last  moment  or  two  ho  had  put  his  arm  round  her  waist ; 
and  she,  not  chosing  to  bid  him  desist  from  embracing  her,  but 
unwilling  in  her  present  mood  to  be  embraced,  got  up  and  stood 
before  him,     "  I  have  thought,  and  thought,  and  thought,  and  feel 


246  HE    KNEAV   HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

tliat  it  should  not  bo  done.  In  marriage,  like  sliould  go  to  like." 
Slio  despised  herself  for  using  Wallaclaia's  words,  but  they  fitted  in  so 
usefully,  that  she  could  not  refrain  from  thorn.  "  I  v/as  wrong  not  to 
know  it  before,  but  it  is  better  to  know  it  now,  than  not  to  have 
known  it  till  too  late.  Everything  that  I  hear  and  see  tells  mo  that 
it  would  be  so.  If  you  were  simply  an  Englishman,  I  would  go  any- 
where with  you ;  but  I  am  not  fit  to  be  the  -wife  of  an  English  lord. 
The  time  would  come  when  I  should  be  a  disgrace  to  you,  and  then 
I  should  die." 

"I  think  I  should  go  near  dying  myself,"  said  he,  "if  you  were  a 
disgrace  to  me."  He  had  not  risen  from  his  chair,  and  sat  calmly 
looking  up  into  her  face. 

"We  have  made  a  mistake,  and  let  us  unmake  it,"  she  continued. 
"I  will  always  be  your  friend.  I  will  correspond  with  you.  I  will 
come  and  see  your  wife." 

"  That  wiU  be  very  kmd  !  " 

"  Charles,  if  you  laugh  at  me,  I  shall  be  angry  with  you.  It  is  right 
that  you  should  look  to  your  future  life,  as  it  is  right  that  I  should  do 
so  also.  Do  you  think  that  I  am  joking  ?  Do  you  suppose  that  I 
do  not  mean  it  ?" 

"You  have  taken  an  extra  dose  this  morning  of  Wallachia  Petric, 
and  of  course  you  mean  it." 

"If  you  think  that  I  am  speaking  her  mind  and  not  my  own, 
you  do  not  know  me." 

"And  what  is  it  you  propose?"  ho  said,  still  keeping  his  seat 
and  looking  calmly  up  into  her  face. 

"  Simply  that  our  engagement  should  be  over." 

"And  why  ?" 

"Because  it  is  not  a  fitting  one  for  you  to  have  made.  I  did 
not  understand  it  before,  but  now  I  do.  It  will  not  be  good  for 
you  to  marry  an  American  girl.  It  will  not  add  to  your  happiness, 
and  may  destroy  it.  I  have  learned,  at  last,  to  know  how  much 
higher  is  your  position  than  mine." 

"And  I  am  to  be  supposed  to  know  nothing  about  it  ?" 

"Your  fault  is  only  this, — that  you  have  been  too  generous.  I 
can  be  generous  also." 

"Now,  look  here,  Caroline,  you  must  not  be  angry  with  me  if 
on  such  a  subject  I  speak  plainly.  You  must  not  even  be  angry 
if  I  laugh  a  little." 

"  Pray  do  not  laugh  at  me  ! — not  now." 

"  I  must  a  little,   Carry.     Why  am  I  to  be  supposed  to  be  so 


MK.    GLASCOCK    l.S    MASTEU.  247 

ignorant  of  -wlaat  concerns  my  own  happiness  and  my  own  duties  ? 
If  you  will  not  sit  down,  I  will  got  up,  and  we  will  take  a  turn 
together."  He  rose  from  his  scat,  but  they  did  not  leave  the  covered 
ten-ace.  They  moved  on  to  the  extremity,  and  then  he  stood 
liommiug  her  in  against  a  marble  table  in  the  corner.  "In  making 
this  rather  wild  proposition,  have  you  considered  me  at  all  ?" 

"I  have  endeavoured  to  consider  you,  and  you  only." 

"  And  how  have  you  done  it  ?  By  the  aid  of  some  misty,  far- 
fetched ideas  respecting  English  society,  for  which  you  have  no 
basis  except  your  own  dreams, — and  by  the  fantasies  of  a  rabid  enthu- 
siast." 

"  She  is  not  rabid,"  said  Caroline  earnestly;  "other  people  think 
Just  the  same." 

**  My  dear,  there  is  only  one  person  whose  thinking  on  this 
subject  is  of  any  avail,  and  I  am  that  person.  Of  course,  I  can't 
drag  you  into  church  to  be  married,  but  practically  you  can  not 
help  yourself  from  being  taken  there  now.  As  there  need  bo  no 
question  about  our  marriage, — which  is  a  thing  as  good  as  done " 

"It  is  not  done  at  all,"  said  Caroline. 

"  I  feel  quite  satisfied  you  will  not  jilt  me,  and  as  I  shall  insist 
on  having  the  ceremony  performed,  I  choose  to  regard  it  as  a 
certainty.  Passing  that  by,  then,  I  will  go  on  to  the  results.  My 
uncles,  and  aimts,  and  cousins,  and  the  people  you  talk  of,  were 
veiy  reasonable  folk  when  I  last  saw  them,  and  quite  sufficiently 
alive  to  the  fact  that  they  had  to  regard  me  as  the  head  of  their 
fanaily.  I  do  not  doubt  that  we  shall  find  them  equally  reasonable 
when  we  get  home;  but  should  they  be  changed,  should  there  be 
any  sign  shewn  that  my  choice  of  a  wife  had  occasioned  displeasure, 
— such  displeasure  would  not  afiect  you." 

"  But  it  would  affect  you." 

"Not  at  all.  In  my  own  house  I  am  master, — and  I  mean  to 
continue  to  be  so.  You  will  be  mistress  there,  and  the  only  fear 
touching  such  a  position  is  that  it  may  be  recognised  by  others  too 
strongly.     You  have  nothing  to  fear,  Carry." 

"  It  is  of  you  I  am  thinking." 

"  Nor  have  I.  "What  if  some  old  women,  or  even  some  young 
women,  should  turn  up  their  noses  at  the  wife  I  have  chosen,  because 
she  has  not  been  chosen  from  among  their  own  countrywomen,  is  that 
to  be  a  cause  of  suffering  to  us  ?  Can  not  wo  rise  above  that, — 
lasting  as  it  would  do  for  a  few  weeks,  a  month  or  two  perhaps, — say 
a  year, — till  my  Caroline  shall  have  made  herself  known  ?     I  think 


248  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    lUf.IIT. 

that  we  arc  strong  cuougli  to  live  down  a  trouble  so  light."  He 
had  come  close  to  her  as  ho  was  speaking,  and  had  again  put 
his  arm  round  her  waist.  She  tried  to  escape  from  his  embrace, — 
not  with  persistency,  not  with  the  strength  which  always  sufiices  for 
a  woman  Avhen  the  embrace  is  in  truth  a  thing  to  be  avoided,  but 
clutching  at  bis  fingers  with  hers,  pressing  them  rather  than  loosening 
their  grasp.  "No,  Carry,"  he  continued;  "we  have  got  to  go 
through  with  it  now,  and  we  will  try  and  make  the  best  of  it.  You 
may  trust  me  that  we  shall  not  find  it  difficult, — not,  at  least,  on 
the  ground  of  your  present  fears.  I  can  bear  a  heavier  burden  than 
you  will  bring  upon  me." 

"  I  know  that  I  ought  to  prove  to  you  that  I  am  right,"  she  said, 
still  struggling  with  his  hand. 

"And  I  know  that  you  can  prove  nothing  of  the  kind.  Dearest, 
it  is  fixed  between  us  now,  and  do  not  let  us  be  so  silly  as  to  raise 
imaginary  difficulties.  Of  course  you  would  have  to  marry  me,  even 
if  there  were  cause  for  such  fears.  If  there  were  any  great  cause, 
still  the  game  would  be  worth  the  candle.  There  could  be  no  going 
back,  let  the  fear  be  what  it  might.  But  there  need  be  no  fear 
if  you  will  only  love  me."  She  felt  that  he  was  altogether  too  strong 
for  her, — that  she  had  mistaken  his  character  in  supposing  that 
she  could  be  more  firm  than  he.  He  was  so  strong  that  he  treated 
her  almost  as  a  child ; — and  yet  she  loved  him  infinitely  the  better 
for  so  treating  her.  Of  course,  she  knew  now  that  her  objection, 
whether  true  or  unsubstantial,  could  not  avail.  As  he  stood  with  his 
arm  round  her,  she  was  powerless  to  contradict  him  in  anything. 
She  had  so  far  acknowledged  this  that  she  no  longer  struggled  Avith 
him,  but  allowed  her  hand  to  remain  quietly  within  his.  If  there 
Avas  no  going  back  from  this  bargain  that  had  been  made, — why, 
then,  there  was  no  need  for  combating.  And  when  he  stooped  over 
her  and  kissed  her  lips,  she  had  not  a  word  to  say.  "Be  good 
to  me,"  he  said,  "  and  tell  me  that  I  am  right." 

"  You  must  be  master,  I  suppose,  whether  you  are  right  or 
wrong.     A  man  always  thinks  himself  entitled  to  his  own  way." 

"  Why,  yes.  When  he  has  won  the  battle,  he  claims  his  captive. 
Now,  the  truth  is  this,  I  have  won  the  battle,  and  your  friend.  Miss 
Petrie,  has  lost  it.  I  hope  she  will  understand  that  she  has  been 
beaten  at  last  out  of  the  field."  As  he  said  this,  he  heard  a  step 
behind  them,  and  turning  round  saw  Wallachia  there  almost  before 
he  could  drop  his  arm. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  have  intruded  on  you,"  she  said  very  grimly. 


MK.    GLASCOCK    IS   MASTEU.  249 

"  Xot  ill  the  least,"  said  Mr.  Glascock.  "  Caroline  ami  I  havo  had 
a  little  dispute,  but  we  have  settled  it  without  coming  to  blows." 

"I  do  not  suppose  that  an  English  gentleman  ever  absolutely 
sti'ikes  a  lady,"  said  Wallachia  Petrie. 

*'  Xot  except  on  strong  provocation,"  said  Mr.  Glascock.  "  In 
reference  to  wives,  a  stick  is  allowed  as  big  as  your  thumb." 

"  I  have  heard  that  it  is  so  by  the  laws  of  England,"  said 
"Wallachia. 

"  How  can  you  be  so  ridiculous,  Wally  !"  said  Caroline.  "  There 
is  nothing  that  you  would  not  believe." 

"  I  hope  that  it  may  never  be  true  in  your  case,"  said  "Wallachia. 

A  couple  of  days  after  this  Miss  Spalding  found  that  it  was 
absolutely  necessary  that  she  should  explain  the  circumstances  of 
her  position  to  Nora.  She  had  left  Nora  with  the  purpose  of 
performing  a  very  high-minded  action,  of  sacrificing  herself  for  the 
sake  of  her  lover,  of  giving  up  all  her  golden  prospects,  and  of 
becoming  once  again  the  bosom  friend  of  "Wallachia  Petrie,  with  this 
simple  consolation  for  her  future  life, — that  she  had  refused  to  marry 
an  English  nobleman  because  the  English  nobleman's  condition  was 
unsuited  to  her.  It  would  have  been  an  episode  in  female  life  in 
which  pride  might  be  taken ; — but  all  that  was  now  changed.  She 
had  made  her  little  attempt, — had  made  it,  as  she  felt,  in  a  very 
languid  manner,  and  had  found  herself  treated  as  a  child  for  doing 
so.  Of  com-se  she  was  happy  in  her  ill  success  ;  of  course  she  would 
have  been  broken-hearted  had  she  succeeded.  But,  nevertheless,  she 
was  somewhat  loAvered  in  her  own  esteem,  and  it  was  necessary  that 
she  should  acknowledge  the  truth  to  the  friend  whom  she  had  con- 
sulted. A  day  or  two  had  passed  before  she  found  herself  iilonc  with 
Nora,  but  when  she  did  so  she  confessed  her  failure  at  once. 

"  You  told  him  all,  then  ?"  said  Nora. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  told  him  all.  That  is,  I  could  not  really  tell  him. 
"WTien  the  moment  came  I  had  no  words." 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

"  He  had  words  enough.    I  never  knew  him  to  be  eloquent  before." 

"  He  can  speak  out  if  he  likes,"  said  Nora. 

"  So  I  have  found, — with  a  vengeance.  Nobody  was  ever  so  put 
down  as  I  was.  Don't  you  know  that  there  are  times  when  it  does 
not  seem  to  be  worth  your  while  to  put  out  your  strength  against  an 
adversary  ?  So  it  was  with  him.  He  just  tuld  me  that  he  was  my 
master,  and  that  I  was  to  do  as  he  bade  me." 

*'  And  what  did  you  say  '?" 


250  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

"  I  promisocl  to  be  a  good  gii-1,"  said  Caroline,  "  and  not  to  pretend 
to  have  any  opinion  of  my  own  ever  again.  And  so  we  kissed,  and 
•were  friends." 

"  I  dare  say  there  was  a  kiss,  my  dear." 

"  Of  course  there  was ; — and  he  held  me  in  his  arms,  and  com- 
forted me,  and  told  me  how  to  behave ; — just  as  you  would  do  a  little 
girl.  It's  all  over  now,  of  course ;  and  if  there  bo  a  mistake,  it  is 
his  fault.  I  feel  that  all  responsibility  is  gone  from  myself,  and  that 
for  all  the  rest  of  my  life  I  have  to  do  just  what  he  tells  me." 

"  And  what  says  the  divine  "Wallachia  ?  " 

"  Poor  Wally !  She  says  nothing,  but  she  thinks  that  I  am  a  cast- 
away and  a  recreant.  I  am  a  recreant,  I  know ; — but  yet  I  think 
that  I  was  right.     I  know  I  could  not  help  m5'Self." 

"  Of  course  you  were  right,  my  dear,"  said  the  sage  Nora.  "If 
j^ou  had  the  notion  in  your  head,  it  was  wise  to  get  rid  of  it ;  but  I 
knew  how  it  would  be  when  you  spoke  to  him." 

"  You  were  not  so  weak  when  he  came  to  you." 

"  That  was  altogether  another  thing.  It  was  not  arranged  in 
heaven  that  I  was  to  become  his  captive." 

After  that  Wallachia  Petrie  never  again  tried  her  influence  on  her 
former  friend,  but  admitted  to  herself  that  the  evil  was  done,  and 
that  it  could  not  be  remedied.  According  to  her  theory  of  life, 
Caroline  Spalding  had  been  wrong,  and  weak, — had  shewn  herself  to 
be  comfort-loving  and  luxuriously-minded,  had  looked  to  get  her 
happiness  from  soft  effeminate  pleasures  rather  than  from  rational 
work  and  the  useful,  independent  exercise  of  her  own  intelligence. 
In  the  privacy  of  her  little  chamber  Wallachia  Petrie  shed, — not 
absolute  tears, — but  many  tearful  thoughts  over  her  friend.  It  was  to 
her  a  thing  very  terrible  that  the  chosen  one  of  her  heart  should 
X^refer  the  career  of  an  English  lord's  wife  to  that  of  an  American  citizen- 
ness,  with  all  manner  of  capability  for  female  voting,  female  spc3ch- 
making,  female  poetising,  and,  perhaps,  female  political  action  before 
her.  It  was  a  thousand  pities  !  "  You  may  take  a  horse  to  water," — 
said  Wallachia  to  herself,  thinking  of  the  ever-freshly  springing  foun- 
tain of  her  own  mind,  at  which  Caroline  Spalding  would  always  have 
been  made  welcome  freely  to  quench  her  thii-st, — "  but  you  cannot 
make  him  drink  if  he  be  not  athirst."  In  the  future  she  would  have 
no  friend.  Never  again  would  she  subject  herself  to  the  disgrace  of 
such  a  failure.  But  the  sacrifice  was  to  be  made,  and  she  knew  that 
it  was  bootless  to  waste  her  words  further  on  Caroline  Spalding.  She 
left  Florence  before  the  wedding,  and  returned  alone  to  the  land  of 


X 


i-I 

M 


MRS.  French's  carving  knife.  251 

liberty.  She  Avroto  a  letter  to  Caroline  oxplaiuiug  her  conduct,  and 
Caroline  Spalding  shewed  the  letter  to  licr  husband, — as  one  that 
■was  both  loving  and  eloquent. 

"Veiy  loving  and  very  eloquent,"  he  said.  "But,  nevertheless,. 
one  does  think  of  sour  grapes." 

"  There  I  am  sure  you  wrong  her,"  said  Caroline. 


CHAPTEK  LXXXII. 
MRS.  FME^''CH'S  CARVING  KNIFE. 


DuRis'G  these  days  there  were  terrible  doings  at  Exeter.  Camilla 
had  sworn  that  if  Mr.  Gibson  did  not  come  to,  there  should  be  a 
tragedy,  and  it  appeared  that  she  was  inclined  to  keep  her  word. 
Immediately  after  the  receipt  of  her  letter  from  Mr.  Gibson  she  had 
had  an  inter^dew  with  that  gentleman  in  his  lodgings,  and  had  asked 
him  his  intentions.  He  had  taken  measures  to  fortify  himself  against 
such  an  attack;  but,  whatever  those  measures  were,  Camilla  had 
broken  through  them.  She  had  stood  before  him  as  he  sat  in  his 
arm-chaii-,  and  he  had  been  dumb  in  her  presence.  It  had  perhaps 
been  well  for  him  that  the  eloquence  of  her  indignation  had  been  so 
gi-eat  that  she  had  hardly  been  able  to  pause  a  moment  for  a  reply. 
"Will  you  take  your  letter  back  again?"  she  had  said.  "  I  should 
be  wrong  to  do  that,"  he  had  lisped  out  in  reply,  "  because  it  is  true. 
As  a  Christian  minister  I  could  not  stand  vdth  you  at  the  altar  with  a 
lie  in  my  mouth."  In  no  other  Avay  did  he  attempt  to  excuse 
himself, — but  that,  twice  repeated,  filled  up  all  the  pause  which  she 
made  for  him. 

There  never  had  been  such  a  case  before, — so  impudent,  so  cruel,  so 
gross,  so  uncalled  for,  so  unmanly,  so  unnecessary,  so  unjustifiable,  so 
damnable, — so  sure  of  eternal  condemnation !  All  this  she  said  to  him 
vAWx  loud  voice,  and  clenched  fist,  and  starting  eyes, — regardless  utterly 
of  any  listeners  on  the  stairs,  or  of  outside  passers  in  the  street.  In  very 
truth  she  was  moved  to  a  sublimity  of  indignation.  Ilcr  low  nature 
became  nearly  poetic  under  the  wrong  inflicted  upon  her.  She  was 
almost  tempted  to  tear  him  with  her  hands,  and  inflict  upon  him  at 
the  moment  some  terrible  vengeance  which  should  be  told  of  for  ever  in 
the  annals  of  Exeter.  A  man  so  mean  as  ho,  so  weak,  so  cowardly, 
one  so  little  of  a  hero ; — that  ho  should  dare  to  do  it,  and  dare  to  sit 
there  before  her,  and  to  say  that  he  would  do  it !     "  Your  gown  shall 


252  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    IllGIIT. 

be  torn  off  your  back,  sir,  aud  the  very  boys  of  Exctor  shall  drag  you 
through  the  gutters  !  "  To  this  threat  he  said  nothing,  but  sat  mute, 
hiding  his  face  in  his  hands.  "And  now  tell  me  this,  sir; — is  there 
anything  between  you  and  Bella  ?"  But  there  was  no  voice  in  reply. 
"  Answer  my  question,  sir.  I  have  a  right  to  ask  it."  Still  he  said 
not  a  word.  "  Listen  to  me.  Sooner  than  that  you  and  she  should  be 
man  and  wife,  I  would  stab  her  !  Yes,  I  would  ; — you  poor,  paltry, 
lying,  cowardly  creature  ! "  She  remained  with  him  for  more  than 
half  an  hour,  and  then  banged  out  of  the  room  flashing  back  a  look  of 
scorn  at  him  as  she  went.  Martha,  before  that  day  Avas  over,  had 
learned  the  whole  story  from  Mr.  Gibson's  cook,  and  had  told  her 
mistress. 

"  I  did  not  think  he  had  so  much  spirit  in  him,"  was  Miss  Stan- 
bury's  answer.  Throughout  Exeter  the  great  wonder  arising  from 
the  crisis  was  the  amount  of  spirit  which  had  been  displayed  by  Mr. 
Gibson. 

When  he  was  left  alone  he  shook  himself,  and  began  to  think  that  if 
there  were  danger  that  such  interviews  might  occur  frequently  he  had 
better  leave  Exeter  for  good.  As  he  put  his  hand  over  his  forehead, 
he  declared  to  himself  that  a  very  little  more  of  that  kind  of  thing 
would  kill  him.  \Yhen  a  couple  of  hours  had  passed  over  his  head 
he  shook  himself  again,  and  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter  to  his 
intended  mother-in-law. 

'■I  do  not  mean  to  complain,"  he  said,  "God  knows  I  have  no 
right ;  but  I  cannot  stand  a  repetition  of  what  has  occurred  just 
now.  If  your  younger  daughter  comes  to  see  me  again  I  must  refuse 
to  see  her,  and  shall  leave  the  town.  I  am  ready  to  make  what 
reparation  may  be  possible  for  the  mistake  into  which  I  have  fallen, 

"T.  G." 

Mrs.  French  was  no  doubt  much  afraid  of  her  younger  daughter, 
but  she  was  less  afraid  of  her  than  were  other  people.  Familiarity, 
they  say,  breeds  contempt ;  and  who  can  be  so  familiar  with  a  child 
as  its  parent  ?  She  did  not  in  her  heart  believe  that  Camilla  would 
murder  anybody,  and  she  fully  realised  the  conviction  that,  even  after 
all  that  was  come  and  gone,  it  would  be  better  that  one  of  her 
daughters  should  have  a  husband  than  that  neither  should  be  so 
blessed.  If  only  Camilla  could  be  got  out  of  Exeter  for  a  few 
months, — how  good  a  thing  it  would  be  for  them  all !  She  had  a 
brother  in  Gloucester, — if  only  he  could  be  got  to  take  Camilla  for  a 


MB<5.  French's  cahvixg  kxife.  253 

few  months !  And  then,  too,  she  knew  that  if  the  true  rights  of  her 
two  daughters  were  strictly  and  impartially  examined,  Arabella's 
claim  was  much  stronger  than  any  that  Camilla  could  put  forward  to 
the  hand  of  ^Ir.  Gibson. 

"You  must  not  go  there  again,  Camilla,"  the  mother  said. 

"  I  shall  go  whenever  I  please,"  replied  the  fury. 

"  Now,  Camilla,  we  may  as  well  understand  each  other.  I  will 
rot  have  it  done.  If  I  am  provoked,  I  will  send  to  your  uncle  at 
Gloucester."  Now  the  uncle  at  Gloucester  was  a  timber  merchant,  a 
man  with  protuberant  eyes  and  a  great  square  chin, — known  to  be  a 
very  stern  man  indeed,  and  not  at  all  afraid  of  young  women. 

"  AVhat  do  I  care  for  my  uncle  ?     My  uncle  would  take  my  part." 

"No,  he  would  not.  The  truth  is,  Camilla,  you  interfered  with 
Bella  first." 

"  Mamma,  how  dare  you  say  so  ! " 

"  You  did,  my  dear.     And  these  are  the  consequences." 

"And  you  mean  to  say  that  she  is  to  be  Mrs.  Gibson  ?" 

"I  say  nothing  about  that.  But  I  do  not  see  why  they  shouldn't 
be  married  if  their  hearts  arc  inclined  to  each  other." 

"I  will  die  first!" 

"Your  dying  has  nothing  to  do  Avith  it,  Camilla." 

"And  I  will  kill  her  !  " 

"  If  you  speak  to  me  again  in  that  way  I  will  write  to  your  nncle 
vi  Gloucester.  I  have  done  the  best  I  could  for  you  both,  and  I  will 
not  bear  such  treatment." 

"And  how  am  I  treated  ?  " 

"You  should  not  have  interfered  with  j-our  sister." 

"You  are  all  in  a  conspiracy  together,"  shouted  Camilla,  "you 
are  !  There  never  was  anybody  so  badly  treated, — never, — never, — 
never  !     "What  will  everybody  say  of  me  ?  " 

"  They  will  pity  you,  if  you  will  be  quiet." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  pitied ;— I  won't  be  pitied.  I  wish  I  could 
die, — and  I  will  die  !  Anybody  else  would,  at  any  rate,  have  had 
their  mother  and  sister  with  them  !  "  Then  she  burst  into  a  flood  of 
real,  true,  womanly  tears. 

After  this  there  was  a  lull  at  Ileavitrec  for  a  few  days.  Camilla 
did  not  speak  to  her  sister,  but  she  condescended  to  hold  some  intcr- 
coivrse  with  her  mother,  and  to  take  her  meals  at  the  family  table. 
She  did  not  go  out  of  the  house,  but  she  employed  herself  in  her  own 
room,  doing  no  one  knew  what,  Avith  all  that  new  clothing  and 
household  gear  m  hich  was  to  have  been  transferred  in  her  train  to 


254  II K    KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

Mr.  Gibson's  house.  Mrs.  Frcncli  was  someAvliat  uneasy  about  tlao 
new  clothing  and  household  gear,  feeling  that,  in  the  event  of  Bella's 
marriage,  at  least  a  considerable  portion  of  it  must  be  transferred  to 
the  new  bride.  But  it  was  impossible  at  the  present  moment  to  open 
such  a  subject  to  Camilla ; — it  would  have  been  as  a  proposition  to  a 
lioness  respecting  the  taking  away  of  her  whelps.  Nevertheless,  the 
day  must  soon  come  in  which  something  must  be  said  about  the 
clothing  and  household  gear.  All  the  property  that  had  been  sent 
into  the  house  at  Camilla's  orders  could  not  be  allowed  to  remain  as 
Camilla's  perquisites,  now  that  Camilla  was  not  to  be  married,  "  Do 
you  know  what  she  is  doing,  my  dear?"  said  SIi'S.  French  to  her 
elder  daughter. 

"Perhaps  she  is  picking  out  the  marks,"  said  Bella. 

"  I  don't  think  she  would  do  that  as  yet,"  said  Mrs.  French. 

"  She  might  just  as  well  leave  it  alone,"  said  Bella,  feeling  that 
one  of  the  two  letters  would  do  for  her.  But  neither  of  them 
dared  to  speak  to  her  of  her  occiTpation  in  these  first  days  of  her 
despair. 

Mr.  Gibson  in  the  meantime  remained  at  home,  or  only  left  his 
house  to  go  to  the  Cathedral  or  to  visit  the  narrow  confines  of  his 
little  parish.  When  he  was  out  he  felt  that  everybody  looked  at 
him,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  people  whispered  about  him  v/hen 
they  saw  him  at  his  usual  desk  in  the  choir.  His  friends  passed  him 
merely  bowing  to  him,  and  he  was  aware  that  he  had  done  that  which 
would  be  regarded  by  every  one  around  him  as  unpardonable.  And 
yet, — what  ought  he  to  have  done  ?  He  acknowledged  to  himself 
that  he  had  been  very  foolish,  mad, — quite  demented  at  the  moment, 
— when  he  allowed  himself  to  think  it  possible  that  he  should  marry 
Camilla  French.  But  having  found  out  how  mad  he  had  been  at  that 
moment,  having  satisfied  himself  that  to  live  with  her  as  his  wife 
would  be  impossible,  was  he  not  right  to  break  the  engagement  ? 
Could  anything  be  so  wicked  as  marrying  a  woman  whom  he — hated  ? 
Thus  he  tried  to  excuse  himself;  but  yet  he  knew  that  all  the  world 
would  condemn  him.  Life  in  Exeter  would  be  impossible,  if  no  way 
to  social  pardon  could  be  opened  for  him.  He  was  willing  to  do  any- 
thing within  bounds  in  mitigation  of  his  offence.  He  would  give  up 
fifty  pounds  a  year  to  Camilla  for  his  life, — or  he  would  marry  Bella. 
Yes ;  he  would  marry  Bella  at  once, — if  Camilla  would  only  consent, 
and  give  up  that  idea  of  stabbing  some  one.  Bella  French  was  not 
very  nice  in  his  eyes  ;  but  she  was  quiet,  he  thought,  and  it  might  be 
possible  to  live  with  her.  Nevertheless,  he  told  himself  over  and  over 
again  that  the  manner  in  which  unmarried  men  with  incomes  were  set 


MRS.    FRENCH  S    CAHVIXG   KNIl-'E.  255 

upon  by  ladies  in  want  of  Lusbantls  was  veiy  disgi-aceful  to  tho 
country  at  large.  That  mission  to  Natal  which  had  once  been  oftered 
to  him  would  have  had  charms  for  him  now,  of  which  he  had  not 
recognised  the  force  when  he  rejected  it. 

*'  Do  you  think  that  he  ever  was  really  engaged  to  her '?  "  Dorothy  said 
to  her  aunt.  Dorothy  was  now  living  in  a  seventh  heaven  of  happiness, 
writing  love-letters  to  Brooke  Burgess  every  other  day,  and  devoting 
to  this  occupation  a  number  of  hours  of  which  she  ought  to  have  been 
ashamed ;  making  her  purchases  for  her  wedding, — with  nothing, 
however,  of  the  magnificence  of  a  Camilla, — ^but  discussing  everything 
with  her  aunt,  who  urged  her  on  to  extravagances  which  seemed 
beyond  the  scope  of  her  own  economical  ideas ;  settling,  or  trying  to 
settle,  little  difficulties  which  perplexed  her  somewhat,  and  wondering 
at  her  own  career.  She  could  not  of  course  be  married  without  the 
presence  of  her  mother  and  sister,  and  her  aunt, — with  something  of 
a  gi-im  courtesy, — had  intimated  that  they  should  be  made  welcome  to 
the  house  in  the  Close  for  the  special  occasion.  But  nothing  had 
been  said  about  Hugh.  The  v/edding  was  to  be  in  tho  Cathedral,  and 
Dorothy  had  a  little  scheme  in  her  head  for  meeting  her  brother 
among  the  aisles.  He  would  no  doubt  come  down  with  Brooke,  and 
nothing  perhaps  need  be  said  about  it  to  Aunt  Stanbury.  But  still  it 
was  a  trouble.  Her  aunt  had  been  so  good  that  Dorothy  felt  that  no 
step  should  be  taken  which  would  vex  the  old  woman.  It  was  evident 
enough  that  when  permission  had  been  given  for  the  visit  of  Mrs. 
Stanbuiy  and  Priscilla,  Hugh's  name  had  been  purposely  kept  back. 
There  had  been  no  accidental  omission.  Dorothy,  therefore,  did  not 
dare  to  mention  it, — and  yet  it  was  essential  for  her  happiness  that 
he  should  be  there.  At  the  present  moment  Miss  Stanbury's  intense 
interest  in  the  Stanbury  vv'edding  was  somewhat  mitigated  by  the 
excitement  occasioned  by  Mr.  Gibson's  refusal  to  be  married.  Dorothy 
was  so  shocked  that  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  believe  the  state- 
ment that  had  reached  them  through  Martha. 

"  Of  com-se  he  was  engaged  to  her.  We  all  knew  that,"  said  Miss 
Stanbury. 

"  I  think  there  must  have  been  some  mistake,"  said  Dorothy.  "  I 
don't  see  how  he  could  do  it." 

"  There  is  no  knowing  what  people  can  do,  my  dear,  when  they're 
hard  driven.  I  suppose  we  shall  have  a  lawsuit  now,  and  he'll  have 
to  pay  ever  so  much  money.  "Well,  well,  well !  see  what  a  deal  of 
trouble  j-ou  might  have  saved  1 " 

"But,  he'd  have  done  the  same  to  me,  aunt; — only,  you  know,  I 
never  could  have  taken  him.    Isn't  it  better  as  it  is,  aunt  ?   Tellmc." 


256  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS    IITGHT. 

"I  suppose  young  women  always  think  it  best  when  tliey  can  get  their 
own  ways.     An  old  woman  like  me  has  only  got  to  do  what  she  is  bid." 

"  But  this  was  best,  aunt ; — was  it  not  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  you've  had  your  way,  and  let  that  be  enough.  Poor 
Camilla  French  is  not  alloAvcd  to  have  hers  at  all.  Dear,  dear,  dear ! 
I  didn't  think  the  man  would  ever  have  been  such  a  fool  to  begin 
with  ; — or  that  he  would  ever  have  had  the  heart  to  get  out  of  it 
afterwards."  It  astonished  Dorothy  to  find  that  her  aunt  was  not 
loud  in  reprobation  of  Mr.  Gibson's  very  dreadful  conduct. 

In  the  meantime  Mrs.  French  had  written  to  her  brother  at 
Gloucester.  The  maid-servant,  in  making  Miss  Camilla's  bed,  and 
in  "putting  the  room  to  rights,"  as  she  called  it, — which  description 
probably  was  intended  to  cover  the  circumstances  of  an  accm'ate 
search, — had  discovered,  hidden  among  some  linen, — a  carving 
knife  !  such  a  knife  as  is  used  for  the  cutting  up  of  fowls  ;  and, 
after  two  days'  interval,  had  imparted  the  discovery  to  Mrs.  French. 
Instant  visit  was  made  to  the  pantry,  and  it  was  found  that  a  very 
aged  but  unbroken  and  sharply-pointed  weapon  was  missing.  Mrs. 
French  at  once  accused  Camilla,  and  Camilla,  after  some  hesitation, 
admitted  that  it  might  be  there.  Molly,  she  said,  was  a  nasty,  sly, 
wicked  thing,  to  go  looking  in  her  drav/ers,  and  she  would  never 
leave  anything  unlocked  again.  The  knife,  she  declared,  had  been 
taken  up-stairs,  because  she  had  wanted  something  very  sharp  to 
cut, — the  bones  of  her  stays.  The  knife  was  given  up,  but  Mrs. 
French  thought  it  best  to  write  to  her  brother,  Mr.  Crump.  She 
was  in  great  doubt  about  sundry  matters.  Had  the  carving  knife 
really  pointed  to  a  domestic  tragedy ; — and  if  so,  what  steps  ought  a 
poor  widow  to  take  with  such  a  daughter  ?  And  what  ought  to  be 
done  about  Mr.  Gibson  ?  It  ran  through  Mrs.  French's  mind  that 
unless  something  were  done  at  once,  Mr.  Gibson  would  escape  scot- 
free.  It  was  her  wish  that  he  should  yet  become  her  son-in-law. 
Poor  Bella  was  entitled  to  her  chance.  But  if  Bella  was  to  be  disap- 
pointed,—from  fear  of  carving  knives,  or  for  other  reasons, — then 
there  came  the  question  whether  Mr.  Gibson  should  not  be  made 
to  pay  in  purse  for  the  mischief  he  had  done.  With  all  these 
thoughts  and  doubts  running  through  her  head,  Mrs.  French  wrote 
to  her  brother  at  Gloucester. 

There  came  back  an  answer  from  Mr.  Crump,  in  which  that 
gentleman  expressed  a  very  strong  idea  that  Mr.  Gibson  should  be 
prosecuted  for  damages  with  the  utmost  virulence,  and  with  the 
least  possible   delay.     No   compromise    should   be   accepted.       Mr. 


MRS.  French's  carving  knife.  2*7 

Crump  \voiil(l  himself  como  to  Exeter  ami  sec  the  lawyer  as  soon 
as  he  should  be  told  that  there  was  a  lawyer  to  be  seen.  As  to 
the  carving  knife,  Mr.  Crump  Avas  of  opinion  that  it  did  not  mean 
anything.  Mr.  Crump  was  a  gentleman  Avho  did  not  believe  in 
strong  romance,  but  who  had  great  trust  in  all  pecuniary  claims. 
The  Frenches  had  always  been  genteel.  The  late  Captain  French 
had  been  an  officer  in  the  army,  and  at  ordinary  times  and  seasons 
the  Frenches  were  rather  ashamed  of  the  Crump  connection.  But 
now  the  timber  merchant  might  prove  himself  to  be  a  useful  friend. 

Mrs.  French  shewed  her  brother's  letter  to  Bella, — and  poor  Bella 
was  again  sore-hearted,  seeing  that  nothing  Avas  said  in  it  of  her 
claims.  "  It  will  be  dreadful  scandal  to  have  it  all  in  the  papers  ! "' 
said  Bella. 

"But  what  can  wc  do  ?" 

"Anything  would  be  better  than  that,"  said  Bella.  '-And  you 
don't  want  to  punish  Mr.  Gibson,  mamma." 

"But,  my  dear,  j'ou  see  what  your  uncle  says.  "What  can  I  do, 
except  go  to  him  for  advice  ?  " 

"  "Why  don't  you  go  to  Mr.  Gibson  yourself,  mamma  ?  " 

But  nothing  was  said  to  Camilla  about  Mr.  Crump ; — nothing  as 
3'et.  Camilla  did  not  love  Mr.  Crump,  but  there  was  no  other  house 
except  that  of  Mr.  Crump's  at  Gloucester  to  which  she  might  be  sent, 
if  it  could  be  arranged  that  Mr.  Gibson  and  Bella  should  be  made 
one.  Mrs.  French  took  her  eldest  daughter's  advice,  and  went  to  Mr. 
Gibson ; — taking  Mr.  Crump's  letter  in  her  pocket.  For  herself  she 
wanted  nothing, — but  was  it  not  the  duty  of  her  whole  life  to  light 
for  her  daughters  ?  Poor  woman  !  If  somebody  would  only  have 
taught  her  how  that  duty  might  best  be  done,  she  Avould  have 
endeavoured  to  obey  the  teaching.  "You  know  I  do  not  Avant  to 
threaten  you,"  she  said  to  Mr.  Gibson;  "but  you  see  Avhat  my 
brother  says.  Of  course  I  Avrotc  to  my  brother.  "What  could  a  poor 
Avoman  do  in  such  circumstances  except  write  to  her  brother  ?  " 

"If  you  choose  to  set  the  bloodhounds  of  the  laAV  at  me,  of  couri^o 
you  can,"  said  Mr.  Gibson. 

"  I  do  not  Avant  to  go  to  luAV  at  all ; — God  knoAVs  I  do  not !  "  said 
]\[rs.  French.  Then  there  Avas  a  pauhC.  "Poor  dear  Bella!" 
ejaculated  Mrs.  French. 

"  Dear  Bella  !  "  echoed  Mr.  Gibson. 

"  "What  do  you  mean  to  do  about  Bella  ?"  asked  Mrs.  French. 

"  I  sometimes  think  that  I  had  better  take  poison  and  have  done 
Avith  it ! "  said  Mr.  Gibson,  feeling  himself  to  lie  ai  ry  hard  pressed. 

A'OL.  11.  M  '•' 


258  3IE    KNEW   HE    WAS    RIGHT. 


CHAPTER  LXXXIII. 

BELLA  VICTRIX. 

Mr.  Crump  arrived  at  Exeter.  Camilla  was  not  told  of  liis  cominr? 
till  the  morning  of  the  day  on  •whicli  lie  arrived ;  and  then  the  tidings 
were  communicated,  because  it  was  necessary  that  a  change  should 
be  made  in  the  bed-rooms.  She  and  her  sister  had  separate  rooms 
when  there  was  no  visitor  with  them,  but  now  Mr.  Crump  must  be 
accommodated.  There  was  a  long  consultation  between  Bella  and 
Mrs.  French,  but  at  last  it  was  decided  that  Bella  should  sleep  with 
her  mother.  There  would  still  be  too  much  of  the  lioness  about 
Camilla  to  allow  of  her  being  regarded  as  a  safe  companion  through 
the  watches  of  the  night.  "  Why  is  Uncle  Jonas  coming  now  ?"  she 
asked. 

"  I  thought  it  better  to  ask  him,"  said  Mrs.  French. 

After  a  long  pause,  Camilla  asked  another  question.  "Does  Uncle 
Jonas  mean  to  see  Mr.  Gibson  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  he  will,"  said  Mrs.  French. 

"  Then  he  will  see  a  low,  mean  fellow ; — the  lov^'est,  meanest  fellow 
that  ever  was  heard  of!  But  that  won't  make  much  difterence  to 
Uncle  Jonas.  I  wouldn't  have  him  now,  if  he  was  to  ask  me  ever 
so ; — that  I  wouldn't !  " 

Mr.  Crump  came,  and  kissed  his  sister  and  two  nieces.  The  em- 
brace with  Camilla  was  not  very  affectionate.  "  So  your  Joe  has  been 
and  jilted  you  ?  "  said  Uncle  Jonas  ; — "  it's  like  one  of  them  clergy- 
men. They  say  so  many  prayers,  they  think  they  may  do  almost  any- 
thing afterwards.     Another  man  would  have  had  his  head  punched." 

"  The  less  talk  there  is  about  it  the  better,"  said  Camilla. 

On  the  following  day  IVIi-.  Crump  called  by  appointment  on  Miv 
Gibson,  and  remained  closeted  with  that  gentleman  for  the  greater 
portion  of  the  morning.  Camilla  knew  well  that  he  was  going,  and 
went  about  the  house  like  a  perturbed  spirit  during  his  absence. 
There  was  a  look  about  her  that  made  them  all  doubt  whether  she 
was  not,  in  truth,  losing  her  mind.  Her  mother  more  than  once  went 
to  the  pantiy  to  see  that  the  knives  were  right ;  and,  as  regarded  that 
sharp-pointed  weapon,  was  careful  to  lock  it  up  carefully  oiat  of  her 
daughter's  way.  Mr.  Crump  had  declared  himself  willing  to  take 
Camilla  back  to  Gloucester,  and  had  laughed  at  the  obstacles  which 
his  niece  might,  perhaps,  throw  in  the  way  of  such  an  arrangement. 
"  She  mustn't  have  much  luggage ; — that  is  all,"  said  Mr.  Crump. 


BELLA    VKTUIX.  259 

For  Mr.  Crump  Lad  been  made  aware  of  the  circumstances  of  Ibo 
trousseau.  About  tbree  o'clock  Mr.  Crump  came  back  from  I^fr.  Gib- 
son's, and  expressed  a  desire  to  be  left  alone  witb  Camilla.  Mrs. 
Frencli  was  prepared  for  everything ;  and  Mr.  Crump  soon  found 
himself  with  his  younger  niece. 

<'  Camilla,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "  this  has  been  a  bad  business." 

•'  I  don't  know  what  business  you  mean,  Uncle  Jonas." 

"  Yes,  you  do,  my  dear  ; — you  know.  And  I  hope  it  won't  come  too 
late  to  prove  to  you  that  young  women  shouldn't  be  too  keen  in  set- 
ting their  caps  at  the  gentlemen.  It's  better  for  them  to  be  himted, 
than  to  hunt." 

"  Uncle  Jonas,  I  will  not  be  insulted." 

"  Stick  to  that,  my  dear,  and  you  won't  get  into  a  scrape  again. 
Now,  look  here.  This  man  can  never  be  made  to  marry  you,  any- 
how." 

"  I  wouldn't  touch  him  with  a  pair  of  tongs,  if  he  were  kneeling 
at  my  feet !  " 

"  That's  right ;  stick  to  that.  Of  course,  you  wouldn't  now,  after 
all  that  has  come  and  gone.     No  girl  with  any  spirit  would." 

"  He's  a  coward  and  a  thief,  and  he'll  be damned  for  what  ho 

has  done,  some  of  these  days !" 

"  T-ch,  t-ch,  t-ch  !  That  isn't  a  proper  way  for  a  young  lady  to 
talk.     That's  cixrsing  and  swearing." 

"  It  isn't  cursing  and  swearing  ; — it's  what  the  Bible  says." 

"  Then  we'll  leave  him  to  the  Bible.  In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Gibson 
wants  to  marry  some  one  else,  and  that  can't  hurt  you." 

"  He  may  man-y  whom  he  likes  ; — but  he  shan't  marry  Bella — 
that's  all ! " 

"  It  is  Bella  that  he  means  to  marry." 

"Then  he  won't.  I'll  forbid  the  banns.  I'll  write  to  the  bishop. 
I'll  go  to  the  church  and  prevent  its  being  done.  I'll  make  such  a 
noise  in  the  town  that  it  can't  be  done.  It's  no  use  your  looking  at 
me  like  that.  Uncle  Jonas.  I've  got  my  own  feelings,  and  he  shall 
never  marry  Bella.  It's  what  they  have  been  intending  all  through, 
and  it  shan't  be  done  !  " 

"  It  will  be  done." 

•'  Uncle  Jonas,  I'll  stab  her  to  the  heart,  and  hhn  too,  before  I'll  see 
it  done !  Though  I  were  to  be  killed  the  next  day,  I  Avould.  Could 
you  bear  it  ?" 

"  I'm  not  a  young  woman.  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  want  you 
to  do." 


2G0  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    IIIGIIX. 

"  I'll  not  do  anything." 

"Just  pack  up  your  things,  and  start  "witli  mc  to  Gloucester 
to-morrow.'' 

"I— won't!" 

"  Then  you'll  bo  carried,  my  dear.  I'll  write  to  your  aunt,  to  say 
that  3-ou'rc  coming  ;  and  we'll  be  as  jolly  as  possible  when  we  get  you 
homo." 

"I  won't  go  to  Gloucester,  Uncle  Jonas.  I  won't  go  away  from 
Exeter.  I  won't  let  it  be  done.  She  shall  never,  never,  never  be 
that  man's  wife  !  " 

Nevertheless,  on  the  day  but  one  after  this,  Camilla  French  did  go 
to  Gloucester.  Before  she  went,  however,  things  had  to  be  done  in 
that  house  which  almost  made  Mrs.  French  repent  that  she  had  sent 
for  so  stern  an  assistant.  Camilla  was  at  last  told,  in  so  many  Avords, 
that  the  things  which  she  had  prepared  for  her  own  wedding  must  be 
given  up  for  the  wedding  of  her  sister ;  and  it  seemed  that  this  item 
in  the  list  of  her  sorrows  troubled  her  almost  more  than  any  other. 
She  swore  that  whither  she  went  there  should  go  the  dresses,  and  the 
handkerchiefs,  and  the  hats,  the  bonnets,  and  the  boots.  "  Let  her 
have  them,"  Bella  had  pleaded.  But  Mr.  Crump  was  inexorable.  He 
had  looked  into  his  sister's  affairs,  and  found  that  she  was  already  in 
debt.  To  his  practical  mind,  it  was  an  absurdity  that  the  unmarried 
sister  should  keep  things  that  were  wholly  unnecessary,  and  that  the 
sister  that  was  to  be  married  should  be  without  things  that  were 
needed.  There  was  a  big  trunk,  of  which  Camilla  had  the  key,  but 
which,  unfortunately  for  her,  had  been  dejDosited  in  her  mother's 
room.  Upon  this  she  sat,  and  swore  that  nothing  should  move  her 
but  a  promise  that  her  plunder  should  remain  untouched.  But  there 
came  this  advantage  from  the  terrible  question  of  the  w^edding  raiments, 
— that  in  her  energy  to  keep  possession  of  them,  she  gradually 
abandoned  her  opposition  to  her  sister's  marriage.  She  had  been 
driven  from  one  point  to  another  till  she  was  compelled  at  last  to 
stand  solely  upon  her  possessions.  "  Perhaps  we  had  better  let  her 
keep  them,"  said  Mrs.  French.  "  Trash  and  nonsense  !  "  said  Mr. 
Crump.  "If  she  wants  a  new  frock,  let  her  have  it;  as  for  the 
sheets  and  tablecloths,  you'd  better  keep  them  yourself.  But  Bella 
must  have  the  rest." 

It  was  found  on  the  eve  of  the  day  on  which  she  was  told  that 
she  was  to  depart  that  she  had  in  truth  armed  herself  with  a 
dagger  or  clasp  knife.  She  actually  displayed  it  when  her  uncle 
told  her  to  come  away  from  the  chest  on  which  she  was  sitting.     She 


HFi-LA  vicriiix.  261 

tk'clarcil  that  she  would  defoncl  herself  there  to  the  last  gasp  of  her 
life  ;  hut  of  course  the  knife  fell  from  her  hand  the  first  moment  that 
f^hc  Avas  touched.  "I  did  thiuk  onco  that  she  was  going  to  make 
a  poke  at  me,"  Mr.  Crump  said  afterwards;  "hut  she  had  screamed 
herself  so  weak  that  she  couldn't  do  it." 

When  the  morning  came,  she  was  taken  to  the  fly  and  driven 
to  the  station  without  any  further  serious  outhreak.  She  had  even 
condescended  to  select  certain  articles,  leaving  the  rest  of  the 
hymeneal  wealth  hchind  her.  Bella,  early  on  that  morning  of 
departure,  with  great  humility,  implored  her  sister  to  forgive  her ; 
hut  no  entreaties  could  induce  Camilla  to  address  one  gracious  word 
to  the  proposed  hride.  "  You've  been  cheating  me  all  along !  "  she 
said  ;  and  that  was  the  last  word  she  spoke  to  poor  Bella. 

She  went,  and  the  field  was  once  more  open  to  the  amorous  Yicar 
of  St.  Peter's-cum-Pumpkin.  It  is  astonishing  how  the  greatest 
difficulties  Avill  sink  away,  and  hecome  as  it  were  nothing,  when 
they  are  encountered  face  to  face.  It  is  certain  that  Mr.  Gibson's 
position  had  been  one  most  trying  to  the  nerves.  He  had  speculated 
on  various  modes  of  escape ; — a  curacy  in  the  north  of  England 
would  be  welcome,  or  the  duties  of  a  missionary  in  New  Zealand, — 
or  death.  To  tell  the  truth,  he  had,  during  the  last  week  or  two, 
contemplated  even  a  return  to  the  dominion  of  Camilla.  That  there 
should  ever  again  be  things  pleasant  for  him  in  Exeter  seemed  to  bo 
quite  impossible.  And  yet,  on  the  evening  of  the  day  but  one 
after  the  departure  of  Camilla,  he  was  seated  almost  comfortably 
with  his  own  Arabella !  There  is  nothing  that  a  man  may  not  do, 
nothing  that  he  may  not  achieve,  if  he  have  only  pluck  enough  to  go 
through  with  it. 

"You  do  love  me?"  Bella  said  to  him.  It  was  natural  that 
she  should  ask  him;  but  it  would  have  been  better  perhaps  if  she 
had  held  her  tongue.  Had  she  spoken  to  him  about  his  house, 
or  his  income,  or  the  servants,  or  the  duties  of  his  parish  church, 
it  would  have  been  easier  for  him  to  make  a  comfortable  repl}-. 

"Yes; — I  love  you,"  he  replied;  "of  course  I  love  you.  Wc 
have  always  been  friends,  and  I  hope  things  will  go  straight  now. 
I  have  had  a  great  deal  to  go  through,  Bella,  and  so  have  yuu  ; — but 
God  will  temper  the  Avind  to  the  shorn  lambs."  How  was  the  wind 
to  be  tempered  for  the  poor  lamb  who  had  gone  forth  shorn  down  to 
the  very  skin ! 

Soon  after  this  Mrs.  French  returned  to  the  room,  and  then  thero 
was  no  more   romance.     Mrs.  French   had    by  no    means    forgiven 


262  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    IITGHT. 

Mr.  Gibson  all  tlio  trouble  he  bad  brougbt  into  the  family,  and  mixed 
a  certain  amount  of  acrimony  with  bcr  entertainment  of  bim.  She 
dictated  to  bim,  treated  bim  with  but  scant  respect,  and  did  not 
hesitate  to  let  him  understand  that  be  was  to  be  watched  very  closely 
till  he  was  actually  and  absolutely  married.  The  poor  man  bad 
in  truth  no  further  idea  of  escape.  He  was  aware  that  he  bad  done 
that  which  made  it  necessary  that  he  should  bear  a  gi'eat  deal,  and 
that  ho  bad  no  right  to  resent  suspicion.  When  a  day  was  fixed 
in  June  on  which  he  should  be  married  at  the  church  of  Heavitree,. 
and  it  was  proposed  that  be  should  be  married  by  banns,  he  had 
nothing  to  urge  to  the  contrary.  And  when  it  was  also  suggested 
to  him  by  one  of  the  prebendaries  of  the  Cathedral  that  it  might  b& 
well  for  him  to  change  bis  clerical  duties  for  a  period  with  the  vicar 
of  a  remote  parish  in  the  north  of  Cornwall, — so  as  to  be  out  of 
the  way  of  remark  from  those  whom  he  had  scandalised  by  his 
conduct, — he  had  no  objection  to  make  to  that  arrangement.  When 
Mrs.  MacHugh  met  him  in  the  Close,  and  told  him  that  be  was  a  gay 
Lothario,  he  shook  his  head  with  a  melancholy  self-abasement,  and 
passed  on  without  even  a  feeling  of  anger.  "  When  they  smite 
me  on  the  right  cheek,  I  turn  unto  them  my  left,"  be  said  to  himself, 
when  one  of  the  cathedral  vergers  remarked  to  him  that  after  all 
he  was  going  to  be  married  at  last.  Even  Bella  became  dominant 
over  bim,  and  assumed  with  bim  occasionally  the  air  of  one  who 
had  been  injured. 

Bella  wrote  a  touching  letter  to  her  sister, — a  letter  that  ought 
to  have  touched  Camilla,  begging  for  forgiveness,  and  for  one  word 
of  sisterly  love.  Camilla  answered  the  letter,  but  did  not  send  a 
word  of  sisterly  love.  "  According  to  my  way  of  thinking,  you  have 
been  a  nasty  sly  thing,  and  I  don't  believe  you'll  ever  be  haj^py.  As 
for  him,  I'll  never  speak  to  him  again."  That  was  nearly  the  whole 
of  her  letter.  "  You  must  leave  it  to  time,"  said  Mrs.  French  wisely  ; 
"she'll  come  round  some  day."  And  then  Mrs.  French  thought 
how  bad  it  would  be  for  her  if  the  daughter  who  was  to  be  her 
future  companion  did  not  "  come  round  "  some  day. 

And  so  it  was  settled  that  they  should  be  married  in  Heavitree 
Church, — Mr.  Gibson  and  his  first  love, — and  things  went  on  prettj' 
much  as  though  nothing  had  been  done  amiss.  The  gentleman  from 
Cornwall  came  down  to  take  ]\Ir.  Gibson's  place  at  St.  Peter's-cum- 
Pumpkin,  while  his  duties  in  the  Cathedral  were  temporarily  divided 
amojig  the  other  priest-vicars, — with  some  amount  of  grumbling  on 
their  part.     Bella  commenced  her  modest  preparations  without  any 


BELLA   VICTRIX.  263- 

of  the  eclat  -wliicli  had  attenJocl  Camilla's  operations,  but  she  felt 
more  certainty  of  ultimate  success  than  had  ever  follcn  to  Camilla's 
lot.  In  spite  of  all  that  had  come  and  gone,  Bella  never  feared 
acain  that  Mr.  Gibson  "would  be  untrue  to  her.  In  rcfjard  to  him, 
it  must  be  doubted  whether  Nemesis  ever  fell  upon  him  -with  a 
hand  sufficiently  heavy  to  punish  him  for  the  great  sins  which  he  had 
manifestly  committed.  He  had  encountered  a  bad  week  or  two,  and 
there  had  been  days  in  which,  as  has  been  said,  he  thought  of  Natal, 
of  ecclesiastical  censures,  and  even  of  annihilation ;  but  no  real 
punishment  seemed  to  fall  upon  him.  It  may  be  doubted  whether, 
when  the  whole  arrangement  was  settled  for  him,  and  when  ho 
heard  that  Camilla  had  yielded  to  the  decrees  of  Fate,  he  did  not 
rather  flatter  himself  on  being  a  successful  man  of  intrigue, — whether 
he  did  not  take  some  glory  to  himself  for  his  good  fortune  with 
women,  and  pride  himself  amidst  his  self-reproaches  for  the  devotion 
which  had  been  displayed  for  him  by  the  fair  sex  in  general.  It  is 
quite  possible  that  he  taught  himself  to  believe  that  at  one  time 
Dorothy  Stanbury  was  devotedly  in  love  with  him,  and  that  when  ho 
reckoned  up  his  sins  she  was  one  of  those  in  regard  to  whom  ho 
accounted  himself  to  have  been  a  sinner.  The  spLrit  of  intrigue  with 
women,  as  to  which  men  will  flatter  themselves,  is  customarily  so 
vile,  so  mean,  so  vapid  a  reflection  of  a  feeling,  so  aimless,  rc- 
sultless,  and  utterly  unworthy  !  Passion  exists  and  has  its  sway. 
Vice  has  its  votaries, — and  there  is,  too,  that  worn-out  longing  for 
vice,  "prui'ient,  yet  passionless,  cold-studied  lewdness,"  which  drags 
on  a  feeble  continuance  with  the  aid  of  money.  But  the  commonest 
folly  of  man  in  regard  to  women  is  a  weak  taste  for  intrigue,  with 
little  or  nothing  on  which  to  feed  it ; — a  worse  than  feminine  aptitude 
for  male  coquetry,  which  never  ascends  beyond  a  desire  that  some- 
body shall  hint  that  there  is  something  peculiar;  and  which  is 
shocked  and  retreats  backwards  into  its  boots  when  anything  like 
a  consequence  forces  itself  on  the  apprehension.  Such  men  have 
their  glory  in  then-  own  estimation.  We  remember  hoAv  Falstaft' 
flouted  the  pride  of  his  companion  whose  victory  in  the  fields  of 
love  had  been  but  little  glorious.  But  there  are  victories  going 
now-a-days  so  infinitely  less  glorious,  that  Falstaft''s  page  was  a 
Lothario,  a  very  Don  Juan,  in  comparison  with  the  heroes  whose  praises 
are  too  often  sung  by  their  own  lips.  There  is  this  recompense, — 
that  their  defeats  arc  always  sung  by  lips  louder  than  their  own. 
Mr.  Gibson,  when  he  found  that  he  was  to  escape  apparently  un- 
Bcathed, — that  people  standing  respectably  before   the  world  abso- 


2C4  in;  knew  ut.  avas  lufiirr. 

lutely  dared  to  wbisper  words  to  him  of  congratuhition  on  tliis  tliii-d 
attempt  at  marriage  within  little  more  than  a  year,  took  pride  to 
himself,  and  bethought  himself  that  he  was  a  gay  deceiver.  He 
believed  that  he  had  selected  his  wife,— and  that  he  had  done  so 
in  circumstances  of  peculiar  difficulty !  Poor  Mr.  Gibson, — we 
hardly  know  whether  most  to  pity  him,  or  the  unfortunate,  poor 
woman  who  ultimately  became  Mrs.  Gibson. 

"  And  so  Bella  French  is  to  be  the  fortunate  woman  after  all," 
said  Miss  Stanbury  to  her  niece. 

"It  does  seem  to  me  to  be  so  odd,"  said  Dorothy.  "  I  Avondcr 
how  he  looked  when  he  proposed  it." 

"Like  a  fool, — as  he  always  does." 

Dorothy  refrained  from  remarking  that  Miss  Stanbiuy  had  not 
always  thought  that  Mr.  Gibson  looked  like  a  fool,  but  the  idea 
occurred  to  her  mind.  "I  hope  they  will  be  happy  at  last,"  she 
said. 

"Pshaw!  Such  people  can't  be  happy,  and  can't  be  unhappy. 
I  don't  suppose  it  much  matters  which  he  marries,  or  whether  he 
marries  them  both,  or  neither.  They  arc  to  be  married  by  banns, 
they  say, — at  Heavitree." 

"  I  don't  see  anything  bad  in  that." 

"  Only  Camilla  might  step  out  and  forbid  them,"  said  Aunt  Stan- 
bury.     "  I  almost  wish  she  would." 

"She  has  gone  away,  aunt,— to  an  uncle  who  lives  at  Gloucester." 

"  It  was  well  to  get  her  out  of  the  way,  no  doubt.  They'll  be 
married  before  you  now,  Dolly." 

"'  That  won't  break  my  heart,  aunt." 

"  I  don't  suppose  there'll  be  much  of  a  wedding.  They  haven't 
anybody  belonging  to  them,  except  that  uncle  at  Gloucester."  Then 
there  was  a  pause.  "  I  think  it  is  a  nice  thing  for  friends  to  collect 
together  at  a  wedding,"  continued  Aunt  Stanbury. 

"  I  think  it  is,"  said  Dorothy,  in  the  mildest,  softest  voice, 

"  I  suppose  we  must  make  room  for  that  black  sheep  of  a  brother 
of  yours,  Dolly, — or  else  you  won't  be  contented." 

"Dear,  dear,  dearest  aunt!"  said  Dorothy,  falling  down  on  her 
knees  at  her  aunt's  feet. 


CHAl^TER   LXXXIV. 


SELF-SACRIFICE. 


IlEVELYAN,  when  Lis  wife  had 
left  him,  sat  for  hours  in  silence 
pondering  over  his  own  position 
and  hers.  He  had  taken  his  child 
to  an  upper  room,  in  which  was 
his  own  bed  and  the  boy's  cot,  and 
before  he  seated  himself,  he  spread 
out  various  toys  which  he  had  been 
at  pains  to  purchase  for  the  un- 
happy little  fellow, — a  regiment  of 
Garibaldian  soldiers,  all  with  red 
shirts,  and  a  drum  to  give  the 
regiment  martial  spirit,  and  a  soft 
flufiy  Italian  ball,  and  a  battledore 
and  a  shuttlecock,  —  instruments 
enough  for  juvenile  joy,  if  only 
there  had  been  a  companion  with 
But  the  toys  remained  where  the 
father  had  placed  them,  almost  unheeded,  and  the  child  sat  looking 
out  of  the  window,  melanchol}-,  silent,  and  repressed.  Even  the  drum 
did  not  tempt  him  to  be  noisy.  Doubtless  he  did  not  know  why  he 
was  \vretched,  but  he  was  fully  conscious  of  his  wretchedness.  In 
the  meantime  the  father  sat  motionless,  in  an  old  worn-out  but  once 
handsome  leathern  arm-chair,  with  his  eyes  fixed  against  the  op])osito 
wall,  thinking  of  the  wreck  of  his  life. 

Thought  deep,  correct,  continued,  and  energetic  is  quite  compatible 
with  madness.  At  this  time  Trcvelyan's  mind  was  so  far  unhinged, 
his  ordinary  faculties  were  so  greatly  impaired,  that  they  who  declared 
him  to  be  mad  were  justified  in  their  declaration.  His  condition  was 
such  that  the  luqipincss  and  welfiire  of  no  human  being, — not  oven 
his  own, — could  safely  be  entrusted  to  his  keeping.  He  considered 
himself  to  have  been  so  injured  by  the  world,  to  have  been  the  victim 

VOL.  u.  N 


whom  the  child  could  use  them. 


2G6  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

of  SO  cruel  a  conspiracy  among  tliose  who  ought  to  have  been  his 
friends,  that  there  remained  nothing  for  him  but  to  lice  away  from 
them  and  remain  in  solitude.  But  yet,  through  it  all,  there  was 
something  approaching  to  a  conviction  that  he  had  brought  his  misery 
upon  himself  by  being  unlike  to  other  men  ;  and  he  declared  to  him- 
self over  and  over  again  that  it  was  better  that  he  should  sufler  than 
that  others  should  be  punished.  When  he  was  alone  his  reflections 
respecting  his  wife  were  much  juster  than  were  his  words  when  he 
spoke  either  with  her,  or  to  others,  of  her  conduct.  He  would  declare 
to  himself  not  only  that  he  did  not  believe  her  to  have  been  false  to 
him,  but  that  he  had  never  accused  her  of  such  crime.  He  had 
demanded  from  her  obedience,  and  she  had  been  disobedient.  It  had 
been  incumbent  upon  him, — so  ran  his  own  ideas,  as  expressed  to 
himself  in  these  long  unspoken  soliloquies, — to  exact  obedience,  or  at 
least  compliance,  let  the  consequences  be  what  they  might.  She  had 
refused  to  obey  or  even  to  comply,  and  the  consequences  were  very 
gi-ievous.  But,  though  he  pitied  himself  with  a  pity  that  was  femi- 
nine, yet  he  acknowledged  to  himself  that  her  conduct  had  been  the 
result  of  his  own  moody  temperament.  Every  friend  had  parted 
from  him.  All  those  to  whose  counsels  he  had  listened,  had  coun- 
selled him  that  he  was  wrong.  The  whole  world  was  against  him. 
Had  he  remained  in  England,  the  doctors  and  lawyers  among  them 
would  doubtless  have  declared  him  to  be  mad.  He  knew  all  this, 
and  yet  he  could  not  yield.  He  could  not  say  that  he  had  been 
%vrong.  He  could  not  even  think  that  he  had  been  wrong  as  to  the 
cause  of  the  great  quarrel.  He  was  one  so  miserable  and  so  unfortunate, 
— so  he  thought, — that  even  in  doing  right  he  had  fallen  into  perdition  ! 
He  had  had  two  enemies,  and  between  them  they  had  worked  his 
ruin.  These  were  Colonel  Osborne  and  Bozzle.  It  may  be  doubted 
whether  he  did  not  hate  the  latter  the  more  strongly  of  the  two.  He 
knew  now  that  Bozzle  had  been  untrue  to  him,  but  his  disgust  did 
not  spring  from  that  so  much  as  from  the  feeling  that  he  had  defiled 
himself  by  dealing  Avith  the  man.  Though  he  was  quite  assm-ed  that 
he  had  been  right  in  his  first  cause  of  oftence,  he  knew  that  he  had 
fallen  from  bad  to  worse  in  every  step  that  he  had  taken  since. 
Colonel  Osborne  had  marred  his  happiness  by  vanity,  by  wicked 
intrigue,  by  a  devilish  delight  in  doing  mischief ;  but  he,  he  himself, 
had  consummated  the  evil  by  his  own  folly.  Why  had  he  not  taken 
Colonel  Osborne  by  the  throat,  instead  of  going  to  a  low-born,  vile, 
mercenary  spy  for  assistance  ?  He  hated  himself  for  what  he  had 
done ; — and  yet  it  was  impossible  that  he  should  yield. 


SELF-SACHIFICE.  2G7 

It  was  impossible  that  be  sboukl  yield ; — but  it  was  yet  open  to 
him  to  sacrifice  himself.  He  could  not  go  back  to  his  wife  and  say 
that  he  was  wrong;  but  he  could  determine  that  the  destruction  should 
fall  upon  him  and  not  upon  her.  If  he  gave  up  his  child  and  then 
died, — died,  alone,  without  any  friend  near  him,  with  no  word  of  love 
in  his  ears,  in  that  solitary  and  miserable  abode  which  ho  had  found 
for  himself, — then  it  would  at  least  be  acknowledged  that  he  had 
expiated  the  injury  that  he  had  done.  She  would  have  his  wealth, 
his  name,  his  child  to  comfort  her, — and  would  bo  troubled  no  longer 
by  demands  for  that  obedience  which  she  had  sworn  at  the  altar 
to  give  him,  and  which  she  had  since  declined  to  render  to  him. 
Perhaps  there  was  some  feeling  that  the  coals  of  fire  would  be 
hot  upon  her  head  when  she  should  think  how  much  she  had 
received  from  him  and  how  little  she  had  done  for  him.  And  yet 
he  loved  her,  with  all  his  heart,  and  would  even  yet  dream  of  bliss 
that  might  be  possible  with  her, — had  not  the  terrible  hand  of  irre- 
sistible Fate  come  between  them  and  marred  it  all.  It  was  only  a 
dream  now.  It  could  be  no  more  than  a  dream.  He  put  out  his 
thin  wasted  hands  and  looked  at  them,  and  touched  the  hoUowness  of 
his  own  cheeks,  and  coughed  that  he  might  hear  the  hacking  sound 
of  his  own  infij."mity,  and  almost  took  glory  in  his  weakness.  It  could 
not  be  long  before  the  coals  of  fire  Avould  be  heaped  upon  her  head. 

"Louey,"  he  said  at  last,  addressing  the  child  who  had  sat  for  an 
hour  gazing  through  the  window  without  stirring  a  limb  or  uttering  a 
sound;  "  Louey,  my  boy,  would  you  like  to  go  back  to  mamma?" 
The  child  turned  round  on  the  floor,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  his  father's 
face,  but  made  no  immediate  reply.  "  Louey,  dear,  come  to  papa 
and  tell  him.  Would  it  be  nice  to  go  back  to  mamma?"  And  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  the  boy.  Louey  got  up,  and  ai^proachcd 
slowly  and  stood  between  his  father's  knees.  "Tell  me,  darling; — 
you  imderstand  what  papa  says  ?" 

"  Altro  ! "  said  the  boy,  who  had  been  long  enough  among  Italian 
servants  to  pick  up  the  common  words  of  the  language.  Of  course  he 
would  like  to  go  back.     How  indeed  could  it  be  otherwise  ? 

"  Then  you  shall  go  to  her,  Louey." 

"To-day,  papa?" 

"Not  to-day,  nor  to-morrow." 

"But  the  day  after?" 

"  That  is  sufficient.  You  shall  go.  It  is  not  so  bad  Avith  you  that 
one  day  more  need  be  a  sorrow  to  you.  You  shall  go, — and  then 
you  will  never  see  your  father  again  !  "  Trcvelyan  as  ho  said  this 


2G8  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

drew  his  haudti  away  so  as  not  to  touch  the  child.  The  little  fellow 
liad  put  out  his  arm,  but  seeing  his  father's  angry  gesture  had  made 
no  further  attempt  at  a  caress.  He  feared  his  father  from  the  bottom 
of  his  little  heart,  and  yet  was  aware  that  it  was  his  duty  to  try  to 
love  papa.  He  did  not  understand  the  meaning  of  that  last  threat, 
but  slunk  back,  passing  his  untouched  toys,  to  the  window,  and  there 
seated  himself  again,  filling  his  mind  with  the  thought  that  when  two 
more  long  long  days  should  have  crept  by,  he  should  once  more  go  to 
his  mother. 

Trevclyan  had  tried  his  best  to  be  soft  and  gentle  to  his  child.  All 
that  he  had  said  to  his  wife  of  his  treatment  of  the  boy  had  been 
true  to  the  letter.  He  had  spared  no  personal  trouble,  he  had  done 
all  that  he  had  known  how  to  do,  he  had  exercised  all  his  intelligence 
to  procure  amusement  for  the  boy ; — but  Louey  had  hardly  smiled 
since  he  had  been  taken  from  his  mother.  And  now  that  he  was  told 
that  he  was  to  go  and  never  see  his  father  again,  the  tidings  were  to 
Lim  simply  tidings  of  joy.  "  There  is  a  curse  upon  me,"  said  Tre- 
vclyan;  "it  is  written  doAvn  in  the  book  of  my  destiny  that  nothing 
shall  ever  love  me  !  " 

He  went  out  from  the  house,  and  made  his  way  down  by  the 
narrow  path  through  the  olives  and  vines  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill  in 
front  of  the  villa.  It  was  evening  now,  but  the  evening  was  very 
hot,  and  though  the  olive  trees  stood  in  long  rows,  there  was  no 
shade.  Quite  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill  there  was  a  little  sluggish 
muddy  brook,  along  the  sides  of  which  the  reeds  grew  thickly 
and  the  dragon-flies  were  playing  on  the  water.  There  was  nothing 
attractive  in  the  spot,  but  he  was  weary,  and  sat  himself  dovra 
on  the  dry  hard  bank  which  had  been  made  by  repeated  clearing  of 
mud  from  the  bottom  of  the  little  rivulet.  He  sat  watching  the 
dragon-flies  as  they  made  their  short  flights  in  the  warm  air,  and  told 
himself  that  of  all  God's  creatures  there  was  not  one  to  whom  less 
power  of  disporting  itself  in  God's  sun  was  given  than  to  him.  Sm'ely 
it  would  be  better  for  him  that  he  should  die,  than  live  as  he  was 
now  living  without  any  of  the  joys  of  life.  The  solitude  of  Casalunga 
was  intolerable  to  him,  and  yet  there  was  no  whither  that  he  could  go 
and  find  society.  He  could  travel  if  he  pleased.  He  had  money  at 
command,  and,  at  any  rate  as  yet,  there  was  no  embargo  on  his  per- 
sonal liberty.  But  how  could  he  travel  alone, — even  if  his  strength 
might  sufiice  for  the  work?  There  had  been  moments  in  which  he 
had  thought  that  he  would  be  happy  in  the  love  of  his  child, — that 
the  companionship  of  an  infant  would  siifiice  for  him  if  only  the  infant 


TKKVELYAN    AT    CASAJLUNGA. 


SF.LF-SACRIFICE.  200 

•would  love  bim.  But  all  such  dreams  as  that  were  over.  To  i*cpay 
him  for  his  tenderness  his  boy  was  ahvaj'S  dumb  before  him.  Loucy 
would  not  prattle  as  he  had  used  to  do.  He  would  not  even  smile, 
or  give  back  the  kisses  with  which  his  father  had  attempted  to  win 
him.  In  mercy  to  the  boy  he  would  send  him  back  to  his  mother ; — 
in  mercy  to  the  boy  if  not  to  the  mother  also.  It  was  in  vain  that 
he  should  look  for  any  joy  in  any  quarter.  "Were  he  to  return  to 
England,  they  would  say  that  he  was  mad ! 

He  lay  there  by  the  brook-side  till  the  evening  was  far  advanced, 
and  then  he  arose  and  slowly  returned  to  the  house.  The  labour  of 
ascending  the  hill  was  so  great  to  him  that  he  was  forced  to  pause 
and  hold  by  the  olive  trees  as  he  slowly  performed  his  task.  The 
perspii'ation  came  in  profusion  from  his  pores,  and  he  found  himself 
to  be  so  weak  that  he  must  in  future  regard  the  brook  as  being  beyond 
the  tether  of  his  daily  exercise.  Eighteen  months  ago  he  had  been 
a  strong  walker,  and  the  snow-bound  paths  of  Swiss  mountains  had 
been  a  joy  to  him.  He  paused  as  he  was  slowly  dragging  himself 
on,  and  looked  up  at  the  wretched,  desolate,  comfortless  abode  which 
he  called  his  home.  Its  dreariness  was  so  odious  to  him  that  he  was 
half-minded  to  lay  himself  down  where  he  was,  and  let  the  night  air 
come  upon  him  and  do  its  worst.  In  such  case,  however,  some 
Italian  doctor  would  be  sent  down  who  would  say  that  he  was  mad. 
Above  all  the  things,  and  to  the  last,  he  must  save  himself  from  that 
degradation. 

When  he  had  crawled  up  to  the  house,  he  went  to  his  child,  and 
found  that  the  woman  had  put  the  boy  to  bed.  Then  he  was  angry 
•with  himself  in  that  he  himself  had  not  seen  to  this,  and  kept  up  his 
practice  of  attending  the  child  to  the  last.  Ho  would,  at  least,  bo 
true  to  his  resolution,  and  prepare  for  the  boy's  return  to  his  mother. 
Not  knowing  how  otherwise  to  manage  it,  he  wrote  that  night  the 
following  note  to  Mr.  Glascock ; — 

"  Casalunga,  Thui'sday  night. 
"My  dear  Sir, 

"  Since  3'ou  last  were  considerate  enough  to  call  upon  me  I 

have  resolved  to  take  a  step  in  my  aflairs  which,  though  it  will  rob 

me  of  my  only  remaining  gratification,  will  tend  to  lessen  the  troubles 

under  which  Mrs.  Trevelyan  is  labouring.     If  she  desires  it,  as  no 

doubt  she  does,  I  will  consent  to  place  our  boy  again  in  her  custody, 

— tnisting  to  her  sense  of  honour  to  restore  him  to  me  should   I 

demand  it.     In  my  present  unfortunate  position  I  cannot  suggc  :t  that 

she  should  come  for  the  boy.     I  am  unable  to  support  the  excitement 


270  HE    KNEW    HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

occasioned  by  her  presence.  I  will,  however,  deliver  up  my  darling 
cither  to  you,  or  to  any  messenger  sent  by  you  whom  I  can  trust.  I 
beg  heartily  to  apologise  for  the  trouble  I  am  giving  you,  and  to  sub- 
scribe myself  yours  very  faithfully, 

"  Louis  Teevelyan. 
"  The  Hon.  C.  Glascock. 

"P.S. — It  is  as  well,  perhaps,  that  I  should  explain  that  I  must 
decline  to  receive  any  visit  from  Sir  Marmaduke  Kowley.  Sir  Mar- 
maduke  has  insulted  me  grossly  on  each  occasion  on  which  I  have 
seen  him  since  his  return  home." 


CHAPTER  LXXXV. 
THE    BATHS    OF    LUCCA. 


June  was  now  far  advanced,  and  the  Rowleys  and  the  Spaldings 
had  removed  from  Florence  to  the  Baths  of  Lucca.  Mr.  Glascock 
had  followed  in  their  wake,  and  the  whole  party  were  living  at 
the  Baths  in  one  of  those  hotels  in  which  so  many  English  and 
Americans  are  wont  to  congregate  in  the  early  weeks  of  the 
Italian  summer.  The  marriage  was  to  take  place  in  the  last  week 
of  the  month  ;  and  all  the  party  were  to  return  to  Florence  for  the 
occasion, — with  the  exception  of  Sir  Marmaduke  and  Mrs.  Trevelyan. 
She  was  altogether  unfitted  for  wedding  joys,  and  her  father  had 
pi'omised  to  bear  her  company  when  the  others  left  her.  Mr. 
Glascock  and  Caroline  Spalding  were  to  be  married  in  Florence, 
and  were  to  depart  immediately  from  thence  for  some  of  the  cooler 
parts  of  Switzerland.  After  that  Sir  Marmaduke  and  Lady  Rovvlcy 
M'ere  to  return  to  London  with  their  daughters,  preparatory  to  that 
dreary  journey  back  to  the  Mandarins  ;  and  they  had  not  even 
yet  resolved  what  they  had  better  do  respecting  that  unfortunate 
man  who  was  living  in  seclusion  on  the  hill-top  near  Siena.  They 
had  consulted  lawyers  and  doctors  in  Florence,  but  it  had  seemed 
that  everybody  there  was  afraid  of  putting  the  law  in  force  against  an 
Englishman.  Doubtless  there  was  a  law  in  respect  to  the  custody 
of  the  insane  ;  and  it  was  admitted  that  if  Trevelyan  were  danger- 
ously mad  something  could  be  done  ;  but  it  seemed  that  nobody  was 
willing  to  stir  in  such  a  case  as  that  which  now  existed.  Something, 
it  was  said,  might  be  done  at  some  future  time ;  but  the  difficulties 
were  so  great  that  nothing  could  be  done  now. 


THK    BATHS   OF    LUCCA.  271 

It  was  very  sad,  because  it  was  necessary  that  some  decision 
should  be  made  as  to  the  future  residence  of  Mrs.  Trevelyan  and 
of  Nora.  Emily  had  declared  that  nothing  should  induce  her  to 
go  to  the  Islands  with  her  father  and  mother  unless  her  boy  went 
with  her.  Since  her  journey  to  Casalunga  she  had  also  expressed 
her  unwillingness  to  leave  her  husband.  Her  heart  had  been  greatly 
softened  towards  him,  and  she  had  declared  that  where  he  remained, 
there  would  she  remain, — as  near  to  him  as  circumstances  would 
admit.  It  might  be  that  at  last  her  care  would  be  necessary 
for  his  comfort.  He  supplied  her  with  means  of  living,  and 
she  would  use  these  means  as  well  as  she  might  be  able  in  his 
service. 

Then  there  had  aiiscn  the  question  of  Nora's  future  residence. 
And  there  had  come  troubles  and  storms  in  the  family.  Nora 
had  said  that  she  would  not  go  back  to  the  Mandarins,  but  had  not 
at  first  been  able  to  say  where  or  how  she  would  live.  She  had 
suggested  that  she  might  stay  with  her  sister,  but  her  father  had 
insisted  that  she  could  not  live  on  the  income  supplied  by  Trevelj'an. 
Then,  when  pressed  hard,  she  had  declared  that  she  intended  to 
live  on  Hugh  Stanbury's  income.  She  would  marry  him  at  once, 
— with  her  fiither's  leave,  if  she  could  get  it,  but  without  it  if  it 
needs  must  be  so.  Her  mother  told  her  that  Hugh  Stanbury  was 
not  himself  ready  for  her;  he  had  not  even  proposed  so  hasty  a 
marriage,  nor  had  he  any  home  fitted  for  her.  Lady  Rowley,  in 
arguing  this,  had  expressed  no  assent  to  the  marriage,  even  as  a 
distant  arrangement,  but  had  thought  thus  to  vanquish  her  daughter 
by  suggesting  small  but  insuperable  difficulties.  On  a  sudden, 
however.  Lady  Rowley  found  that  all  this  was  turned  against  her, 
by  an  ofi'tr  that  came  direct  from  Mr.  Glascock.  His  Caroline,  ho 
said,  was  very  anxious  that  Nora  should  come  to  them  at  Monkhams 
as  soon  as  they  had  returned  home  from  Switzerland.  They  intended 
to  be  there  by  the  middle  of  August,  and  would  hurry  there  sooner, 
if  there  was  any  intermediate  difficulty  about  finding  a  home  for 
Nora.  Mr.  Glascock  said  nothing  about  Hugh  Stanbury  ;  but,  of 
course,  Lady  Rowley  understood  that  Nora  had  told  all  her  troubles 
and  hopes  to  Caroline,  and  that  Caroline  had  told  them  to  her  future 
husband.  Lady  Rowley,  in  answer  to  this,  could  only  say  that  she 
would  consult  her  husband. 

Tiiore  was  something  very  grievous  in  the  proposition  to  Lady 
Rowley.  If  Nora  had  not  been  self-willed  and  stiff-necked  beyond 
the  usual  self-willedness  and  stiff-neckedness  of  young  women  she 


272  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

might  have  been  herself  the  mistress  of  Monkhams.  It  was  pro- 
posed now  that  she  should  go  there  to  wait  till  a  poor  man  should 
have  got  together  shillings  enough  to  buy  a  few  chairs  and  tables, 
and  a  bed  to  lie  upon!  The  thought  of  this  was  very  bitter.  "I 
cannot  think,  Nora,  how  you  could  have  the  heart  to  go  there,"  said 
Lady  llowley. 

"  I  cannot  understand  why  not,  mamma.  Caroline  and  I  arc 
friends,  and  surely  he  and  I  need  not  be  enemies.  He  has  never 
injured  me  ;  and  if  he  does  not  take  offence,  why  should  I  ?" 

''If  you  don't  see  it,  I  can't  help  it,"  said  Lady  Rowley. 

And  then  IMrs.  Spalding's  triumph  was  terrible  to  Lady  Rowley. 
Mrs.  Spalding  knew  nothing  of  her  future  son-in-law's  former  passion, 
and  spoke  of  her  Caroline  as  having  achieved  triumphs  beyond 
the  reach  of  other  girls.  Lady  Rowley  bore  it,  never  absolutely 
telling  the  tale  of  her  daughter's  fruitless  victory.  She  was  too 
good  at  heart  to  utter  the  boast ; — but  it  was  very  hard  to  repress 
it.  Upon  the  whole  she  would  have  preferred  that  Mr.  Glascock 
and  his  bride  should  not  have  become  the  fast  friends  of  herself 
and  her  family.  There  was  more  of  pain  than  of  pleasure  in  the 
alliance.  But  circumstances  had  been  too  strong  for  her.  Mr. 
Glascock  had  been  of  great  use  in  reference  to  Trevelyan,  and 
Caroline  and  Nora  had  become  attached  to  each  other  almost  on  their 
first  acquaintance.  Here  they  were  together  at  the  Baths  of  Lucca, 
and  Nora  was  to  be  one  of  the  four  bridesmaids.  "WTaen  Sir 
Marmaduke  was  consulted  about  this  visit  to  Monkhams,  he  became 
fretful,  and  would  give  no  answer.  The  marriage,  he  said,  was 
impossible,  and  Nora  was  a  fool.  He  could  give  her  no  allowance 
more  than  would  suffice  for  her  clothes,  and  it  was  madness  for 
her  to  think  of  stopping  in  England.  But  he  was  so  full  of  cares 
that  he  could  come  to  no  absolute  decision  on  this  matter.  Nora, 
however,  had  come  to  a  very  absolute  decision. 

"  Caroline,"  she  said,  "  if  you  will  have  me,  I  will  go  to 
Monkhams." 

"  Of  course  we  Avill  have  you.  Has  not  Charles  said  how  delighted 
he  would  be?" 

"  Oh  yes, — your  Charles,"  said  Nora,  laughing. 

"  He  is  mine  now,  dear.  You  must  not  expect  him  to  change  his 
mind  again.  I  gave  him  the  chance,  yovi  know,  and  he  would  not 
take  it.  But,  Nora,  come  to  Monkhams,  and  stay  as  long  as  it  suits. 
I  have  talked  it  all  over  with  him,  and  we  both  agree  that  you  shall 
have  a  home  there.    You  shall  be  just  like  a  sister.     Olivia  is  coming 


rilF,    nATHS  OF   LUCCA.  273 

too  lifter  a  bit  ;  but  he  says  there  is  room  for  a  dozen  sisters.  Of 
course  it  will  he  all  right  -with  Mr.  Stanhury  after  a  while."  And  so 
it  was  settled  among  them  that  Nora  Rowley  should  find  a  home  at 
Monkhams,  if  a  home  in  England  should  he  wanted  for  her. 

It  wanted  hut  four  days  to  that  fixed  for  the  marriage  at  Florence, 
and  hut  six  to  that  on  which  the  Rowleys  were  to  leave  Italy  for 
England,  when  Mr.  Glascock  received  Trevelyan's  letter.  It  was 
hrought  to  him  as  he  was  sitting  at  a  late  breakfast  in  the  garden  of 
the  hotel ;  and  there  were  present  at  the  moment  not  only  all  the 
Spalding  family,  but  the  Rowleys  also.  Sir  Marmaduke  was  there 
and  Lady  Rowley,  and  the  three  unmarried  daughters ;  but  Mrs. 
Trevelyan,  as  was  her  wont,  had  remained  alone  in  her  own  room. 
Mr.  Glascock  read  the  letter,  and  read  it  again,  without  attracting 
much  attention.  Caroline,  who  was  of  course  sitting  next  to  him, 
had  her  eyes  upon  him,  and  could  sec  that  the  letter  moved  him  ;  hut 
she  was  not  curious,  and  at  any  rate  asked  no  question.  He  himself 
understood  fully  how  gi-eat  was  the  ofier  made, — how  all-important  to 
the  happiness  of  the  poor  mother, — and  he  was  also  aware,  or  thought 
that  he  was  aware,  how  likely  it  might  be  that  the  offer  would  he 
retracted.  As  regarded  himself,  a  journey  from  the  Baths  at  Lucca 
to  Casalunga  and  back  before  his  marriage,  would  be  a  great  infliction 
on  his  patience.  It  was  his  plan  to  stay  where  he  was  till  the  day 
before  his  marriage,  and  then  to  return  to  Florence  with  the  rest  of 
the  party.  All  this  must  be  altered,  and  sudden  changes  must  be 
made,  if  he  decided  on  going  to  Siena  himself.  The  weather  now 
was  veiy  hot,  and  such  a  journey  would  be  most  disagi'eeable  to  him. 
Of  course  he  had  little  schemes  in  his  head,  little  amatory  schemes 
for  pra^nuptial  enjoyment,  which,  in  spite  of  his  mature  years,  were 
exceedingly  agreeable  to  him.  The  chestnut  woods  round  the  Baths 
of  Lucca  are  very  pleasant  in  the  early  summer,  and  there  were 
excursions  planned  in  which  Caroline  would  be  close  by  his  side, — 
almost  already  his  wife.  But,  if  he  did  not  go,  whom  could  he  send  ? 
It  would  be  necessary  at  least  that  he  should  consult  her,  the  mother 
of  the  child,  before  any  decision  was  formed. 

At  last  he  took  Lady  Rowley  aside,  and  read  to  her  the  letter. 
She  understood  at  once  that  it  opened  almost  a  heaven  of  bliss  to  her 
daughter  ; — and  she  understood  also  how  probable  it  might  be  that 
that  wretched  man,  with  his  shaken  wits,  should  change  his  mind. 
"  I  think  I  ought  to  go,"  said  Mr.  Glascock. 

"  But  how  can  you  go  now  ?" 

"  I  ran  go,"  said  he.     "  There  is  time  for  it.     It  need  not  put  off 


274  3IE    KNEAV    HE   WAS   RTGIIT. 

my  marriage, — to  Avliich  of  course  I  could  not  consent.     I  do  not 
know  wliom  I  could  send." 

"  Monnier  could  go,"  said  Lady  Eowley,  naming  the  courier. 

"  Yes  ; — he  could  go.  But  it  might  be  that  he  would  return  with- 
out the  child,  and  then  we  should  not  forgive  ourselves.  I  will  go, 
Lady  Rowley.  After  all,  what  does  it  signify  ?  I  am  a  little  old,  I 
sometimes  think,  for  this  philandering.  You  shall  take  his  letter  to 
your  daughter,  and  I  will  explain  it  all  to  Caroline." 

Caroline  had  not  a  word  to  say.  She  could  only  kiss  him,  and 
promise  to  make  him  what  amends  she  could  when  he  came  back. 
"  Of  course  you  are  right,"  she  said.  "  Do  you  think  that  I  would 
say  a  word  against  it,  even  though  the  marriage  were  to  be  post- 
poned?" 

"  I  should  ; — a  good  many  words.  But  I  will  bo  back  in  time  for 
that,  and  will  bring  the  boy  with  me." 

Mrs.  Trevelyan,  when  her  husband's  letter  was  read  to  her,  was 
almost  overcome  by  the  feelings  which  it  excited.  In  her  first 
paroxysm  of  joy  she  declared  that  she  would  herself  go  to  Siena,  not 
for  her  child's  sake,  but  for  that  of  her  husband.  She  felt  at  once 
that  the  boy  was  being  given  up  because  of  the  father's  weakness, — 
because  he  felt  himself  to  be  unable  to  be  a  protector  to  his  son, — 
and  her  woman's  heart  was  melted  with  softness  as  she  thought  of 
the  condition  of  the  man  to  whom  she  had  once  given  her  whole  heart. 
Since  then,  doubtless,  her  heart  had  revolted  from  him.  Since  that 
time  there  had  come  hours  in  which  she  had  almost  hated  him 
for  his  cruelty  to  her.  There  had  been  moments  in  which  she  had 
almost  cursed  his  name  because  of  the  aspersion  which  it  had  seemed 
that  he  had  thrown  upon  her.  But  this  was  now  forgotten,  and  she 
remembered  only  his  weakness.  "Mamma,"  she  said,  "  I  will  go. 
It  is  my  duty  to  go  to  him."  But  Lady  Rowley  withheld  her,  explain- 
ing that  were  she  to  go,  the  mission  might  probably  fail  in  its  express 
purpose.  "  Let  Louey  be  sent  to  us  first,"  said  Lady  Rowley,  "  and 
then  we  will  see  what  can  be  done  afterwards." 

And  so  Mr.  Glascock  started,  taking  with  him  a  maid-servant  who 
might  help  him  with  the  charge  of  the  child.  It  was  certainly  very 
hard  upon  him.  In  order  to  have  time  for  his  journey  to  Siena  and 
back,  and  time  also  to  go  out  to  Casalunga,  it  was  necessary  that  he 
should  leave  the  Baths  at  five  in  the  morning.  "  If  ever  there  was  a 
hero  of  romance,  you  are  he  ! "  said  Nora  to  him. 

"  The  heroes  of  life  are  so  much  better  than  the  heroes  of  romance,'* 
said  Caroline. 


THE    BATHS   OF    LUCCA.  275 

"  That  is  a  lesson  from  the  lips  of  tho  American  Browning,"  said 
Mr.  Glascock.  "Nevertheless,  I  think  I  would  rather  ride  a  charge 
against  a  Paynim  knight  in  Palestine  than  get  up  at  half-past  four  in 
the  morning." 

"  We  will  get  up  too,  and  give  the  knight  his  coflce,"  said  Xora. 
They  did  get  up,  and  saw  him  ofT;  and  when  Mr.  Glascock  and  Caro- 
line parted  with  a  lover's  embrace,  Xora  stood  by  as  a  sister  might 
have  done.  Let  us  hope  that  she  remembered  that  her  own  time  was 
coming. 

There  had  been  a  promise  given  by  Nora,  when  she  left  London, 
that  she  would  not  correspond  with  Hugh  Stanbury  while  she  was  in 
Italy,  and  this  promise  had"  been  kept.  It  may  bo  remembered  that 
Hugh  had  made  a  proposition  to  his  lady-love,  that  she  should  walk 
out  of  the  house  one  fine  morning,  and  get  herself  married  without 
any  reference  to  her  father's  or  her  mother's  wishes.  But  she  had 
not  been  willing  to  take  upon  herself  as  yet  independence  so  com- 
plete as  this  would  have  required.  She  had  assured  her  lover  that 
she  did  mean  to  marry  him  some  day,  even  though  it  should  be  in 
opposition  to  her  father,  but  that  she  thought  that  the  period  for  filial 
persuasion  was  not  yet  over  ;  and  then,  in  explaining  all  this  to  her 
mother,  she  had  given  a  promise  neither  to  write  nor  to  receive 
letters  during  the  short  period  of  her  sojoui'n  in  Italy.  She  would  be 
an  obedient  child  for  so  long ; — but,  after  that,  she  must  claim  tho 
right  to  fight  her  own  battle.  She  had  told  her  lover  that  he  must 
not  write ;  and,  of  course,  she  had  not  written  a  word  herself.  But 
now,  when  her  mother  thi-ew  it  in  her  teeth  that  Stanbury  would  not 
be  ready  to  marry  her,  she  thought  that  an  unfair  advantage  was 
being  taken  of  her, — and  of  him.  How  could  he  be  expected  to  say 
that  he  was  ready, — deprived  as  he  was  of  the  power  of  saying 
anything  at  all  ? 

"  Mamma,"  she  said,  the  day  before  they  went  to  Florence,  "  has 
papa  fixed  about  your  leaving  England  yet  ?  I  suppose  you'll  go 
now  on  the  last  Saturday  in  July  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  we  shall,  my  dear." 

"  Has  not  papa  wi'itten  about  the  berths  ?  " 

"  I  believe  he  has,  my  dear." 

"  Because  he  ought  to  know  who  are  going.     I  will  not  go." 

"  You  will  not,  Nora.     Is  that  a  proper  way  of  speaking  ?  " 

"Dear  mamma,  I  mean  it  to  be  proper.  I  hope  it  is  proper.  But 
is  it  not  best  that  we  should  understand  each  other.  All  my  life 
depends  on  my  going  or  my  staying  now.     I  must  decide." 


276  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

V 

"  After  what  has  passed,  you  do  not,  I  suppose,  mean  to  live  Iv 
Mr.  Glascock's  house?" 

"Certainly  not.  I  mean  to  live  ■with,' — with, — with  my  husband. 
Mamma,  I  promised  not  to  write,  and  I  have  not  written.  And  he 
has  not  written, — because  I  told  him  not.  Therefore,  nothing  is  set- 
tled. But  it  is  not  fair  to  throw  it  in  my  teeth  that  nothing  is 
settled." 

"  I  have  throAvn  nothing  in  your  teeth,  Nora." 

"  Papa  talks  sneeringly  about  chairs  and  tables.  Of  course,  I  know 
what  he  is  thinking  of.  As  I  cannot  go  with  him  to  the  Mandarins, 
I  think  I  ought  to  be  allowed  to  look  after  the  chairs  and  tables." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  That  you  should  absolve  me  from  my  promise,  and  let  me  write 
to  Mr.  Stanbmy.     I  do  not  want  to  be  left  without  a  home." 

"  You  cannot  wish  to  Avrite  to  a  gentleman  and  ask  him  to  marry 
you!" 

"  Why  not  ?  We  are  engaged.  I  shall  not  ask  him  to  marry  mc, 
— that  is  already  settled ;  but  I  shall  ask  him  to  make  arrangements." 

"  Your  papa  will  be  very  angry  if  you  break  your  w^ord  to  him." 

"  I  will  write,  and  show  you  the  letter.  Papa  may  see  it,  and  if  he 
will  not  let  it  go,  it  shall  not  go.  He  shall  not  say  that  I  broke  my 
word.  But,  mamma,  I  will  not  go  out  to  the  Islands.  I  should  never 
get  back  again,  and  I  should  be  broken-hearted."  Lady  Rowley  had 
nothing  to  say  to  this  ;  and  Nora  went  and  wrote  her  letter.  "  Dear 
Hugh,"  the  letter  ran,  "  Papa  and  mamma  leave  England  on  the  last 
Saturday  in  July.  I  have  told  mamma  that  I  cannot  return  with 
them.  Of  course,  you  know  why  I  stay.  Mr.  Glascock  is  to  be 
married  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  they  have  asked  me  to  go  vdth 
them  to  Monkhams  some  time  in  August.  I  think  I  shall  do  so, 
unless  Emily  wants  me  to  remain  with  her.  At  any  rate,  I  shall  try 
to  be  with  her  till  I  go  there.  You  will  understand  why  I  tell  you 
all  this.  Papa  and  mamma  knoAV  that  I  am  writing.  It  is  only  a 
business  letter,  and,  therefore,  I  shall  say  no  more,  except  that  I  am 
ever  and  always  yours, — Nora."  "  There,"  she  said,  handing  her 
letter  to  her  mother,  "  I  think  that  that  ought  to  be  sent.  If  papa 
chooses  to  prevent  its  going,  he  can." 

Lady  Rowley,  when  she  handed  the  letter  to  her  husband,  recom- 
mended that  it  should  be  allowed  to  go  to  its  destination.  She 
admitted  that,  if  they  sent  it,  they  would  thereby  signify  their  con- 
sent to  her  engagement ; — and  she  alleged  that  Nora  was  so  strong 
in  her  will,  and  that  the   circumstances   of  their  journey  out  to  the 


TIIK    UATHS    OF    LUCCA.  277 

"Antipodes  were  so  peculiar,  that  it  was  of  no  avail  for  them  any 
longer  to  oppose  the  match.  They  could  not  force  their  daughter  to 
go  with  them.  "But  I  can  cast  her  off  from  me,  if  she  he  disohe- 
dient,"  said  Sir  Marmadukc.  Lady  Rowley,  however,  had  no  desire 
that  her  daughter  should  bo  cast  olT,  and  was  aware  that  Sii*  Marma- 
duke,  when  it  came  to  the  point  of  casting  off,  would  be  as  little 
inclined  to  be  stern  as  she  was  herself.  Sir  Marmaduke,  still  hoping 
that  firmness  would  carry  the  day,  and  believing  that  it  behoved  him 
to  maintain  his  parental  authority,  ended  the  discussion  by  keeping 
possession  of  the  letter,  and  saying  that  he  would  take  time  to  con- 
sider the  matter.  "  What  security  have  we  that  he  will  ever  marry 
her,  if  she  does  stay?"  he  asked  the  next  morning.  Lady  Rowley 
had  no  doubt  on  this  score,  and  protested  that  her  opposition  to 
Hugh  Stanbury  arose  simply  from  his  want  of  income.  "I  should 
never  be  justified,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  "  if  I  were  to  go  and  leave 
my  girl  as  it  were  in  the  hands  of  a  penny-a-lincr."  The  letter,  in  the 
end,  was  not  sent ;  and  Nora  and  her  father  hardly  spoke  to  each  other 
as  they  made  their  journey  back  to  Florence  together. 

Emily  Trevelyan,  before  the  arrival  of  that  letter  from  her  hus- 
band, had  determined  that  she  would  not  leave  Italy.  It  had  been 
her  pui"pose  to  remain  somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood  of  her  hus- 
band and  child ;  and  to  overcome  her  difficulties, — or  be  overcome  by 
them,  as  circumstances  might  direct.  Now  her  plans  were  again 
changed, — or,  rather,  she  was  now  without  a  plan.  She  could  form 
no  plan  till  she  should  again  see  Mr.  Glascock.  Should  her  child  be 
restored  to  her,  would  it  not  be  her  duty  to  remain  near  her  hus- 
band? All  this  made  Nora's  line  of  i;onduct  the  more  difficult  for 
her.  It  was  acknowledged  that  she  could  not  remain  in  Italy.  Mrs. 
Trevelyan's  position  would  be  most  embarrassing ;  but  as  all  her 
efforts  were  to  be  used  towards  a  reconciliation  with  her  husband, 
and  as  his  state  utterly  precluded  the  idea  of  a  mixed  household, — of 
any  such  a  family  arrangement  as  that  which  had  existed  in  Curzou 
Street, — ^Nora  could  not  remain  with  her.  Mrs.  Trevelyan  herself 
had  declared  that  she  would  not  wish  it.  And,  in  that  case,  where 
was  Nora  to  bestow  herself  when  Sir  Marmaduke  and  Lady  Rowley 
liad  sailed  ?  Caroline  offered  to  curtail  those  honeymoon  weeks 
in  Switzerland,  but  it  was  impossible  to  listen  to  an  ofler  so 
magnanimous  and  so  unreasonable.  Nora  had  a  dim  romantic  idea 
of  sharing  Priscilhi's  bedroom  in  that  small  cottage  near  Nuncombe 
Putney,  of  which  she  had  beard,  and  of  there  learning  lessons  in  strict 
economy ; — but  of  this  she  said  nothing.     The  short  journey  from 


278  HE   KNEW   HE    WAS   KTGHT. 

the  Batbs  of  Lucca  to  Florence  Avas  not  a  pleasant  one,  and  tho 
Kowley  family  were  much  disturbed  as  they  looked  into  the  future. 
Lodgings  had  now  been  taken  for  them,  and  there  was  the  gi-eat 
additional  doubt  Avhethcr  Mrs.  Trevelyan  would  find  her  child  there 
on  her  arrival. 

The  Spaldings  went  one  way  from  the  Florence  station,  and  the 
Eowleys  another.  The  American  Minister  had  returned  to  the  city 
some  days  previously, — drawn  there  nominally  by  pleas  of  business, 
but,  in  truth,  by  the  necessities  of  the  wedding  breakfast, — and  he 
met  them  at  the  station.  "Has  Mr.  Glascock  come  back?"  Nora 
was  tho  first  to  ask.  Yes ; — he  had  come.  He  had  been  in  the 
city  since  two  o'clock,  and  had  been  up  at  the  American  Minister's 
house  for  half  a  minute.  "  Aiid  has  he  brought  the  child?"  asked 
Caroline,  relieved  of  doubt  on  her  own  account.  Mr.  Spalding  did 
did  not  know ; — indeed,  he  had  not  interested  himself  quite  so 
intently  about  Mrs.  Trevel3'an's  little  boy,  as  had  all  those  who 
had  just  returned  from  the  Baths.  Mr.  Glascock  had  said  nothing 
to  him  about  the  child,  and  he  had  not  quite  understood  why  such 
a  man  should  have  made  a  journey  to  Siena,  leaving  his  sweetheart 
behind  him,  just  on  the  eve  of  his  marriage.  He  hui-ried  his  women- 
kind  into  their  carriage,  and  they  were  driven  away  ;  and  then  Sir 
Marmaduke  was  driven  away  with  his  women-kind.  Caroline 
Spalding  had  perhaps  thought  that  Mr.  Glascock  might  have  been 
there  to  meet  her. 


CHAPTER  LXXX^^. 

3IB.  GLASCOCK  AS  NURSE. 


A  MESSAGE  had  been  sent  by  the  wires  to  Trevelyan,  to  let  him 
know  that  Mr.  Glascock  was  himself  coming  for  the  boy.  "Whether 
such  message  would  or  would  not  be  sent  out  to  Casalunga  Mr. 
Glascock  had  been  quite  ignorant ; — but  it  could,  at  any  rate,  do 
no  harm.  He  did  feel  it  hard  as  in  this  hot  weather  he  made 
the  journey,  first  to  Florence,  and  then  on  to  Siena.  "\^Tiat  was 
he  to  the  Eowleys,  or  to  Trevelyan  himself,  that  such  a  job  of 
work  should  fall  to  his  lot  at  such  a  period  of  his  life  ?  He  had 
been  very  much  in  love  Avith  Nora,  no  doubt;  but,  luckily  for 
him,  as  he  thought,  Nora  had  refused  him.  As  for  Trevelyan, — 
Trevelyan  had  never  been  his  friend.     As  for  Sir  Marmaduke, — Sir 


*  MR.    GLASCOCK    AS    NURSE.  279 

3I;irniaduko  was  nothing  to  him.  He  "was  almost  angry  even  with 
^Ii-s.  Trevelyan  as  ho  arrived  tired,  heated,  and  very  dusty,  at  Siena. 
It  was  his  pui-poso  to  sleep  at  Siena  that  night,  and  to  go  out  to 
Casalunga  early  the  next  morning.  If  the  telegram  had  not  been 
forwarded,  he  would  send  a  message  on  that  evening.  On  inquiry, 
however,  he  found  that  the  message  had  been  sent,  and  that  the 
paper  had  been  put  into  the  Signore's  own  hand  by  the  Sieneso 
messenger.  Then  he  got  into  some  discourse  with  the  landlord 
about  the  strange  gentleman  at  Casalunga.  Trevelyan  was  beginning 
to  become  the  subject  of  gossip  in  the  town,  and  people  were  saying 
that  the  stranger  was  very  strange  indeed.  The  landlord  thought 
that  if  the  Signore  had  any  friends  at  all,  it  would  be  well  that 
such  friends  should  come  and  look  after  him.  Mr.  Glascock  asked 
if  Mr.  Trevelyan  was  ill.  It  was  not  only  that  the  Signore  was  out 
of  health, — so  the  landlord  heard, — but  that  ho  was  also  some- 
what  And  then  the  landlord  touched  his  head.     He  eat  nothing, 

and  went  nowhere,  and  spoke  to  no  one  ;  and  the  people  at  the 
hospital  to  which  Casalunga  belonged  were  beginning  to  bo  uneasy 
about  their  tenant.  Perhaps  Mr.  Glascock  had  come  to  take  him 
away.  Mr.  Glascock  explained  that  he  had  not  come  to  take  Mr. 
Trevelyan  away, — but  only  to  take  aAvay  a  little  boy  that  was  with 
him.  For  this  reason  he  was  travelling  with  a  maid-servant, — 
a  fact  for  which  Mr.  Glascock  clearly  thought  it  necessary  that  he 
should  give  an  intelligible  and  credible  explanation.  The  landlord 
seemed  to  think  that  the  people  at  the  hospital  would  have  been 
much  rejoiced  had  Mr.  Glascock  intended  to  take  Mr.  Trevelyan 
away  also. 

He  started  after  a  very  early  breakfast,  and  found  himself  walking 
up  over  the  stone  ridges  to  the  house  between  nine  and  ten  in  the 
morning.  He  himself  had  sat  beside  the  driver  and  had  put  the 
maid  inside  the  carriage.  He  had  not  deemed  it  Aviso  to  take  an 
undivided  charge  of  the  boy  even  from  Casalunga  to  Siena.  At 
the  door  of  the  house,  as  though  waiting  for  him,  he  found  Trevelyan, 
not  dirty  as  he  had  been  before,  but  dressed  Avlth  much  appearance 
of  smartness.  He  had  a  brocaded  cap  on  his  head,  and  a  shirt 
with  a  laced  front,  and  a  worked  waistcoat,  and  a  frockcoat,  and 
coloured  bright  trowsers.  Mr.  Glascock  knew  at  onco  that  all  tho 
clothes  which  he  saw  before  him  had  been  made  for  Italian  and  not 
for  Enghsh  wear ;  and  could  almost  have  said  that  they  had  been 
bought  in  Siena  and  not  in  Florence.  "I  had  not  intended  to 
impose  this  labour  on  you,  Mr.  Glascock,"  Trevelyan  said,  raising 
his  cap  to  salute  his  visitor. 


280  HE   KNEW   HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

"  For  fear  there  might  be  mistakes,  I  thought  it  better  to  come 
myself,"  said  Mr.  Glascock.  "  You  did  not  wish  to  see  Sir  Mur- 
maduke?" 

"  Certainly  not  Sir  Marmadukc,"  said  Trevelyan,  with  a  look 
of  anger  that  was  almost  grotesque. 

"  And  you  thought  it  better  that  Mrs.  Trevelyan  should  not  come." 

"  Yes  ; — I  thought  it  better  ; — but  not  from  any  feeling  of  anger 
towards  her.  If  I  could  welcome  my  wife  here,  Mr.  Glascock, 
Avithout  a  risk  of  wrath  on  her  part,  I  should  be  very  happy  to 
receive  her.  I  love  my  wife,  Mr.  Glascock.  I  love  her  dearly. 
But  there  have  been  misfortunes.  Never  mind.  There  is  no  reason 
why  I  should  trouble  you  with  them.  Let  us  go  in  to  breakfast. 
After  your  drive  you  will  have  an  appetite." 

Poor  Mr.  Glascock  was  afraid  to  decline  to  sit  down  to  the  meal 
which  was  prepared  for  him.  He  did  mutter  something  about 
having  already  eaten,  but  Trevelyan  put  this  aside  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand  as  he  led  the  way  into  a  spacious  room,  in  which 
had  been  set  out  a  table  with  almost  a  sumptuous  banquet.  The 
room  was  very  bare  and  comfortless,  having  neither  curtains  nor 
matting,  and  containing  not  above  half  a  dozen  chairs.  But  an  effort 
had  been  made  to  give  it  an  air  of  Italian  luxury.  The  windows 
were  thrown  open,  down  to  the  ground,  and  the  table  was  decorated 
with  fruits  and  three  or  four  long-necked  bottles.  Trevelyan  waved 
with  his  hand  towards  an  arm-chair,  and  Mr.  Glascock  had  no 
alternative  but  to  seat  himself.  He  felt  that  he  was  sitting  down 
to  breakfast  with  a  madman  ;  but  if  he  did  not  sit  down,  the  mad- 
man might  perhaps  break  out  into  madness.  Then  Trevelyan  went 
to  the  door  and  called  aloud  for  Catarina.  "  In  these  remote  places," 
said  he,  "  one  has  to  do  without  the  civilisation  of  a  bell.  Perhaps 
one  gains  as  much  in  quiet  as  one  loses  in  comfort."  Then  Catarina 
came  with  hot  meats  and  fried  potatoes,  and  Mr.  Glascock  was 
compelled  to  help  himself. 

"I  am  but  a  bad  trencherman  myself,"  said  Trevelyan,  "but  I 
shall  lament  my  misfortvme  doubly  if  that  should  interfere  with  your 
appetite."  Then  he  got  up  and  poured  out  wine  into  Mr.  Glascock's 
glass.  "  They  tell  mc  that  it  comes  from  the  Baron's  vineyard," 
said  Trevelyan,  alluding  to  the  wine-farm  of  Eicasoli,  "  and  that 
there  is  none  better  in  Tuscany.  I  never  was  myself  a  judge  ;of 
the  grape,  but  this  to  me  is  as  palatable  as  any  of  the  costlier  French 
wines.  How  grand  a  thing  would  wine  really  be,  if  it  could  make 
glad  the  heart  of  man.     How  truly  would  one  worship  Bacchus  if 


-MH.    OLASCOCK    AS   NURSK.  281 

be  could  make  ouc's  heart  to  rejoice.  But  if  a  mau  Lavo  a  real 
sorrow,  Avinc  "will  not  ■wash  it  away, — not  though  a  mau  were  drowned 
in  it,  ns  Clarence  was." 

Mr.  Glascock  hitherto  had  spoken  hardly  a  word.  There  was 
an  attempt  at  joviality  about  this  breakfast, — or,  at  any  rate,  of 
the  usual  comfortable  luxury  of  hospitable  entertainment, — which, 
coming  as  it  did  from  Treveh^an,  almost  locked  his  lips.  He  had 
not  come  there  to  to  be  jovial  or  luxurious,  but  to  perform  a  most 
melancholy  mission ;  and  he  had  brought  with  him  his  saddest  looks, 
and  was  prepared  for  a  few  sad  words.  Trevelyan's  speech,  indeed, 
was  sad  enough,  but  Mr.  Glascock  could  not  take  up  questions  of 
the  worship  of  Bacchus  at  half  a  minute's  warning.  He  eat  a 
morsel,  and  raised  his  glass  to  his  lips,  and  felt  himself  to  be  very 
uncomfortable.  It  was  necessary,  however,  that  he  should  utter 
a  word.  "Do  you  not  let  your  little  boj-  come  in  to  breakfast?" 
he  said. 

"He  is  better  away,"  said  Trevelyan  gloomily. 

"But  as  we  are  to  travel  together,"  said  Mr.  Glasccck,  "'  wc  might 
as  well  make  acquaintance." 

"  You  have  been  a  little  hurried  with  me  on  that  score,"  said 
Trevelyan.  "  I  wrote  certainly  with  a  determined  mind,  but  things 
have  changed  somewhat  since  then." 

"  You  do  not  mean  that  you  will  not  send  him  ?" 

"  You  have  been  somewhat  hui-ricd  with  me,  I  say.  If  I  remember 
rightly,  I  named  no  time,  but  spoke  of  the  future.  Could  I  have 
answered  the  message  which  I  received  from  you,  I  would  have  post- 
poned yoiu-  visit  for  a  week  or  so." 

"  Postponed  it !  ^Vhy, — I  am  to  bo  married  the  day  after  to- 
moiTow.  It  was  just  as  much  as  I  was  able  to  do,  to  come  here  at 
all."  Mr.  Glascock  now  pushed  his  chair  back  from  the  table,  and 
prepared  himself  to  speak  up.  "  Your  wife  expects  her  child  now, 
and  you  will  never  break  her  heart  by  refusing  to  send  him." 

"  Nobody  thinks  of  my  heart,  Mr.  Glascock." 

"  But  this  is  your  own  oiler." 

"Yes,  it  was  my  own  offer,  certainly.  I  am  not  going  to  deny 
my  own  Avords,  which  have  no  doubt  been  preserved  in  testimony 
against  me." 

"Mr.  Trevelyan,  Avhat  do  you  mean?"  Then,  when  he  was  ou 
the  point  of  boiling  over  with  passion,  Mr.  Glascock  remembered  that 
his  companion  was  not  responsible  for  his  expressions.  "  I  do  hope 
you  Avill  let  the  child  go  away  with  me,"  he  tsaid.     "  You  cannot 

VOL.  IT.  N  "•'•' 


282  HE   KNEW   HE    WAS    RRiHT. 

conceive  the  sUite  of  bis  molLcr's  anxiety,  and  she  will  send  hiuj 
back  at  once  if  you  demand  it." 

'•  Is  that  to  be  in  good  faith  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  in  good  faith,  I  would  lend  myself  to  nothing,  Mr. 
Trevelyan,  that  was  not  said  and  done  in  good  faith." 

"  She  will  not  break  her  word,  excusing  herself,  because  I  am 

mad?" 

"  I  am  sure  that  there  is  nothing  of  the  kind  in  her  mind." 

"Perhaps  not  now;  but  such  things  grow.  There  is  no  iniquity,, 
no  breach  of  promise,  no  treason  that  a  woman  will  not  excuse  to 
herself, — or  a  man  either, — by  the  comfortable  self-assiu'ance  that  the 

l^erson  to  be  injured  is mad.     A  hound  without  a  friend  is  not  so 

cruelly  treated.  The  outlaw,  the  murderer,  the  peijurer  has  surer 
privileges  than  the  man  who  is  in  the  way,  and  to  whom  his  friends 

can  point  as  being mad  !  "    Mr.  Glascock  knew  or  thought  that  he 

knew  that  his  host  in  truth  was  mad,  and  he  could  not,  therefore, 
answer  this  tirade  by  an  assurance  that  no  such  idea  was  likely  to 
prevail.  "  Have  they  told  you,  I  wonder,"  continued  Trevelyan, 
''  how  it  was  that,  driven  to  force  and  an  ambuscade  for  the  recovery 
of  my  own  child,  I  waylaid  my  wife  and  took  him  from  her  ?  I  have 
done  nothing  to  forfeit  my  right  as  a  man  to  the  control  of  my  o\ni 
family.  I  demanded  that  the  boy  should  be  sent  to  me,  and  she  paid 
no  attention  to  my  w'ords.  I  was  compelled  to  vindicate  my  owni 
authority ;  and  then,  because  I  claimed  the  right  which  belongs  to  a 

father,  they  said  that  I  was mad !     Ay,   and  they  would  have 

proved  it,  too,  had  I  not  tied  from  my  country  and  hidden  myself  in 
this  desert.  Think  of  that,  Mr.  Glascock !  Now^  they  have  foUow^ed 
me  here, — not  out  of  love  for  me ;  and  that  man  whom  they  call 
a  governor  comes  and  insults  me ;  and  my  wife  promises  to  be 
good  to  me,  and  says  that  she  will  forgive  and  forget !  Can  she 
ever  forgive  herself  her  own  folly,  and  the  cruelty  that  has  made 
shipwreck  of  my  life  ?  They  can  do  nothing  to  me  here ;  but  they 
would  entice  me  home  because  thei*e  they  have  friends,  an'd  can  fee 
doctors, — with  my  own  money, — and  suborn  lawyers,  and  put  me 
away, — somewhere  in  the  dark,  where  I  shall  be  no  more  heard  of 
among  men  !  As  you  are  a  man  of  honour,  Mv.  Glascock,— tell  me  ; 
is  it  not  so  ?" 

' '  I  know  nothing  of  their  plans, — beyond  this,  that  you  wrote  me 
word  that  you  would  send  them  the  boy." 

"  But  I  know  their  plans.  What  you  say  is  true.  I  did  write  you 
word, — and  I  meant  it.  Mr.  Glascock,  sitting  here  alone  from  morning 


MR.    CJLASCOCK    AS   NUKSE.  283 

t  J  niglil,  and  lyiug  down  from  night  till  morning,  without  companion- 
ship, without  love,  in  utter  misery,  I  taught  myself  to  feci  that  I 
bhould  think  more  of  her  than  of  myself." 

"If  you  are  so  unhappy  here,  come  back  yourself  with  the  child. 
Youi"  wife  would  desire  nothing  better." 

"  Yes  ; — and  submit  to  her,  and  her  father,  and  her  mother.  No, — • 
Mr.  Glascock ;  never,  never.     Let  her  come  to  me." 

"  But  you  will  not  receive  her." 

"  Let  her  come  in  a  proper  spirit,  and  I  will  receive  her.  She  is  the 
Avife  of  my  bosom,  and  I  will  receive  her  with  joy.  But  if  she  is  to  come 
to  me  and  tell  me  that  she  forgives  me, — forgives  me  for  the  evil  that 
she  has  done, — then,  sir,  she  had  better  stay  away.  Mr.  Glascock, 
you  are  going  to  be  married.  Believe  me, — no  man  should  submit  to 
be  forgiven  by  his  wife.  Everything  must  go  astray  if  that  bo  done. 
I  w'ould  rather  encounter  their  mad  doctors,  one  of  them  after  another 
till  they  had  made  me  mad ; — I  would  encounter  anything  rather  than 
that.  But,  sir,  you  neither  eat  nor  diink,  and  I  fear  that  my  speech 
disturbs  you." 

It  -w^as  like  enough  that  it  may  have  done  so.  Trcvelyan,  as  he 
h;id  been  speaking,  had  Avalkcd  about  the  room,  going  from  one  ex- 
tremity to  the  other  with  hurried  steps,  gesticulating  with  his  arms,  and 
every  now  and  then  pushing  back  with  his  hands  the  long  hair  from 
off  his  forehead.  Mr.  Glascock  was  in  truth  very  much  disturbed. 
He  had  come  there  with  an  express  object ;  but,  whenever  he  men- 
tioned the  child,  the  father  became  almost  rabid  in  his  Avrath.  "I 
have  done  very  well,  thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Glascock.  '-I  will  not 
eat  any  more,  and  I  believe  I  must  be  thinking  of  going  back  to 
Siena." 

"I  had  hoped  you  would  spend  the  day  with  me,  Mr.  Glascock." 

"I  am  to  be  married,  you  see,  in  two  days;  and  I  must  be  in 
Florence  early  to-morrow.  I  am  to  meet  my — wife,  as  she  will 
be,  and  the  Rowleys,  and  your  wife.  Upon  my  word  I  can't  stay. 
Won't  you  just  say  a  word  to  the  young  woman  and  let  the  boy 
be  got  ready  ?" 

"  I  think  not ; — no,  I  think  not." 

"  And  am  I  to  have  had  all  this  journey  for  nothing  ?  You  will 
have  made  a  fool  of  me  in  writing  to  me." 

"  I  intended  to  be  honest,  Mr.  Glascock." 

"  Stick  to  your  honesty,  and  send  the  boy  back  lo  his  mother. 
It  will  be  bettor  for  you,  Trcvelyan." 

"Better  for  me!     Nothing  can  be  bettor  for  me.     All  must  bo 


284  HF,    KNKW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

worst.  It  will  be  better  for  me,  you  say ;  and  you  ask  mo  to 
give  up  the  last  drop  of  cold  water  wherewith  I  can  touch  my  parched 
lips.  Even  in  my  hell  I  had  so  much  left  to  me  of  a  limpid  stream, 
and  you  tell  me  that  it  will  be  better  for  me  to  pour  it  away.  You 
may  take  him,  Mr.  Glascock.  The  woman  will  make  him  ready 
for  you.  What  matters  it  whether  the  fiery  furnace  be  heated 
seven  times,  or  only  six ; — in  cither  degree  the  flames  arc  enough  ! 
You  may  take  him; — you  may  take  him!"  So  saying,  Trevelyau 
walked  out  of  the  window,  leaving  Mr.  Glascock  seated  in  his 
chair.  He  walked  out  of  the  window  and  went  down  among  the 
olive  trees.  He  did  not  go  fiir,  however,  but  stood  with  his  arm 
round  the  stem  of  one  of  them,  playing  with  the  shoots  of  a  vine 
with  his  hand.  Mr.  Glascock  followed  him  to  the  window  and  stood 
looking  at  him  for  a  few  moments.  But  Trevelj'an  did  not  turn 
or  move.  There  he  stood  gazing  at  the  pale,  cloudless,  heat-laden, 
motionless  sky,  thinking  of  his  own  sorrows,  and  remembering  too, 
doubtless,  Avith  the  vanity  of  a  madman,  that  he  was  probably  being 
watched  iu  his  reverie. 

Mr.  Glascock  was  too  practical  a  man  not  to  make  the  most  of  the 
offer  that  had  been  made  to  him,  and  he  went  back  among  the  passages 
and  called  for  Catarina.  Before  long  he  had  two  or  three  women 
with  him,  including  her  whom  he  had  brought  from  Florence,  and 
among  them  Louey  was  soon  made  to  appear,  dressed  for  his  journey, 
together  Avith  a  small  trunk  in  which  were  his  garments.  It  was  quite 
clear  that  the  order  for  his  departure  had  been  given  before  that 
scene  at  the  breakfast-table,  and  that  Trevelj'an  had  not  intended  to 
go  back  from  his  promise.  Nevertheless  Mr.  Glascock  thought  it 
might  be  as  well  to  hurry  his  departure,  and  he  turned  back  to  say 
the  shortest  possible  word  of  farewell  to  Trevelyan  in  the  garden. 
But  when  he  got  to  the  window,  Trevelyan  Avas  not  to  be  found 
among  the  olive  trees.  Mr.  Glascock  walked  a  few  steps  down  the 
hill,  looking  for  him,  but  seeing  nothing  of  him,  returned  to  the 
house.  The  elder  woman  said  that  her  master  had  not  been  there, 
and  Mr.  Glascock  started  with  his  charge.  Trevelyan  Avas  manifestly 
mad,  and  it  Avas  impossible  to  treat  him  as  a  sane  man  Avould  have 
been  treated.  Nevertheless,  Mr.  GJascock  felt  much  compunction  iu 
carrying  the  child  away  Avithout  a  final  kiss  or  word  of  farcAvell  from 
its  father.  But  it  was  not  to  be  so.  He  had  got  into  the  carriage 
Avith  the  child,  having  the  servant  seated  opposite  to  him, — for  he 
Avas  moved  by  some  undefinable  fear  Avliich  made  him  determine  to 
keep  the  boy  close  to  him,  and  he  had  not,  therefore,  returned  to  the 


Mn.    GLASCOCK    AS    XIUSE.  285 

driver's  scat, — ^vhen  Trevelyan  appeared  staiulhig  by  the  road-side  at 
Ibe  bottom  of  the  bill.  "  "Would  you  take  him  away  from  me  without 
one  word  ! "  said  Trevelyan  bitterly. 

"  I  went  to  look  for  you  but  you  were  gone,"  said  Mr.  Glascock. 

"No,  sir,  I  was  not  gone.  I  am  bore.  It  is  the  last  time  that  I 
shall  ever  gladden  my  eyes  with  his  brightness.  Loucy,  my  love,  will 
you  come  to  j'our  father?"  Loucy  did  not  seem  to  be  particularly 
willing  to  leave  the  carriage,  but  he  made  no  loud  objection  Mhen  Mr. 
Glascock  held  him  up  to  the  open  space  above  the  door.  The  child 
had  realised  the  fact  that  he  was  to  go,  and  did  not  believe  that 
his  father  would  stop  him  now ;  but  he  was  probably  of  opinion  that 
the  sooner  the  carriage  began  to  go  on  the  better  it  would  be  for 
him.  Mr.  Glascoi-k,  thinking  that  his  father  intended  to  kiss  him 
over  the  door,  held  him  by  his  frock ;  but  the  doing  of  this  made 
Trevelyan  very  angry.  "  Am  I  not  to  be  trusted  with  my  own 
child  in  my  arms?"  said  he.  "Give  him  to  mo,  sir.  I  l)egin  to 
doubt  now  whether  I  am  right  to  deliver  him  to  you."  Mr.  Glascock 
immediately  let  go  his  hold  of  the  boy's  frock  and  leaned  back 
in  the  carriage.  "  Louoy  will  tell  papa  that  he  loves  him  before 
be  goes?"  said  Trevelyan.  The  poor  little  fellow  murmured  some- 
thing, but  it  did  not  please  his  father,  who  had  him  in  his  arms. 
"You  are  like  the  rest  of  them,  Louey,"  he  said  ;  "because  I  can- 
not laugh  and  be  gay,  all  my  love  for  you  is  nothing  ; — nothing ! 
You  may  take  him.  He  is  all  that  I  have; — all  that  I  have; — 
and  I  shall  never  see  him  again  !  "  So  saying  he  handed  the  child 
into  the  carriage,  and  sat  himself  down  by  the  side  of  the  road  to 
watch  till  the  vehicle  should  be  out  of  sight.  As  soon  as  the  last 
speck  of  it  had  vanished  from  his  sight,  he  picked  himself  up,  and 
dragged  his  slow  footsteps  back  to  the  house. 

Ml-.  Glascock  made  sundry  attempts  to  amuse  the  child,  with 
whom  he  had  to  remain  all  that  night  at  Siena  ;  but  his  etibrts  in 
that  line  were  not  very  successful.  The  boy  was  brisk  enough,  and 
happy,  and  social  by  nature  ;  but  the  events,  or  rather  the  want  of 
events  of  the  last  few  months,  had  so  cowed  him,  that  he  could  not 
recover  his  spirits  at  the  bidding  of  a  stranger.  "  If  I  have  any  of 
my  own,"  said  ]Mr.  Glascoclv  to  himself,  "I  hope  fhcy  ^\ill  be  of 
a  more  cheerful  disposition." 

As  we  have  seen,  he  did  not  meet  Caroline  at  the  station, —  thereby 
incurring  his  lady-love's  displeasure  for  the  period  of  half-a-nuinite  ; 
but  he  did  meet  Mrs.  Trevelyan  almost  at  the  door  of  Sir  !>riivma- 
duke's  lodgings.     "  Yes,  Mrs.  Trevelyan  ;  he  is  here." 


286  HE   KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

"How  am  I  ever  to  thank  you  for  such  goocluess?"  said  she. 
"  And  Mr.  Trcvclyan  ; — you  saw  him  ?  " 

"  Yes; — I  saw  him." 

Before  he  could  answer  her  further  she  was  up-stairs,  and  had  her 
child  in  her  arms.  It  seemed  to  be  an  age  since  the  boy  had  been 
stolen  from  her  in  the  early  spring  in  that  unknown,  dingy  street 
near  Tottenham  Court  Eoad.  Twice  she  had  seen  her  darling  since 
that, — twice  during  his  captivity ;  but  on  each  of  these  occasions  she 
had  seen  him  as  one  not  belonging  to  herself,  and  had  seen  him  under 
circumstances  which  had  robbed  the  greeting  of  almost  all  it  plea- 
sure. But  now  he  was  her  own  again,  to  take  whither  she  would,  to 
dress  and  to  undress,  to  feed,  to  coax,  to  teach,  and  to  caress.  And 
the  child  lay  up  close  to  her  as  she  hugged  him,  putting  up  his  little 
cheek  to  her  chin,  and  burying  himself  happily  in  her  embrace.  He 
had  not  much  as  yet  to  say,  but  she  could  feel  that  he  was  contented. 

Mr.  Glascock  had  promised  to  wait  for  her  a  few  minutes, — even 
at  the  risk  of  Caroline's  displeasure, — and  Mrs.  Trevelyan  ran  down 
to  him  as  soon  as  the  first  craving  of  her  mother's  love  was  satisfied. 
Her  boy  would  at  any  rate  be  safe  with  her  now,  and  it  was  her  duty 
to  learn  something  of  her  husband.  It  was  more  than  her  duty ; — 
if  only  her  services  might  be  of  avail  to  him.  "And  you  say  he  was 
well?"  she  asked.  She  had  taken  Mr.  Cllaseock  apart,  and  they  were 
alone  together,  and  he  had  determined  that  he  would  tell  her  the 
truth. 

"I  do  not  know  that  he  is  ill, — though  he  is  pale  and  altered 
bej-ond  belief." 

"Yes;— I  saw  that." 

"  I  never  knew  a  man  so  thin  and  haggard." 

"  My  poor  Louis  !" 

"  But  that  is  not  the  worst  of  it." 

"  "\Miat  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Glascock  ?  " 

"I  mean  that  his  mind  is  astray,  and  that  he  should  not  be  left 
alone.  There  is  no  kno"\ving  what  he  might  do.  He  is  so  much  more 
alone  there  than  he  would  be  in  England.  There  is  not  a  soul  who- 
could  interfere/' 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  think — that  he  is  in  danger — from  him- 
self?" 

"I  would  not  say  so,  Mrs.  Trevelyan;  but  who  can  tell?  I  am 
sure  of  this, — that  he  should  not  be  left  alone.  If  it  were  only 
because  of  the  misery  of  his  life,  he  should  not  be  left  alone." 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?     He  would  not  even  see  papa." 


MK.    GLASCOCK    AS    NURSK.  287 

"He  would  SCO  you." 

"  But  he  -would  not  let  me  guide  bim  in  anything.  I  have  been  to 
bim  twice,  and  he  breaks  out, — as  if  I  were — a  bad  woman." 

"  Let  him  break  out.     What  does  it  matter  ?  " 

"  Am  I  to  own  to  a  falsehood, — and  such  a  falsehood  ?" 

"  On\ti  to  anything,  and  yon  will  conquer  him  at  once.  That  is 
what  I  think.     You  will  excuse  what  I  say,  Mrs.  Trevelyan." 

"Ob,  Mr.  Glascock,  you  have  been  such  a  friend!  What  should 
we  have  done  without  5'ou !  " 

"You  cannot  take  to  heart  the  words  that  come  from  a  dissordercd 
reason.     In  truth,  he  believes  no  ill  of  you." 

"  But  he  says  so." 

"It  is  hard  to  know  what  he  says.  Declare  that  you  will  submit  to 
bim,  and  I  think  that  he  will  be  softened  towards  you.  Try  to  bring 
him  back  to  his  own  country.  It  may  bo  that  were  he  to — die  there, 
alone,  the  memory  of  bis  loneliness  would  bo  heavy  with  you  in  after 
days."  Then,  having  so  spoken,  he  rushed  oif,  declaring,  with  a 
forced  laugh,  that  Caroline  Spalding  would  never  forgive  him. 

The  next  day  was  the  day  of  the  wedding,  and  Emily  Trevelyan 
was  left  all  alone.  It  was  of  course  out  of  the  question  that  she 
should  join  any  party  the  purport  of  which  was  to  be  festive.  Sir 
Marmaduke  went  with  some  grumbling,  declaring  that  wine  and 
severe  food  in  the  morning  were  sins  against  the  plainest  rules  of  life. 
And  the  three  Rowley  girls  went,  Nora  officiating  as  one  of  the 
bridesmaids.  But  Mrs.  Trevelyan  Avas  left  with  her  boy,  and 
during  the  day  she  was  forced  to  resolve  what  should  be  the  imme- 
diate course  of  her  life.  Two  days  after  the  wedding  her  family 
would  return  to  England.  It  was  open  to  her  to  go  with  them,  and 
to  take  her  boy  with  her.  But  a  few  days  since  how  happy  she 
would  have  been  could  she  have  been  made  to  believe  that  such  a 
mode  of  returning  would  be  within  her  power  I  But  now  she 
felt  that  she  might  not  return  and  leave  that  poor,  suffering  wretch 
behind  her.  As  she  thought  of  bim  she  tried  to  interrogate  herself 
in  regard  to  her  feelings.  Was  it  love,  or  duty,  or  compassion  which 
stirred  her  ?  She  bad  loved  him  as  fondly  as  any  bright  young 
woman  loves  the  man  who  is  to  take  her  away  from  everything  else, 
and  make  her  a  part  of  his  bouse  and  of  himself.  She  had  loved 
him  as  Xora  now  loved  the  man  whom  she  worshipped  and  thought 
to  be  a  god,  doing  godlike  work  in  the  dingy  recesses  of  the  D.  R. 
office.  Emily  Trevelyan  was  forced  to  tell  herself  that  all  that  was 
over  with  her.    Her  husband  had  shown  himself  to  bo  weak,  suspicious,. 


288  HE    KNF.W    ]1K    WAS    lUfillT. 

nnmanly, — by  no  means  like  a  god.  She  bad  learned  to  feel  tbat  she 
could  not  trust  ber  comfort  in  bis  bands, — that  sbc  could  never  know 
what  bis  tbougbts  of  ber  might  he.  But  still  be  was  ber  husband, 
and  the  father  of  her  child ;  and  though  she  could  not  dare  to  look 
forward  to  happiness  in  living  with  him,  she  could  understand  tbat 
no  comfort  would  be  possible  to  her  were  she  to  return  to  England 
and  to  leave  him  to  perish  alone  at  Casalunga.  Fate  seemed  to  have 
intended  tbat  ber  life  should  be  one  of  misery,  and  she  must  bear  it 
as  best  she  might. 

The  more  she  thought  of  it,  however,  the  greater  seemed  to  be  her 
difficulties.  AVbat  was  sbc  to  do  when  ber  father  and  mother  should 
have  left  her  ?  She  could  not  go  to  Casalunga  if  her  husband  would 
not  give  her  entrance;  and  if  she  did  go,  would  it  be  safe  for  her  to 
take  her  boy  with  her  ?  Were  she  to  remain  in  Florence  she  Avould 
be  hardly  nearer  to  him  for  any  useful  purpose  than  in  England ;  and 
even  should  she  pitch  her  tent  at  Siena,  occupying  there  some  deso- 
late set  of  huge  apartments  in  a  deserted  palace,  of  what  use  could 
she  be  to  him  ?  Could  she  stay  there  if  he  desired  her  to  go  ;  and 
was  it  probable  tbat  he  would  be  willing  that  she  should  be  at  Siena 
while  he  was  living  at  Casalunga,— no  more  than  two  leagues  distant  ? 
How  should  she  begin  hor  work ;  and  if  be  repulsed  ber,  bow  should 
she  then  continue  it '? 

But  during  these  wedding  hours  she  did  make  up  her  mind  as  to 
what  she  would  do  for  the  present.  She  would  certainly  not  leave  Italy 
while  ber  husband  remained  there.  She  would  for  a  while  keep  her 
rooms  in  Florence,  and  there  should  her  boy  abide.  But  from  time  to 
time,— twice  a-week  pcrhaps,^ — she  would  go  down  to  Siena  and 
Casalunga,  and  there  form  ber  plans  in  accordance  with  her  husband's 
conduct.  She  was  bis  wife,  and  nothing  should  entirely  separate  her 
from  him,  nov;  tbat  be  so  sorely  wanted  her  aid- 


CHAPTER  LXXXVn. 


Mli.  GLASCOCICS  jVJBJilAGE  COMPLETED. 


HE  Glascock  marriage  was  a  great 
affaii-  in  Florence  ; — so  much  so, 
that  there  -were  not  a  few  who 
regarded  it  as  a  strengthening  of 
peaceful  relations  between  the 
United  States  and  the  United 
Kingdom,  and  who  thought  that 
the  Alabama  claims  and  the  ques- 
tion of  naturalisation  might  now  be 
settled  with  comparative  ease.  An 
English  lord  was  about  to  marry 
the  niece  of  an  American  Minister 
to  a  foreign  court.  The  bridegroom 
Avas  not,  indeed,  quite  a  lord  as  yet, 
but  it  was  known  to  all  men  that  he 
must  be  a  lord  in  a  verj-  short  time,  and  the  bride  was  treated  with 
more  than  usual  bridal  honours  because  she  belonged  to  a  legation. 
She  was  not,  indeed,  an  amljassador's  daughter,  but  the  niece  of  a 
daughtcrlcss  ambassador,  and  therefore  almost  as  good  as  a  daughter. 
The  wives  and  daughters  of  other  ambassadors,  and  the  other  ambas- 
sadors themselves,  of  course,  came  to  the  wedding  ;  and  as  the  palace 
in  which  Mr.  Spalding  had  apartments  stood  alone,  in  a  garden,  with 
a  separate  carriage  entrance,  it  seemed  for  all  wedding  purposes  as 
though  the  whole  palace  were  his  own.  The  English  Minister  came, 
and  his  wife, — although  she  bad  never  quite  given  over  turning  up 
her  nose  at  the  American  bride  whom  Mr.  Glascock  hud  chosen  for 
himself.  It  was  such  a  pity,  she  said,  that  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Glas- 
cock should  marry  a  young  woman  from  Providence,  Rhode  Islimd. 
Who  in  England  would  know  anything  of  Providence,  Pihodo  Island  ?' 
And  it  was  so  expedient,  in  her  estimation,  that  a  man  of  family  should 
strengthen  himself  by  marrying  a  woman  of  family.     It  was  so  neces- 

VOI,.  II.  o 


290  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

sary,  she  dcclurecl,  that  a  man  when  marryuig  should  remember  that 
his  child  would  have  two  grandfathers,  and  would  be  called  upon  to 
account  for  four  great-grandfathers.  Nevertheless  Mr.  Glascock  was 
— Mr.  Glascock  ;  and,  let  him  marry  whom  ho  would,  his  wife  would 
bo  the  future  Lady  Peterborough.  Remembering  this,  the  English 
Minister's  wife  gave  up  the  point  when  the  thing  was  really  settled, 
and  benignly  promised  to  come  to  the  breakfast  with  all  the  secre- 
taries and  attaches  belonging  to  the  legation,  and  all  the  wives  and 
daughters  thereof.  What  may  a  man  not  do,  and  do  vv'lth  eclat,  if  he 
be  hcu'  to  a  peer  and  have  plenty  of  money  in  his  pocket  ? 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spalding  were  covered  with  glory  on  the  occasion  ; 
and  perhaps  they  did  not  bear  their  glorj^  as  meekly  as  they  should  have 
done.  Mrs.  Spalding  laid  herself  open  to  some  ridicule  from  the  British 
Minister's  wife  because  of  her  inability  to  understand  with  absolute 
clearness  the  condition  of  her  niece's  husband  in  respect  to  his  late 
and  futui'e  seat  in  Parliament,  to  the  fact  of  his  being  a  commoner 
and  a  nobleman  at  the  same  time,  and  to  certain  information  which 
was  conveyed  to  her,  surely  in  a  most  unnecessary  manner,  that  if  Mr. 
Glascock  were  to  die  before  his  father  her  niece  would  never  become 
Lady  Peterborough,  although  her  niece's  son,  if  she  had  one,  would 
be  the  future  lord.  No  doubt  she  blundered,  as  was  most  natural ;  and 
then  the  British  Minister's  wife  made  the  most  of  the  blunders ;  and 
when  once  Mrs.  Spalding  ventured  to  speak  of  Caroline  as  her  lady- 
ship, not  to  the  British  Minister's  wife,  but  to  the  sister  of  one  of  the 
secretaries,  a  story  v.'as  made  out  of  it  which  was  almost  as  false  as 
it  was  ill-natured.  Poor  Caroline  was  spoken  of  as  her  ladyship 
backward  and  forwards  among  the  ladies  of  the  legation  in  a  manner 
which  might  have  vexed  her  had  she  known  anything  about  it ;  but, 
nevertheless,  all  the  ladies  prepared  their  best  flounces  to  go  to  the 
wedding.  The  time  would  soon  come  when  she  v*^ould  in  truth  be  a 
"  ladyship,"  and  she  might  be  of  social  use  to  any  one  of  the  ladies 
in  question. 

But  Mr.  Spalding  was,  for  the  time,  the  most  disturbed  of  any  of 
the  party  concerned.  He  was  a  tall,  thin,  clever  Republican  of  the 
North, — very  fond  of  hearing  himself  talk,  and  somewhat  apt  to  take 
advantage  of  the  courtesies  of  conversation  for  the  purpose  of  making 
unpardonable  speeches.  As  long  as  there  was  any  give  and  take 
going  on  in  the  melee  of  words  he  would  speak  quickly  and  with 
energy,  seizing  his  chances  among  others;  but  the  moment  he  had 
established  his  right  to  the  floor, — as  soon  as  ho  had  won  for  himself 
the  position  of  having  his  turn  at  the  argument,  he  would  dole  out 


MR.  Glascock's  hiarriaoe  completed.  291 

bis  words  "svitb  considcrablo  slowness,  raise  Lis  hand  for  oratorial 
effect,  and  proceed  as  though  Time  were  annihilated.  And  he  would 
go  further  even  than  this,  for, — fearing  by  experience  the  escape 
of  his  victims, — be  would  catch  a  man  by  the  button-bole  of  bis  coat, 
or  back  him  ruthlessly  into  the  corner  of  a  room,  and  then  lay  on  to 
him  without  quarter.  Since  the  affair  with  Mr.  Glascock  had  been 
settled,  be  had  talked  an  immensity  about  England, — not  absolutely 
taking  bonoui*  to  himself  because  of  bis  intended  connection  with  a  lord, 
but  making  so  many  references  to  the  aristocratic  side  of  the  British 
constitution  as  to  leave  no  doubt  on  the  minds  of  his  hearers  as  to 
the  source  of  his  arguments.  In  old  days,  before  all  this  was 
happening,  Mr.  Spalding,  though  a  courteous  man  in  his  per- 
sonal relations,  had  constantly  spoken  of  England  with  the  bitter 
indignation  of  the  ordinary  American  politician.  England  must  be 
made  to  disgorge.  England  must  be  made  to  do  justice.  Eng- 
land must  be  taught  her  place  in  the  world.  England  must  give 
up  her  claims.  In  hot  moments  be  bad  gone  further,  and  had  de- 
clared that  England  must  be — whipped.  He  had  been  specially 
loud  against  that  aristocracy  of  England  which,  according  to  a  figure 
of  speech  often  used  by  him,  was  always  feeding  on  the  vitals  of  the 
people.  But  now  all  this  was  very  much  changed.  He  did  not  go 
the  length  of  expressing  an  opinion  that  the  House  of  Lords  Avas  a 
valuable  institution  ;  but  he  discussed  questions  of  primogcnitui'e  and 
hereditary  legislation,  in  reference  to  their  fitness  for  countries  which 
were  gradually  emerging  from  feudal  systems,  with  an  equanimity, 
an  impartiality,  and  a  perseverance  which  soon  convinced  those  who 
listened  to  him  where  he  had  learned  his  present  lessons,  and  why. 
"The  conservative  nature  of  your  institutions,  sir,"  he  said  to  poor 
Sir  Marmaduke  at  the  Baths  of  Lucca  a  very  few  days  before  the 
marriage,  "  has  to  be  studied  with  great  care  before  its  effects  can  be 
appreciated  in  reference  to  a  people  who,  perhaps,  I  may  be  allowed  to 
say,  have  more  in  their  composition  of  constitutional  reverence  than 
of  educated  intelligence."  Sir  Marmaduke,  having  suffered  before,  had 
endeavom'ed  to  bolt ;  but  the  American  had  caught  him  and  pinned 
him,  and  the  Governor  of  the  Mandarins  was  impotent  in  bis  hands. 
"  The  position  of  the  gi-eat  peer  of  Parliament  is  doubtless  very 
splendid,  and  may  be  very  useful,"  continued  Mr.  Spalding,  Avho  was 
intending  to  bring  round  bis  argument  to  the  evil  doings  of  certain 
scandalously  extravagant  young  lords,  and  to  offer  a  suggestion  that 
in  such  cases  a  committee  of  aged  and  respected  peers  should  sit  and 
decide  whether  a  second  son,  or  some  other  heir  should  not  bo  called 


292  IlK    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

to  the  inheritance  Loth  of  the  title  and  the  property.  But  Mrs. 
Spalding  had  seen  the  suftcrings  of  Sir  Marmaduke,  and  had  rescued 
him.  "  Mr.  Spalding,"  she  had  said,  "  it  is  too  late  for  politics,  and 
Sir  Marmaduke  has  come  out  here  for  a  holidaj'."  Then  she  took 
her  husband  by  the  arm,  and  led  him  away  helpless. 

In  spite  of  these  drawbacks  to  the  success, — if  ought  can  be  said 
to  be  a  drawback  on  success  of  which  the  successful  one  is  uncon- 
scious,— the  marriage  was  prepared  with  great  splendour,  and  every- 
body who  was  anybody  in  Florence  was  to  be  present.  There  were 
only  to  be  four  bridesmaids,  Caroline  herself  having  strongly  objected 
to  a  greater  number.  As  "\Yallachia  Petrie  had  fled  at  the  first  note 
of  preparation  for  these  trivial  and  unpalatable  festivities,  another 
American  young  lady  was  found  ;  and  the  sister  of  the  English  secre- 
tary of  legation,  who  had  so  maliciously  spread  that  report  about  her 
"  ladyship,"  gladly  agreed  to  be  the  fourth. 

As  the  reader  will  remember,  the  whole  party  from  the  Baths  of 
Lucca  reached  Florence  only  the  ^ay  before  the  marriage,  and  Nora 
at  the  station  promised  to  go  up  to  Caroline  that  same  evening. 
*'  Mr.  Glascock  will  tell  me  about  the  little  boy,"  said  Caroline ;  "  but 
I  shall  be  so  anxious  to  hear  about  your  sister."  So  Nora  crossed 
the  bridge  after  dinner,  and  went  up  to  the  American  Minister's  pala- 
tial residence.  Caroline  was  then  in  the  loggia,  and  Mr.  Glascock 
was  with  her ;  and  for  a  while  they  talked  about  Emily  Trevelyan 
and  her  misfortunes.  Mr.  Glascock  was  clearly  of  opinion  that 
Trevelyan  would  soon  be  either  in  an  asylum  or  in  his  grave.  "I 
could  not  bring  myself  to  tell  your  sister  so,"  he  said;  "but  I  think 
your  father  should  be  told, — or  your  mother.  Something  should  be 
done  to  put  an  end  to  that  fearful  residence  at  Casalunga."  Then  by 
degi-ees  the  conversation  changed  itself  to  Nora's  prospects  ;  and 
Caroline,  wdth  her  friend's  hand  in  hers,  asked  after  Hugh  Stanbury. 

"  You  will  not  miud  speaking  before  him, — will  you?"  said  Caro- 
line, putting  her  hand  on  her  own  lover's  arm. 

"Not  unless  he  should  miud  it,"  said  Nora,  smiling.  She  had 
meant  nothing  beyond  a  simple  reply  to  her  friend's  question,  but  he 
took  her  words  in  a  different  sense,  and  blushed  as  he  remembered 
his  visit  to  Nuncombe  Putney. 

"  He  thinks  almost  more  of  your  happiness  than  he  does  of  mine," 
said  Caroline;  "which  isn't  fair,  as  I  am  sure  that  Mr.  Stanbury 
will  not  reciprocate  the  attention.  And  now,  dear,  when  are  we  to 
see  you  ?" 

"  Who  on  earth  can  say  ?" 


MR.  Glascock's  marriage  coMrLETED.  293 

"I  suppose  Mr.  Stanbniy  ^vo^](l  sny  something, — only  he  is  not  here." 

"And  papa  won't  send  my  letter,"  said  Nora. 

"  You  are  si:ro  that  j'ou  will  not  go  out  to  the  Islands  with  him  ?" 

"  Quite  sure,"  said  Nora.  "  I  have  made  up  my  mind  so  far  as 
that." 

"  And  what  will  your  sister  do  ?" 

"  I  think  she  will  stay.  I  think  she  will  say  good-bye  to  papa  and 
mamma  here  in  Florence." 

«'  I  am  quite  of  opinion  that  she  should  not  leave  her  husband  alone 
in  Ital)',"  said  Mr.  Glascock. 

"  She  has  not  told  us  with  certainty,"  said  Nora  ;  "  but  I  feel  sure 
that  she  will  stay.  Papa  thinks  she  ought  to  go  with  them  to 
London." 

"  Your  papa  seems  to  have  two  very  intractable  daughters,"  said 
Caroline. 

"  As  for  me,"  declared  Nora,  solemnly,  "  nothing  shall  make  me  go 
back  to  the  Islands, — unless  Mr.  Stanbury  should  tell  me  to  do  so." 

"  And  they  start  at  the  end  of  July  ?" 

"  On  the  last  Saturday." 

"  And  what  will  you  do  then,  Nora  ?" 

"  I  believe  there  are  casual  wards  that  people  go  to." 

"  Casual  wards  !"  said  Caroline. 

"Miss  Rowley  is  condescending  to  poke  her  fun  at  you,"  said  Mr. 
Glascock. 

"  She  is  quite  welcome,  and  shall  poke  as  much  as  she  likes ;  only 
we  must  be  serious  now.  If  it  be  necessary,  wc  will  get  back  by  the 
end  of  July; — won't  we,  Charles?" 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Nora.  "What! — give 
up  your  honeymoon  to  provide  me  with  board  and  lodgings !  How 
can  you  suppose  that  I  am  so  selfish  or  so  helplesis  ?  I  would  go  to 
my  aunt,  Mrs.  Outhouse." 

"  We  know  that  that  wouldn't  do,"  said  Caroline.  "You  might  as 
well  be  in  Italy  as  far  as  Mr.  Stanbury  is  concerned." 

"  If  Miss  Rowley  would  go  to  Monkhams,  she  might  wait  for  us," 
suggested  Mr.  Glascock.  "  Old  Mrs.  Richards  is  there  ;  and  though 
of  course  she  would  be  dull " 

"  It  is  quite  unnecessary,"  said  Nora.  "I  shall  take  a  two-pair 
back  in  a  respectable  feminine  quarter,  like  any  other  young  woman 
who  wants  such  accommodation,  and  shall  wait  there  till  my  young 
man  can  come  and  give  mo  his  arm  to  church.  That  is  about  the 
way  we   shall   do   it.     I   am   not  going  to  give  myself  any  airs,  Mr. 


294  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

Glascock,  or  make  any  difficulties.  Papa  is  always  talking  to  mo 
about  chairs  and  tables  and  frying-pans,  and  I  shall  practise  to  do 
with  as  few  of  them  as  possible.  As  I  am  headstrong  about  having 
my  young  man, — and  I  own  that  I  am  headstrong  about  that, — I 
guess  I've  got  to  fit  myself  for  that  sort  of  life."  And  Nora,  as  she 
said  this,  pronounced  her  words  with  something  of  a  nasal  twang, 
imitating  certain  countrywomen  of  her  friend's. 

"I  like  to  hear  you  joking  about  it,  Nora;  because  your  voice  is 
so  cheery  and  you  are  so  bright  when  you  joke.  But,  nevertheless, 
one  has  to  be  reasonable,  and  to  look  the  facts  in  the  face.  I  don't 
see  how  you  are  to  be  left  in  London  alone,  and  you  know  that  your 
aunt  Mrs.  Outhouse, — or  at  any  rate  your  uncle, — would  not  receive 
you  except  on  receiving  some  strong  anti-Staubury  pledge." 

"  I  certainly  shall  not  give  an  anti-Stanbury  pledge." 

"And,  therefore,  that  is  out  of  the  question.  You  will  have  a  fort- 
night or  three  weeks  in  London,  in  all  the  bustle  of  theii"  departure, 
and  I  declare  I  think  that  at  the  last  moment  you  will  go  with  them." 

"  Never ! — imless  he  says  so." 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  are  even  to  meet — '  him,'  and  talk  it  over." 

"  I'll  manage  that.  My  promise  not  to  write  lasts  only  while  we 
ftxe  in  Italy." 

"  I  think  we  had  better  get  back  to  England,  Charles,  and  take  pity 
on  this  poor  destitute  one." 

"If  you  talk  of  such  a  thing  I  will  swear  that  I  will  never  go  to 
Monkhams.  You  will  find  that  I  shall  manage  it.  It  may  be  that  I 
shall  do  something  very  shocking, — so  that  all  your  patronage  will 
hardly  be  able  to  bring  me  round  afterwards ;  but  I  will  do  something 
that  v>dll  serve  my  purpose.  I  have  not  gone  so  far  as  this  to  be 
turned  back  now,"  Nora,  as  she  spoke  of  having  "gone  so  far," 
v/as  looking  at'  Mr.  Glascock,  who  was  seated  in  an  easy  arm-chair 
close  to  the  girl  whom  he  was  to  make  his  wife  on  the  morrow,  and 
she  was  thinking,  no  doubt,  of  the  visit  which  he  had  made  to  Nun- 
combe  Putney,  and  of  the  first  irretrievable  step  which  she  had 
taken  when  she  told  him  that  her  love  was  given  to  another.  .  That 
had  been  her  Rubicon.  And  though  there  had  been  periods  with  her 
since  the  passing  of  it,  in  which  she  had  felt  that  she  had  crossed  it 
in  vain,  that  she  had  thrown  away  the  splendid  security  of  the  other 
bank  without  obtaining  the  perilous  object  of  her  ambition, — though 
there  had  been  moments  in  which  she  had  almost  regretted  her  own 
courage  and  noble  action,  still,  having  passed  the  river,  there  was 
nothing  for  her  but  to  go  on  to  Rome.     She  v.-as  not  going  to  be 


Mij.  Glascock's  marriage  completed.  295 

stopped  now  by  tho  want  of  a  house  in  which  to  hide  herself  for  a 
few  weeks.  She  was  without  money,  except  so  much  as  her  mother 
might  bo  able,  almost  sun-eptitiousl}',  to  give  her.  She  was  without 
friends  to  help  her, — except  these  who  were  now  vrith  her,  whoso 
friendship  had  come  to  her  in  so  singular  a  manner,  and  whose  power 
to  aid  her  at  the  present  moment  was  cruelly  curtailed  by  their  own 
circumstances.     Nothing  was  settled  as  to  her  own  marriage.     In 

o  o 

consequence  of  the  pi-omise  that  had  been  extorted  from  her  that  she 
should  not  correspond  with  Stanbury,  she  knew  nothing  of  his  pre- 
sent wishes  or  intention.  Her  fiither  was  so  offended  by  her  firmness 
that  he  would  hardly  speak  to  her.  And  it  was  evident  to  her  that 
her  mother,  though  disposed  to  yield,  was  still  in  hopes  that  her 
daughter,  in  the  press  and  difficulty  of  the  moment,  would  allow 
herself  to  bo  carried  away  with  the  rest  of  the  family  to  tho  other 
side  of  tho  world.  She  knew  all  this, — but  she  had  made  up  her 
mind  that  she  would  not  be  carried  away.  It  was  not  veiy  pleasant, 
the  thought  that  she  would  be  obliged  at  last  to  ask  her  young  man, 
as  she  called  him,  to  provide  for  her;  but  she  would  do  that  and 
trust  herself  altogether  in  his  hands  sooner  than  be  taken  to  the  Anti- 
podes. "  I  can  bo  very  resolute  if  I  please,  my  dear,"  she  said, 
looking  at  Caroline.  Mr.  Glascock  almost  thought  that  she  must 
have  intended  to  address  him. 

They  sat  there  discussing  the  matter  for  some  time  through  the 
long,  cool,  evening  hours,  but  nothing  could  be  settled  further, — 
except  that  Nora  would  write  to  her  friend  as  soon  as  her  affiiirs  had 
begun  to  shape  themselves  after  her  return  to  England.  At  last  Caro- 
line went  into  tho  house,  and  for  a  few  minutes  Mr.  Glascock  was 
alone  with  Nora.  He  had  remained,  determining  that  the  moment 
should  come,  but  now  that  it  was  there  he  was  for  awhile  unable  to 
say  the  words  that  he  wished  to  utter.  At  last  he  spoke.  "  Miss 
Rowley,  Caroline  is  so  eager  to  be  your  friend." 

"  I  know  she  is,  and  I  do  love  her  so  dearly.  But,  without  joke, 
Mr.  Gliiscock,  there  will  be  as  it  were  a  great  gulf  between  us." 

"  I  do  not  know  that  there  need  be  any  gulf,  great  or  little.  But  I 
did  not  mean  to  allude  to  that.  What  I  want  to  say  is  this.  My 
feelings  are  not  a  bit  less  warm  or  sincere  than  hers.  You  know  of 
old  that  I  am  not  very  good  at  expressing  myself." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"  There  is  no  such  gulf  as  what  you  speak  of.  All  that  is  mostly 
gone  by,  and  a  nobleman  in  England,  though  he  has  advantages  as  a 
gentleman,  is  no  more  than  a  gentleman.     But  that  has  nothing  to 


206  HE    KNEW    HE    AVAS    KIGIIT. 

do  with  what  I  am  saying  now.     I  shall  never  forget  my  journey  to 
Devonshire.     I  won't  pretend  to  say  now  that  I  regret  its  result." 

"I  am  quite  sure  you  don't." 

**  No ;  I  do  not ; — though  I  thought  then  that  I  should  regret  it 
always.  But  remember  this,  Miss  RoAvley, — that  you  can  never  ask 
me  to  do  anything  that  I  will  not,  if  possible,  do  for  you.  You  are  in 
some  little  difficulty  now." 

"It  will  disappear,  Mr.  Glascock.     Difficulties  always  do." 

"  But  we  will  do  anything  that  we  are  wanted  to  do ;  and  should  a 
certain  event  take  place " 

"  It  will  take  place  some  day." 

"  Then  I  hope  that  we  may  be  able  to  make  Mr.  Stanbury  and  his 
wife  quite  at  home  at  Monkhams."  After  that  he  took  Nora's  hand 
and  kissed  it,  and  at  that  moment  Caroline  came  back  to  them. 

"  To-morrow,  Mr.  Glascock,"  she  said,  "  you  will,  I  believe,  be 
at  liberty  to  kiss  everybody;  but  to-day  you  should  be  more 
discreet." 

It  was  generally  admitted  among  the  various  legations  in  Florence 
that  there  had  not  been  such  a  wedding  in  the  City  of  Flowers  since  it 
had  become  the  capital  of  Italia.  Mr.  Glascock  and  Miss  Spalding 
were  married  in  the  chapel  of  the  legation, — a  legation  chapel  on  the 
ground  floor  having  been  extemporised  for  the  occasion.  This 
greatly  enhanced  the  pleasantness  of  the  thing,  and  saved  the  necessity 
of  matrons  and  bridesmaids  packing  themselves  and  their  finery  into 
close  fusty  carriages.  A  portion  of  the  guests  attended  in  the 
chapel,  and  the  remainder,  when  the  ceremony  Avas  over,  were  found 
strollmg  about  the  shady  garden.  The  whole  affair  of  the  breakfast 
was  very  splendid  and  lasted  some  hours.  In  the  midst  of  this 
the  bride  and  bridegroom  were  whisked  away  with  a  pair  of  grey 
horses  to  the  railway  station,  and  before  the  last  toast  of  the  day 
had  been  proposed  by  the  Belgian  Councillor  of  Legation,  they  were 
half  way  up  the  Apennines  on  their  road  to  Bologna.  Mr.  Spalding 
behaved  himself  like  a  man  on  the  occasion.  Nothing  was  spared  in 
the  way  of  expense,  and  when  he  made  that  celebrated  speech,  in 
which  he  declared  that  the  republican  virtue  of  the  New  World 
had  linked  itself  in  a  happy  alliance  with  the  aristocratic  splendour 
of  the  Old,  and  went  on  with  a  simile  about  the  lion  and  the  lamb, 
everybody  accepted  it  with  good  humour  in  spite  of  its  being  a 
little  too  long  for  the  occasion. 

"It  has  gone  off  very  well,  mamma;    has   it  not?"  said  Nora, 
as  she  returned  home  with  her  mother  to  her  lodgings. 


Ml?.  Glascock's  :*iarriage  complt:ted.  297 

**Ycs,  my  clear;  much,  I  funcy,  tis  these  things  generally  do." 

"  I  thought  it  "was  so  nice.  And  she  looked  so  veiy  well.  And 
he  was  so  pleasant,  and  so  much  like  a  gentleman ; — not  noisy, 
you  know, — and  yet  not  too  serious." 

"  I  dare  say,  my  love." 

"It  is  easy  enough,  mamma,  for  a  girl  to  be  married,  for  she 
has  nothing  to  do  but  to  wear  her  clothes  and  look  as  pretty  as 
she  can.  And  if  sho  cries  and  has  a  red  nose  it  is  forgiven  her. 
But  a  man  has  so  difficult  a  part  to  play  !  If  he  tries  to  carry 
himself  as  though  it  were  not  a  special  occasion,  he  looks  like  a 
fool  that  way;  and  if  he  is  very  special,  he  looks  like  a  fool  the 
other  way,     I  thought  Mr.  Glascock  did  it  very  well." 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  my  dear,  I  did  not  observe  him." 

"  I  did, — narrowly.     He  hadn't  tied  his  cravat  at  all  nicely." 

"  How  you  could  think  of  his  cravat,  Nora,  with  such  memories  as 
you  must  have,  and  such  regrets,  I  cannot  understand." 

"Mamma,  my  memories  of  Mr,  Glascock  are  pleasant  memories, 
and  as  for  regrets, — I  have  not  one.  Can  I  regret,  mamma,  that  I 
did  not  marry  a  man  whom  I  did  not  love, — and  that  I  rejected  him 
when  I  knew  that  I  loved  another?    You  cannot  mean  that,  mamma." 

"I  know  this; — that  I  was  thinldng  all  the  time  how  proud  I 
should  have  been,  and  how  much  more  fortunate  he  would  have 
been,  had  you  been  standing  there  instead  of  that  American 
young  woman."  As  she  said  this  Lady  Rowley  burst  into 
tears,  and  Nora  could  only  answer  her  mother  by  embracing  her. 
They  were  alone  together,  their  party  having  been  too  large  for 
one  carriage,  and  Sir  Marmaduke  having  taken  his  two  younger 
daughters.  "Of  com-se,  I  feel  it,"  said  Lady  Rowley,  through  her 
tears.  "It  would  have  been  such  a  position  for  my  child !  And 
that  young  man, — without  a  shilling  in  the  world ;  and  writing 
in  that  way,  just  for  bare  bread  !  "  Nora  had  nothing  more  to  say. 
A  feeling  that  in  herself  would  have  been  base,  was  simply  affec- 
tionate and  maternal  in  her  mother.  It  was  impossible  that  she 
bhould  make  her  mother  see  it  as  she  saw  it. 

There  was  but  one  intervening  day  and  then  the  Rowleys 
returned  to  England.  There  had  been,  as  it  Avere,  a  tacit  agree- 
ment among  them  that,  in  spite  of  all  their  troubles,  their  holiday 
should  be  a  holiday  up  to  the  time  of  the  Glascock  marriage. 
Then  must  commence  at  once  the  stern  necessity  of  their  return 
home, — home,  not  only  to  England,  but  to  those  antipodean  islands 


298  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

from  whicli  it  was  too  probable  that  some  of  them  miglit  never 
come  back.  And  the  difficulties  in  their  way  seemed  to  be  almost 
insuperable.  First  of  all  there  was  to  bo  the  parting  from  Emily 
Trcvclyan.  She  had  determined  to  remain  in  Florence,  and  had 
written  to  her  husband  saying  that  she  would  do  so,  and  declaring 
her  willingness  to  go  out  to  him,  or  to  receive  him  in  Florence  at 
any  time  and  in  any  manner  that  he  might  appoint.  She  had  taken 
this  as  a  fii-st  step,  intending  to  go  to  Casalunga  very  shortly,  even 
though  she  should  receive  no  answer  from  him.  The  parting 
between  her  and  her  mother  and  father  and  sisters  was  very  bitter. 
Sir  Marmaduke,  as  he  had  become  estranged  from  Nora,  had  grown 
to  be  more  and  more  gentle  and  loving  ^Yith  his  elder  daughter, 
and  was  nearly  overcome  at  the  idea  of  leaving  her  in  a  strange  land, 
with  a  husband  near  her,  mad,  and  j'et  not  within  her  custody. 
But  he  could  do  nothing, — could  hardly  say  a  word, — toward 
opposing  her.  Though  her  husband  was  mad,  ho  supplied  her  with 
the  means  of  living  ;  and  when  she  said  that  it  was  her  duty  to  be 
near  him,  her  father  could  not  deny  it.  The  parting  came.  "I 
will  return  to  you  the  moment  you  send  to  me,"  were  Nora's  last 
words  to  her  sister.  "  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  send,"  said  Emily. 
"I  shall  try  to  bear  it  without  assistance." 

Then  the  journey  from  Italy  to  England  was  made  without  much 
gratification  or  excitement,  and  the  Eowlcy  family  again  found 
themselves  at  Gregg's  Hotel. 


CHAPTER  LXXXYIII. 

Cn  OFFER   A^D    B  VUG  ESS. 

We  must  now  go  back  to  Exeter  and  look  after  Mr.  Brooke  Burgess 
and  Miss  Dorothy  Stanbury.  It  is  rather  hard  upon  readers  that 
they  should  be  thus  hurried  from  the  completion  of  hymeneals  at 
Florence,  to  the  preparations  for  other  hymeneals  in  Devonshire ;  but 
it  is  the  nature  of  a  complex  story  to  be  entangled  with  many  wed- 
dings towards  its  close.  In  this  little  histoiy  there  are,  we  fear, 
three  or  four  more  to  come.  We  ^vill  not  anticipate  by  alluding  pre- 
maturely to  Hugh  Stanbury's  treachery,  or  death,— or  the  possibilitj' 
that  ho  after  all  may  turn  out  to  be  the  real  descendant  of  the  true  Lord 
Peterborough  and  tho  actual  inheritor  of  the  title  and  estate  of  Monk- 


CHOPPER   AND    BURGlvSS.  299 

hams,  nor  •will  we  speak  of  Nora's  certain  fortitude  under  either  of  these 
emergencies.  But  the  instructed  reader  must  be  aware  that  Camilla 
French  ought  to  have  a  husband  found  for  her ;  that  Colonel  Osborne 
should  be  caught  in  some  matrimonial  trap, — as,  how  otherwise- 
should  ho  be  fitly  punished  ? — and  that  something  should  be  at  least 
attempted  for  Priscilla  Stanbury,  who  from  the  first  has  been  intended 
to  be  the  real  heroine  of  these  pages.  That  Martha  should  marry 
Giles  Hickbody,  and  Barty  Burgess  run  away  with  Mrs.  MacHugh,  is 
of  course  evident  to  the  meanest  novel-expounding  capacity;  but  tho 
fate  of  Brooke  Burgess  and  of  Dorothy  Avill  rcciuirc  to  be  evolved  with 
some  delicacy  and  much  detail. 

There  was  considerable  difficulty  in  fixing  tho  day.  In  the  first  place- 
Miss  Stanbmy  was  not  very  well, — and  then  she  was  very  fidgetj'. 
She  must  see  Brooke  again  before  the  day  was  fixed,  and  after  seeing 
Brooke  she  must  see  her  lawyer.  "  To  have  a  lot  of  money  to  look 
after  is  more  plague  than  profit,  my  dear,"  she  said  to  Dorothy  ono 
day;  "particularly  when  you  don't  quite  know  what  you  ought 
to  do  with  it."  Dorothy  had  always  avoided  any  conversation  witli 
her  aunt  about  money  since  the  first  moment  in  which  she  had 
thought  of  accepting  Brooke  Burgess  as  her  husband.  She  knew  that 
her  aunt  had  some  feeling  which  made  her  averse  to  the  idea  that  any 
portion  of  the  property  which  she  had  inherited  should  be  enjoyed  by 
a  Stanbury  after  her  death,  and  Dorothy,  guided  by  this  knowledge, 
had  almost  convinced  herself  that  her  love  for  Brooke  was  treason 
cither  against  him  or  against  her  aunt.  If,  by  engaging  herself  to 
him,  she  should  rob  him  of  his  inheritance,  how  bitter  a  burden  to 
him  would  her  love  have  been !  If,  on  the  other  hand,  she  should 
reward  her  aunt  for  all  that  had  been  done  for  her  by  forcing  herself, 
a  Stanbury,  into  a  position  not  intended  for  her,  how  base  would  bo 
her  ingi-atitude !  These  thoughts  had  troubled  her  much,  and  h:id 
always  prevented  her  from  answering  any  of  her  aunt's  chance  allu- 
sions to  the  property.  For  her,  things  had  at  last  gone  very  right. 
She  did  not  quite  know  how  it  had  come  about,  but  she  was 
engaged  to  marry  the  man  she  loved.  And  her  aunt  was,  at  any  rate, 
reconciled  to  the  marriage.  But  when  Miss  Stanbury  declared  that 
she  did  not  know  what  to  do  about  the  property,  Dorothy  could  only 
hold  her  tongue.  She  had  had  plenty  to  say  Avhen  it  had  been 
suggested  to  her  that  tho  marriage  should  bo  put  off  yet  for  a  short 
while,  and  that,  in  the  meantime,  Brooke  should  come  again  to  Exeter. 
She  swore  that  she  did  not  care  for  how  long  it  v»'as  put  off, — only 


300  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

that  she  hoped  it  might  not  be  put  off  altogether.  And  as  for  Brooke's 
coming,  that,  for  the  present,  would  be  very  much  nicer  than  being 
mai-ried  out  of  hand  at  once.  Dorothy,  in  truth,  was  not  at  all  in  a 
hurry  to  bo  married,  but  she  would  have  liked  to  have  had  her  lover 
always  coming  and  going.  Since  the  courtship  had  become  a  thing 
permitted,  she  had  had  the  privilege  of  welcoming  him  twice  at  the 
house  in  the  Close  ;  and  that  running  down  to  meet  him  in  the  little 
front  parlour,  and  the  getting  up  to  make  his  breakfast  for  him  as  he 
started  in  the  morning,  were  among  the  happiest  epochs  of  her  life. 
And  then,  as  soon  as  ever  the  breakfast  was  eaten,  and  he  was  gone, 
she  would  sit  down  to  write  him  a  letter.  Oh,  those  letters,  so 
beautifully  crossed,  more  than  one  of  which  was  copied  from  beginning 
to  end  because  some  word  in  it  was  not  thought  to  be  sweet  enough ; 
— what  a  heaven  of  happiness  they  were  to  her  !  The  writing  of  the 
first  had  disturbed  her  greatly,  and  she  had  almost  repented  of  the 
privilege  before  it  was  ended;  but  with  the  first  and  second  the 
difiiculties  had  disappeared  ;  and,  had  she  not  felt  somewhat  ashamed 
of  the  occupation,  she  could  have  sat  at  her  desk  and  written  him 
letters  all  day.  Brooke  would  answer  them,  with  fair  regularity,  bat 
in  a  most  cursory  manner, — sending  seven  or  eight  lines  in  return  for 
two  sheets  fully  crossed;  but  this  did  not  discompose  her  in  the  least. 
He  was  worked  hard  at  his  office,  and  had  hundreds  of  other  things  to 
do.  He,  too,  could  say, — so  thought  Dorothy, — more  in  eight  lines 
than  she  could  put  into  as  many  pages. 

She  was  quite  happy  when  she  was  told  that  the  marriage  could 
not  take  place  till  August,  but  that  Brooke  must  come  again  in  July. 
Brooke  did  come  in  the  first  week  of  July,  and  somewhat  horrified 
Dorothy  by  declaring  to  her  that  Miss  Stanbury  was  unreasonable. 
"  If  I  insist  upon  leaving  London  so  often  for  a  day  or  two,"  said  he, 
"how  am  I  to  get  anything  like  leave  of  absence  when  the  time 
comes  ?  "  In  answer  to  this  Dorothy  tried  to  make  him  understand 
that  business  should  not  be  neglected,  and  that,  as  far  as  she  was 
concerned,  she  could  do  very  well  without  that  trip  abroad  which  he 
had  proposed  for  her.  "I'm  not  going  to  be  done  in  that  way,"  said 
Brooke.  "  And  now  that  I  am  here  she  has  nothing  to  say  to  me. 
I've  told  her  a  dozen  times  that  I  don't  want  to  know  anything  about 
her  will,  and  that  I'll  take  it  all  for  granted.  There  is  something  to 
be  settled  on  you,  that  she  calls  her  own." 
.    "  She  is  so  generous,  Brooke." 

*'  She  is  generous  enough,  but  she  is  very  whimsical.    She  is  going 


(  Rorri'R  A?; I)  hurgess.  301 

to  make  licr  -whole  ■will  over  again,  and  now  she  wants  to  send  some 
message  to  Uncle  Baity.  I  don't  know  what  it  is  yet,  but  I  am 
to  take  it.  As  fur  as  I  can  understand,  she  has  sent  all  the  way  to 
London  for  mo,  in  order  that  I  may  take  a  message  across  the  Close." 

"  You  talk  as  though  it  were  very  disagreeable,  coming  to  Exeter," 
said  Dorothy,  with  a  little  pout. 

"So  it  is, — very  disagreeable." 

"Oh,  Brooke!" 

"  Very  disagreeable  if  our  marriage  is  to  be  put  off  by  it.  I  think 
it  Avill  be  so  much  nicer  making  love  somewhere  on  the  Rhine  than 
having  snatches  of  it  here,  and  talking  all  the  time  about  wills  and 
tenements  and  settlements."  As  he  said  this,  with  his  arm  round 
her  waist  and  his  face  quite  close  to  hers, — shewing  thereby  that  he 
was  not  altogether  averse  even  to  his  present  privileges, — she  forgave 
him. 

On  that  same  afternoon,  just  before  the  banking  hours  were  over, 
Brooke  went  across  to  the  house  of  Cropper  and  Burgess,  having  first 
been  closeted  for  nearly  an  hour  with  his  aunt, — and,  as  he  went,  his 
step  was  sedate  and  his  air  was  serious.  He  found  his  uncle  Barty, 
and  was  not  very  long  in  delivering  his  message.  It  was  to  this 
effect, — that  Miss  Stanbury  particularly  wished  to  see  Mr.  Bartholo- 
mew Burgess  on  business,  at  some  hour  on  that  afternoon  or  that 
evening.  Brooke  himself  had  been  made  acquainted  with  the  subject 
in  regard  to  which  this  singular  interview  was  desired ;  but  it  was 
not  a  part  of  his  dut)'  to  communicate  any  information  respecting  it. 
It  had  been  necessary  that  his  consent  to  certain  arrangements  should 
be  asked  before  the  invitation  to  Barty  Burgess  could  be  given ;  but 
his  present  mission  was  confined  to  an  authority  to  give  the  invitation. 

Old  Mr.  Burgess  was  much  sui-priscd,  and  was  at  first  disposed  to 
decline  the  proposition  made  by  the  "  old  harridan,"  as  he  called  her. 
He  had  never  put  any  restraint  on  his  language  in  talking  of  Miss 
Stanbury  with  his  nephew,  and  was  not  disposed  to  do  so  now, 
because  she  had  taken  a  new  vagary  into  her  head.  But  there  was 
something  in  his  nephew's  manner  which  at  last  induced  him  to  dis- 
cuss the  matter  rationally. 

"And  you  don't  know  what  it's  all  about?"  said  Uncle  Barty. 

"I  can't  quite  say  that.  I  suppose  I  do  know  pretty  well.  At  any 
rate,  I  know  enough  to  think  that  you  ought  to  come.  But  I  must  not 
say  what  it  is." 

"  Will  it  do  me  or  anybody  else  any  good  ?" 


302  HE   JCNEW   HE    WAS   1UGHT. 

"  It  cau't  do  you  any  laarm.     Slic  "won't  eat  you." 

"But  slie  can  abuse  me  like  a  pickpocket,  and  I  sliould  return  it, 
nnd  then  there  would  be  a  scolding  match.  I  always  have  kept  out 
of  her  way,  and  I  think  I  had  better  do  so  still." 

Nevertheless  Brooke  prevailed, — or  rather  the  feeling  of  curiosity 
which  was  naturally  engendered  prevailed.  For  very,  very  many  years 
Barty  Burgess  had  never  entered  or  left  his  own  house  of  business 
without  seeing  the  door  of  that  in  which  Miss  Stanbury  lived, — and 
he  had  never  seen  that  door  without  a  feelincf  of  detestation  for  the 
OA\Tier  of  it.  It  would,  perhaps,  have  been  a  more  rational  feeling  on 
his  part  had  he  confined  his  hatred  to  the  memory  of  his  brother,  by 
whose  will  Miss  Stanbury  had  been  enriched,  and  he  had  been,  as  he 
thought,  impoverished.  But  there  had  been  a  contest,  and  litigation, 
and  disputes,  and  contradictions,  and  a  long  course  of  those  incidents 
in  life  which  lead  to  rancour  and  ill  blood,  after  the  death  of  the 
former  Brooke  Burgess ;  and,  as  the  result  of  all  this.  Miss  Stanbury 
held  the  property  and  Barty  Burgess  held  his  hatred.  He  had  never 
been  ashamed  of  it,  and  had  spoken  his  mind  out  to  all  who  would 
hear  him.  And,  to  give  Miss  Stanbury  her  due,  it  must  be  admitted 
that  she  had  hardly  been  behind  him  in  the  warmth  of  her  expres- 
sion,— of  which  old  Barty  was  well  aware.  He  hated,  and  knew  that 
he  was  hated  in  return.  And  he  knew,  or  thought  that  he  knew,  that 
his  enemy  was  not  a  woman  to  relent  because  old  age  and  weakness 
and  the  fear  of  death  were  coming  on  her.  His  enemy,  with  all  her 
faults,  was  no  coward.  It  could  not  be  that  now  at  the  eleventh 
hour  she  should  desire  to  reconcile  him  by  any  act  of  tardy  justice, — 
nor  did  he  wish  to  be  reconciled  at  this,  the  eleventh  hour.  His 
hatred  was  a  pleasant  excitement  to  him.  His  abuse  of  Miss  Stan- 
bury was  a  chosen  recreation.  His  unuttered  daily  curse,  as  he 
looked  over  to  her  door,  was  a  relief  to  him.  Nevertheless  he  would 
go.  As  Brooke  had  said,^no  harm  could  come  of  his  going.  He 
would  go,  and  at  least  listen  to  her  proposition. 

About  seven  in  the  evening  his  knock  was  heard  at  the  door.  Miss 
Stanbury  was  sitting  in  the  small  up-stairs  parlom-,  dressed  in  her 
second  best  gown,  and  was  prepared  with  considerable  stiffness  and 
stat<5  for  the  occasion.  Dorothy  was  with  her,  but  was  desired  in  a 
quick  voice  to  hurry  away  the  moment  the  knock  was  heard,  as 
though  old  Barty  would  have  jumped  from  the  hall  door  into  the 
room  at  a  bound,  Dorothy  collected  herself  with  a  little  start,  and 
went  without  a  word.     She  had  heard  much  of  Barty  Burgess,  but 


J5AKTV    lilliUESS. 


cuorri-.n  and  iuugkss.  303 

Lad  never  spoken  to  Lim,  and  was  subject  to  a  feeling  of  great  awo 
Avhen  she  would  remember  that  the  grim  old  man  of  whom  she  had 
heard  so  much  evil  would  soon  be  her  uncle.  According  to  arrange- 
ment, Mr.  Burgess  was  shewn  up-stau-s  by  his  nephew.  Barty  Bur- 
f^ess  had  been  born  in  this  very  house,  but  had  not  been  inside  the 
walls  of  it  for  more  than  thirty  years.  He  also  was  somewhat  awed 
by  the  occasion,  and  followed  his  nephew  without  a  word.  Brooke 
was  to  remain  at  hand,  so  that  he  might  be  summoned  should  he  be 
wanted ;  but  it  had  been  decided  by  Miss  Stanbury  that  he  should 
not  be  present  at  the  interview.  As  soon  as  her  visitor  entered  the 
room  she  rose  in  a  stately  way,  and  curtseyed,  propping  herself  with 
one  hand  upon  the  table  as  she  did  so.  She  looked  him  full  in  the 
face  meanwhile,  and  curtseying  a  second  time  asked  him  to  seat  him- 
self in  a  chaii-  which  had  been  prepared  for  him.  She  did  it  all  very 
well,  and  it  may  be  sui-mised  that  she  had  rehearsed  the  little  scene, 
perhaps  more  than  once,  when  nobody  was  looking  at  her.  He 
bowed,  and  walked  round  to  the  chair  and  seated  himself;  but  finding 
that  he  was  so  placed  that  he  could  not  see  his  neighbour's  face,  ho 
moved  his  chair.  He  was  not  going  to  fight  such  a  duel  as  this  with 
ihe  disadvantage  of  the  sun  in  his  eyes. 

Hitherto  there  had  hardly  been  a  M'ord  spoken.  Miss  Stanbury 
had  muttered  something  as  she  was  curtseying,  and  Barty  Bui-gess 
had  made  some  return.  Then  she  began:  ''  Mr.  Burgess,"  she  said, 
"I  am  indebted  to  you  for  your  complaisance  in  coming  here  at 
my  reriuest."  To  this  he  bowed  again.  "  I  should  not  have  ventured 
thus  to  trouble  you  were  it  not  that  years  are  dealing  more  hardly 
with  me  than  they  are  with  you,  and  that  I  could  not  have  ventured 
to  discuss  a  matter  of  deep  interest  otherwise  than  in  my  own  room." 
It  was  her  room  now,  certainly,  by  law;  but  Barty  Burgess  re- 
membered it  when  it  was  his  mother's  room,  and  Avhen  she  used 
to  give  them  all  their  meals  there, — now  so  many,  many  years  ago ! 
He  bowed  again,  and  said  not  a  word.  He  knew  well  that  she 
could  sooner  be  brought  to  her  point  by  his  silence  than  by  his 
speech. 

She  was  a  long  time  coming  to  her  point.  Before  she  could  do  so 
she  was  forced  to  allude  to  times  long  past,  and  to  subjects  which 
she  found  it  very  difficult  to  touch  without  saying  that  which  would 
either  belie  herself,  or  seem  to  be  severe  upon  him.  Though  she  had 
prepared  herself,  she  could  hardly  get  the  words  spoken,  and  she 
was  greatly  impeded  by  the  obstinacy  of  bis  silence.     But  at  last 


304  HE   KNEW   HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

licr  proposition  was  made  to  him.  She  told  him  that  his  nephew, 
Brooke,  was  ahout  to  bo  married  to  her  niece,  Dorothy ;  and  that 
it  was  her  intention  to  make  Brooke  her  heir  in  the  hulk  of  the 
property  which  she  had  received  under  the  will  of  the  late  Mr. 
Brooke  Burgess.  "Indeed,"  she  said,  "  all  that  I  received  at  your 
brother's  hands  shall  go  back  to  your  brother's  family  unimpaired." 
He  only  bowed,  and  would  not  say  a  word.  Then  she  went  on  to 
say  that  it  had  at  first  been  a  matter  to  her  of  deep  regret  that 
Brooke  should  have  set  his  aifections  upon  her  niece,  as'  there  had 
been  in  her  mind  a  strong  desire  that  none  of  her  own  people  should 
enjoy  the  reversion  of  the  wealth,  which  she  had  always  regarded  as 
being  hers  only  for  the  term  of  her  life ;  but  that  she  had  found  that 
the  young  people  had  been  so  much  in  earnest,  and  that  her 
own  feeling  had  been  so  near  akin  to  a  prejudice,  that  she  had 
yielded.  When  this  was  said  Barty  smiled  instead  of  bowing, 
and  Miss  Stanbury  felt  that  there  might  be  something  worse  even 
than  his  silence.  His  smile  told  her  that  he  believed  her  to  be 
lying.  Nevertheless  she  went  on.  She  was  not  fool  enough  to 
suppose  that  the  whole  nature  of  the  man  was  to  be  changed  by 
a  few  words  from  her.  So  she  went  on.  The  marriage  was  a  thing 
fixed,  and  she  was  thinking  of  settlements,  and  had  been  talking  to 
lawyers  about  a  new  will. 

"I  do  not  know  that  I  can  help  you,"  said  Barty,  finding  that 
a  longer  pause  than  usual  made  some  word  from  him  absolutely 
necessary. 

"  I  am  going  on  to  that,  and  I  regret  that  my  story  should  detain 
you  so  long,  Mr.  Burgess."  And  she  did  go  on.  She  had,  she  said, 
made  some  saving  out  of  her  income.  She  was  not  going  to  trouble 
Mr.  Burgess  with  this  matter, — only  that  she  might  explain  to  him 
that  what  she  would  at  once  give  to  the  young  couple,  and  what  she 
would  settle  on  Dorothy  after  her  own  death,  would  all  come  from 
such  savings,  and  that  such  gifts  and  bequests  would  not  diminish 
the  family  property.  Barty  again  smiled  as  he  heard  this,  and 
Miss  Stanbury  in  her  heart  likened  him  to  the  devil  in  person.  But 
still  she  went  on.  She  was  very  desirous  that  Brooke  Burgess 
should  come  and  live  at  Exeter.  His  property  vv'ould  be  in  the  town 
and  the  neighbourhood.  It  would  be  a  seemly  thing, — such  was  her 
words, — that  he  should  occupy  the  house  that  had  belonged  to 
his  grandfather  and  his  great-grandfather;  and  then,  moreover, — 
she  acknowledged  that  she  spoke  selfishly, — she  dreaded  the   idea 


CROrPKR    AND    RUHGESS.  305 

of  being  loft  alone  for  the  remainder  of  her  own  years.  Her  pro- 
position at  last  was  uttered.  It  was  simply  tliis,  that  Barty  Burgess 
should  give  to  his  nephew,  Brooke,  his  share  in  the  bank. 

"  I  am  damned,  if  I  do !  "  said  Barty  Burgess,  rising  up  from  his  chair. 

But  before  he  had  left  the  room  he  had  agreed  to  consider  the 
proposition.  Miss  Stanhury  had  of  course  known  that  any  such 
suggestion  coming  from  her  without  an  adequate  reason  assigned, 
-■  '■"  '  -e  been  mere  idle  wind.  She  was  prepared  with  such 
adcquiu.  3ason.  If  Mr.  Burgess  could  see  his  way  to  make  the 
proposed  transfer  of  his  share  of  the  bank  business,  she.  Miss 
Staubury,  would  hand  over  to  him,  for  his  life,  a  certain  proportion 
of  the  Burgess  property  which  lay  in  the  city,  the  income  of  which 
would  exceed  that  drawn  by  him  from  the  business.  Would  he,  at 
his  time  of  life,  take  that  for  doing  nothing  which  he  now  got  for 
Avorking  hard  ?  That  was  the  meaning  of  it.  And  then,  too,  as 
far  as  the  portion  of  the  property  went, — and  it  extended  to  the 
houses  o-wned  by  Miss  Stanbury  on  the  bank  side  of  the  Close, — 
it  would  belong  altogether  to  Barty  Burgess  for  his  life.  "It  will 
simply  be  this,  Mr.  Burgess  ; — that  Brooke  Avill  be  your  heir, — as 
would  be  natural." 

"I  don't  know  that  it  would  be  at  all  natural,"  said  he.  '"I 
should  prefer  to  choose  my  own  heii"." 

"No  doubt,  Mr.  Burgess, — in  respect  to  your  own  property,"  said 
Miss  Stanbury. 

At  last  he  said  that  he  would  think  of  it,  and  consult  his  partner ; 
and  then  he  got  up  to  take  his  leave.  "  For  myself,"  said  Miss 
Stanbury,  "  I  would  wish  that  all  animosities  might  be  buried." 

"  We  can  say  that  they  arc  buried,"  said  the  grim  old  man, — 
"but  nobody  will  believe  us." 

"  "What  matters, — if  we  could  believe  it  ourselves  ?" 

"  But  suppose  we  didn't.  I  don't  believe  that  much  good  can 
come  from  talking  of  such  things,  Miss  Stanbury.  You  and  I  have 
grown  too  old  to  swear  a  friendship.  I  will  think  of  this  thing,  and 
if  I  find  that  it  can  be  made  to  suit  without  much  dilliculty,  I  will 
perhaps  entertain  it."  Then  the  interview  was  over,  and  old  Barty 
made  his  way  down-stairs,  and  out  of  the  house.  He  looked  over  to 
the  tenements  in  the  Close  which  were  offered  to  him,  every  circum- 
stance of  each  one  of  which  he  knew,  and  felt  that  he  might  do 
worse.  Were  he  to  leave  the  bank,  he  could  not  take  his  entire 
income  with  him,  and  it  had  been  long  said  of  him  that  he   ought 

VOL.  II.  o  ■•' 


30G  HE    KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

io  leave  it.  The  Croppers,  who  were  his  partners, — and  whom  ho 
had  never  loved, — would  be  glad  to  welcome  in  his  place  one  of 
the  old  family  who  would  have  money ;  and  then  the  name  would 
be  pei^petuatcd  in  Exeter,  which,  even  to  Barty  Burgess,  was  some- 
thing. 

On  that  night  the  scheme  was  divulged  to  Dorothy,  and  she  was  in 
ecstasies.  London  had  always  sounded  bleak  and  distant  and  terrible 
to  her ;  and  her  heart  had  misgiven  her  at  the  idea  of  leaving  her 
aunt.  If  only  this  thing  might  be  arranged  !  When  Brooke  spoke 
the  next  morning  of  returning  at  once  to  his  office,  he  was  rebuked 
by  both  the  ladies.  What  was  the  Ecclesiastical  Commission  Office 
to  any  of  them,  when  matters  of  such  importance  were  concerned  ? 
But  Brooke  would  not  be  talked  out  of  his  prudence.  He  was  very 
willing  to  be  made  a  banker  at  Exeter,  and  to  go  to  school  again  and 
learn  banking  business  ;  but  he  would  not  throw  up  his  occupation 
in  London  till  he  Imew  that  there  was  another  ready  for  him  in  the 
country.  One  day  longer  he  spent  in  Exeter,  and  during  that  day 
he  was  more  than  once  with  his  uncle.  He  saw  also  the  Messrs. 
Cropper,  and  was  considerably  chilled  by  the  manner  in  which  they 
at  fii'st  seemed  to  entertain  the  proposition.  Indeed,  for  a  couple  of 
hours  he  thought  that  the  scheme  must  be  abandoned.  It  was  pointed 
out  to  him  that  Mr.  Barty  Burgess's  life  would  probably  be  short,  and 
that  he — Barty — had  but  a  small  part  of  the  business  at  his  disposal. 
But  gradually  a  way  to  terms  was  seen, — not  quite  so  simple  as  that 
which  Miss  Stanbury  had  suggested;  and  Brooke,  when  he  left 
Exeter,  did  believe  it  possible  that  he,  after  all,  might-  become  the 
family  representative  in  the  old  banking-house  of  the  Burgesses. 

"And  how  long  will  it  take.  Aunt  Stanbury  ?"  Dorothy  asked. 

"  Don't  you  be  impatient,  my  dear." 

"  I  am  not  the  least  impatient ;  but  of  course  I  want  to  tell  mamma 
and  Priscilla.  It  will  be  so  nice  to  live  here  and  not  go  up  to  London. 
Are  we  to  stay  here, — in  this  very  house  ?" 

"  Have  you  not  found  out  yet  that  Brooke  will  bo  likely  to  have  an 
opinion  of  his  own  on  such  things  ?  " 

"  But  would  you  wish  us  to  live  here,  aunt  ?" 

"  I  hardly  know,  dear.  I  am  a  foolish  old  woman,  and  cannot  say 
what  I  would  wish.     I  cannot  bear  to  be  alone." 

"  Of  course  we  will  stay  with  you." 

"  And  yet  I  should  be  jealous  if  I  were  not  mistress  of  my  own 
house." 


CROPPER   AND    RUROESS.  307 

"  Of  coiirse  you  ^vill  be  mistress." 

''  I  believe,  Dolly,  that  it  would  be  better  that  I  should  die.  I  have 
como  to  feel  that  I  can  do  more  good  by  going  out  of  the  world  than 
by  remaining  in  it."  Dorothy  hardly  answered  this  in  words,  but  sat 
close  by  her  aunt,  holding  the  old  woman's  hand  and  caressing  it, 
and  administering  that  love  of  which  Miss  Stanbury  had  enjoyed  so 
little  during  her  life  and  which  had  become  so  necessary  to  her. 

The  news  about  the  bank  arrangements,  though  kept  of  course  as 
a  great  secret,  soon  became  common  in  Exeter.  It  was  known  to  be 
a  good  thing  for  the  firm  in  general  that  Barty  Burgess  should  be 
removed  from  his  share  of  the  management.  He  was  old-fashioned, 
unpopular,  and  very  stubborn ;  and  he  and  a  certain  Mr.  Julius 
Cropper,  who  was  the  leading  man  among  the  Croppers,  had  not 
always  been  comfortable  together.  It  was  at  fii'st  hinted  that  old 
Miss  Stanbury  had  been  softened  by  sudden  twinges  of  conscience, 
and  that  she  h^id  confessed  to  some  terrible  crime  in  the  way  of 
forger}',  perjury,  or  perhaps  worse,  and  had  relieved  herself  at  last  by 
making  full  restitution.  But  such  a  rumour  as  this  did  not  last  long 
or  receive  wide  credence.  When  it  was  hinted  to  such  old  friends  as 
Sir  Peter  Maucrudy  and  Mrs.  MacHugh,  they  laughed  it  to  scorn, — 
and  it  did  not  exist  even  in  the  vague  form  of  an  undivulged  mystery 
for  above  three  days.  Then  it  was  asserted  that  old  Barty  had  been 
found  to  have  no  real  claim  to  any  share  in  the  bank,  and  that  he  was 
to  be  turned  out  at  Miss  Stanbuiy's  instance ; — that  he  was  to  bo 
turned  out,  and  that  Brooke  had  been  acknowledged  to  be  the  owner 
of  the  Burgess  share  of  her  business.  Then  came  the  fact  that  old 
Barty  had  been  bought  out,  and 'that  the  future  husband  of  Miss 
Stanbury's  niece  was  to  be  the  junior  partner.  A  general  feeling 
prevailed  at  last  that  there  had  been  another  great  battle  between 
Miss  Stanbury  and  old  Barty,  and  that  the  old  maid  had  prevailed 
now  as  she  had  done  in  former  days. 

Before  the  end  of  July  the  papers  were  in  the  lawyer's  hands,  and 
all  the  terms  had  been  fixed.  Brooke  came  down  again  and  again,  to 
Dorothy's  great  delight,  and  displayed  considerable  firmness  in  the 
management  of  his  own  interest.  If  Fate  intended  to  make  him  a 
banker  in  Exeter  instead  of  a  clerk  in  the  Ecclesiastical  Commission 
Office,  he  would  be  a  banker  after  a  respectable  fashion.  There  was 
more  than  one  little  struggle  between  him  and  Mr.  Julius  Cropper, 
which  ended  in  accession  of  respect  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Cropper  for 
his  new  partner.     Mr.  Cropper  had  thought  that  the  establishment 


308  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    EIGHT. 

might  best  bo  known  to  tbc  commercial  world  of  tlie  West  of 
England  as  "Croppers'  Bank;"  but  Brooke  bad  been  very  firm  in 
asserting  that  if  he  was  to  have  anything  to  do  with  it  the  old  name 
should  be  maintained. 

"  It's  to  be  *  Cropper  and  Burgess,'  "  he  said  to  Dorothy  one  after- 
noon. "  They  fought  hard  for  *  Croj^per,  Cropper,  and  Burgess  ;'— 
but  I  wouldn't  stand  more  than  one  Cropper." 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Dorothy,  with  something  almost  of  scorn  in 
her  voice.  By  this  time  Dorothy  had  gone  very  deeply  into  banking 
business. 


CHAPTER  LXXXIX. 

«/  WOVLLy'T  DO  IT,  IF  I  WAS  TOU." 

Miss  Stanbury  at  this  time  was  kno-\\Ti  all  through  Exeter  to  be  very 
much  altered  from  the  Miss  Stanbury  of  old  ; — or  even  from  the  Miss 
Stanbury  of  two  years  since.  The  Miss  Stanbury  of  old  was  a 
stalwart  lady  who  would  play  her  rubber  of  whist  five  nights  a  week, 
and  could  hold  her  o^\^l  in  conversation  against  the  best  woman  in 
Exeter, — not  to  speak  of  her  acknowledged  superiority  over  every 
man  in  that  city.  Xow  she  cared  little  for  the  glories  of  debate  ;  and 
though  she  still  liked  her  rubber,  and  could  wake  herself  up  to  the 
old  fire  in  the  detection  of  a  revoke  or  the  claim  for  a  second  trick,  her 
rubbers  were  few  and  far  between,  and  she  would  leave  her  own  house 
on  an  evening  only  when  all  circumstances  Avere  favourable,  and  with 
many  precautions  against  wind  and  water.  Some  said  that  she  was 
becoming  old,  and  that  she  was  going  out  like  the  snuff  of  a  candle. 
But  Sii'  Peter  Mancrudy  declared  that  she  might  live  for  the  next 
fifteen  3'ears,  if  she  would  only  think  so  herself.  "  It  was  true,"  Sir 
Peter  said,  "  that  in  the  -^-inter  she  had  been  ill,  and  that  there  had 
been  danger  as  to  her  throat  during  the  east  winds  of  the  spring  ; — ■ 
but  those  dangers  had  passed  away,  and,  if  she  would  only  exert 
herself,  she  might  be  almost  as  good  a  woman  as  ever  she  had  been." 
Sir  Peter  was  not  a  man  of  many  words,  or  given  to  talk  frequently 
of  his  patients  ;  but  it  was  clearly  Sir  Peter's  opinion  that  Miss 
Stanbury's  mind  was  ill  at  ease.  She  had  become  discontented  with 
life,  and  therefore  it  was  that  she  cai'ed  no  longer  for  the  combat 
of  tongues,  and  had  become  cold  even  towards  the  card- table.  It  was 
so  in  truth  ;  and  yet  perhaps  the  lives  of  few  men  or  women  had  been 


I  ^vouLl)^'T  DO  rr,  if  i  was  you.  309 

more  innocent,  and  few  had  struggled  Larder  to  be  just  iu  tliclr  deal- 
ings and  generous  iu  their  thoughts. 

There  was  ever  present  to  her  mind  an  idea  of  failure  and  a  fear 
lest  she  had  been  mistaken  in  her  views  throughout  her  life.  Xo  one 
had  ever  been  more  devoted  to  peculiar  opinions,  or  more  strong  in 
the  use  of  language  for  theii*  expression  ;  and  she  was  so  far  true  to 
herself,  that  she  would  never  seem  to  retreat  from  the  position  she  had 
taken.  She  would  still  scorn  the  new  fangles  of  the  world  around 
her,  and  speak  of  the  changes  which  she  saw  as  all  tending  to  evil. 
But,  through  it  all,  there  was  an  idea  present  to  herself  that  it  could 
not  be  God's  intention  that  things  should  really  change  for  the  worse, 
and  that  the  fault  must  be  in  her,  because  she  had  been  unable  to 
move  as  others  had  moved.  She  would  sit  thinking  of  the  circum- 
stances of  her  own  life  and  tell  herself  that  with  her  everything  had 
failed.  She  had  loved,  but  had  quarrelled  with  her  lover  ;  and  her 
love  had  come  to  nothing — but  barren  wealth.  She  had  fought  for 
her  wealth  and  had  conquered; — and  had  become  hard  in  the  fight, 
and  was  conscious  of  her  own  hardness.  In  the  early  days  of  her 
riches  and  power  she  had  taken  her  nephew  by  the  hand, — and  had 
thrown  him  away  from  her  because  he  would  not  dress  himself  in  her 
mirror.  She  had  believed  herself  to  bo  right,  and  would  not,  even 
now,  tell  herself  that  she  had  been  wrong ;  but  there  were  doubts, 
and  qualms  of  conscience,  and  an  uneasiness, — because  her  life  had 
been  a  failure.  Now  she  was  seeking  to  appease  her  self-accusations 
by  sacrificing  everything  for  the  happiness  of  her  niece  and  her  chosen 
hero  ;  but  as  she  went  on  with  the  work  she  felt  that  all  would  be  iu 
vain,  unless  she  could  sweep  herself  altogether  from  off  the  scene. 
She  had  told  herself  that  if  she  could  bring  Brooke  to  Exeter,  his 
prospects  would  be  made  infinitely  brighter  than  they  would  be  iu 
London,  and  that  she  in  her  last  days  would  not  be  left  utterly  alone. 
But  as  the  prospect  of  her  future  life  came  nearer  to  her,  she  saw,  or 
thought  that  she  saw,  that  there  was  still  failure  before  her.  Young 
people  would  not  want  an  old  woman  in  the  house  with  them  ; — even 
though  the  old  woman  would  declare  that  she  would  be  no  more  in 
the  house  than  a  tame  cat.  And  she  knew  herself  also  too  well  to 
believe  that  she  could  make  herself  a  tame  cat  in  the  home  that  had 
so  long  been  subject  to  her  dominion.  Would  it  not  be  better  that 
she  should  go  away  somewhere, — and  die  ? 

"  If  Mr.  Brooke  is  to  come  here,"  Martha  said  to  her  one  day,  "we 
ought  to  begin  and  make  the  changes,  ma'am." 


310  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

"  WLat  clianges  ?     You  are  always  wanting  to  malcc  clianges." 

"If  they  was  never  made  till  I  wanted  them  they'd  never  be  made, 
ma'am.  But  if  there  is  to  be  a  married  couple  there  should  be  things 
proper.     Anyways,  ma'am,  wo  ought  to  know; — oughtn't  we?" 

The  truth  of  this  statement  was  so  evident  that  Miss  Stanbury 
could  not  contradict  it.  But  she  had  not  even  yet  made  up  her  mind. 
Ideas  were  running  through  her  head  which  she  knew  to  be  vcr)^ 
wild,  but  of  which  she  could  not  divest  herself.  "  Martha,"  she  said, 
after  a  while,  "  I  think  I  shall  go  away  from  this  myself." 

"  Leave  the  house,  ma'am  ?  "  said  Martha,  awestruck. 

"  There  are  other  houses  in  the  world,  I  suppose,  in  which  an  old 
woman  can  live  and  die." 

"  There  is  houses,  ma'am,  of  course." 

"  And  what  is  the  difference  between  one  and  another  ?  " 

"  I  wouldn't  do  it,  ma'am,  if  I  was  you.  I  wouldn't  do  it  if  it  was 
ever  so.  Sure  the  house  is  big  enough  for  Mr.  Brooke  and  Miss 
Dorothy  along  with  you.  I  wouldn't  go  and  make  such  change  as 
that ; — I  vv'ouldn't  indeed,  ma'am."  Martha  spoke  out  almost  with 
eloquence,  so  much  expression  was  there  in  her  face.  Miss  Stanbury 
said  nothing  more  at  the  moment,  beyond  signifying  her  indisposition 
to  make  up  her  mind  to  anything  at  the  present  moment.  Yes ; — the 
house  was  big  enough  as  far  as  rooms  were  concerned ;  but  how  often 
had  she  heard  that  an  old  woman  must  always  be  in  the  way,  if 
attempting  to  live  witlr  a  newly-married  couple  ?  If  a  mother-in-law 
be  unendurable,  hov/  much  more  so  one  whose  connection  would  be 
less  near  ?  She  could  keep  her  own  house  no  doubt,  and  let  them  go 
elsewhere ;  but  what  then  would  come  of  her  old  dream,  that  Burgess, 
the  new  banker  in  the  city,  should  live  in  the  very  house  that  had 
been  inhabited  by  the  Burgesses,  the  bankers  of  old  ?  There  was 
certainly  only  one  way  out  of  all  these  troubles,  and  that  way  would 
be  that  she  should — go  from  them  and  be  at  rest. 

Her  will  had  now  been  dra-wTi  out  and  completed  for  the  third  or 
fourth  time,  and  she  had  made  no  secret  of  its  contents  either  with 
Brooke  or  Dorothy.  The  whole  estate  she  left  to  Brooke,  including 
the  houses  which  were  to  become  his  after  his  uncle's  death ;  and  in 
regard  to  the  property  she  had  made  no  further  stipulation.  "I 
might  have  settled  it  on  your  children,"  she  said  to  him,  "  but  in  doing 
so  I  should  have  settled  it  on  hers.  I  don't  know  why  an  old  woman 
should  try  to  interfere  with  things  after  she  has  gone.  I  hope  you. 
won't  srj[uander  it,  Brooke." 


I  wouldn'i"  do  n,  if  i  was  you.  311 

♦'  I  sbiill  1)0  a  steady  old  man  liy  that  time,"  he  said. 

"  I  hope  you'll  be  steady  at  any  rate.  But  tbcro  it  is,  aiul  God 
must  direct  you  in  the  use  of  it,  if  lie  -will.  It  bas  been  a  burtbcu 
to  mc  ;  but  then  I  bave  been  a  solitary  old  woman."  Half  of  what 
sbc  bad  saved  sbo  proposed  to  give  Dorotby  on  ber  marriage,  and  for 
doing  tbis  arrangements  bad  already  been  made.  Tbcro  were  various 
otbor  legacies,  and  tbc  last  sbo  announced  was  one  to  ber  nepbew, 
Hugb.  "I  bave  left  bim  a  thousand  pounds,"  sbo  said  to  Dorotby, — "  so 
tbat  be  may  remember  mc  kindly  at  last."  As  to  tbis,  however,  sbo 
exacted  a  pledge  that  no  intimation  of  the  legacy  was  to  be  made  to 
Hugb.  Then  it  was  that  Dorothy  told  her  aunt  that  Hugb  intended 
to  marry  Nora  Kowley,  one  of  tbc  ladies  who  bad  been  at  the  Clock 
House  during  the  days  in  which  ber  mother  had  lived  in  grandeur ; 
and  then  it  vras  also  that  Dorothy  obtained  leave  to  invito  Hugh  to 
her  o-svn  wedding.  "  I  hope  she  will  be  happier  than  her  sister," 
Miss  Stanbury  said,  when  she  heard  of  the  intended  mai-riage. 

'•  It  wasn't  Mrs.  Trevelyan's  fault,  you  know,  aunt," 

"I  say  nothing  about  anj-body's  fault;  but  this  I  do  say,  tbat  it 
was  a  very  great  misfortune.  I  fought  all  that  battle  with  your 
sister  Priscilla,  and  I  don't  mean  to  fight  it  again,  my  dear.  If 
Hugh  marries  tbc  young  lady,  I  hope  sbc  will  be  more  happy  than 
her  sister.     There  can  be  no  harm  in  saying  that." 

Dorothy's  letter  to  her  brother  shall  be  given,  because  it  will  inform 
the  reader  of  all  the  arrangements  as  they  were  made  up  to  that  time, 
and  will  convey  the  Exeter  news  respecting  various  persons  with 
whom  our  story  is  concerned. 

"The  Close,  July  20,  18G— 
"  Dear  Hugh, 

"  The  day  for  my  mamage  is  now  fixed,  and  I  wish  with  all 
my  heart  tbat  it  was  the  same  with  you.  Pray  give  my  love  to  Nora. 
It  seems  so  odd  tbat,  though  she  was  living  for  a  while  with  mamma 
at  Nuncombo  Putney,  I  never  should  have  seen  ber  yet.  I  am  very 
glad  tbat  Brooke  has  seen  her,  and  he  declares  that  sbc  is  quite  vuuj- 
nijkenthj  beautiful.     Those  are  his  own  words. 

"  We  are  to  bo  married  on  the  lOtb  of  August,  a  Wednesday,  and 
now  comes  my  great  news.  Aunt  Stanbury  says  that  you  are  to  come 
and  stay  in  the  house.  She  bids  mo  tell  you  so  with  her  love  ;  and 
tbat  you  can  have  a  room  as  long  as  you  like.  Of  course,  you  inust 
come.     In  the  fiib-t  place,  you  must  because  you  arc  to  give  me  away,. 


312  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    lUGllT. 

and  Brooke  wouldn't  have  me  if  I  wasn't  given  away  properly ; 
and  then  it  will  make  me  so  happy  that  you  and  Aunt  Stanbury  ahould 
be  friends  again.  You  can  stay  as  long  as  you  like,  but,  of  course, 
you  must  come  the  day  before  the  wedding.  We  are  to  be  married 
in  the  Cathedral,  and  there  arc  to  be  two  clergymen,  but  I  don't  yet 
know  who  they  ^vill  be  ; — not  Mr.  Gibson,  certainly,  as  you  were  good 
enough  to  suggest. 

"  Mr.  Gibson  is  married  to  Arabella  French,  and  they  have  gone 
away  somewhere  into  Cornwall.  Camilla  has  come  back,  and  I  have 
seen  her  once.  She  looked  ever  so  fierce,  as  though  she  intended  to 
declare  that  she  didn't  mind  what  anybody  may  think.  They  say 
that  she  still  protests  that  she  never  will  speak  to  her  sister  again. 

"  I  was  introduced  to  Mr.  Barty  Burgess  the  other  day.  Brooke 
was  here,  and  we  met  him  in  the  Close.  I  hardly  knew  what  he  said 
to  me,  I  was  so  frightened  ;  but  Brooke  said  that  he  meant  to  be 
civil,  and  that  he  is  going  to  send  me  a  present.  I  have  got  a  quantity 
of  things  already,  and  yesterday  Mrs.  MacHugh  sent  me  such  a 
beautiful  cream-jug.  If  you'll  come  in  time  on  the  9th,  you  shall  see 
them  all  before  they  are  put  away. 

"Mamma  and  Priscilla  are  to  be  here,  and  they  will  come  on  the 
9th  also.  Poor,  dear  mamma  is,  I  know,  terribly  flurried  about  it, 
and  so  is  Aunt  Stanbury.  It  is  so  long  since  they  have  seen  each 
other.  I  don't  think  Priscilla  feels  it  the  same  way,  because  she  is  so 
brave.  Do  you  remember  when  it  was  first  proposed  that  I  should 
-come  here  ?  I  am  so  glad  I  came, — because  of  Brooke.  He  will  come 
on  the  9th,  quite  early,  and  I  do  so  hope  you  will  come  with  him. 

"  Yours  most  affectionately, 

"DOEOTHY    StANCUEY. 

"  Give  my  best,  best  love  to  Nora." 


CHAl>TEii   XC. 


LALl  UOWLEY  CONQUERED. 


HEN  tlie  Rowleys  were  back  in  Lon- 
don, and  began  to  employ  themselves 
on  the  terrible  work  of  making  ready 
for  their  journey  to  the  Islands, 
Lady  Kowley  gradually  gave  way 
about  Hugh  Stanbury.  She  had  be- 
come aware  that  Nora  would  not  go 
back  with  them, — unless  under  an 
amount  of  pressure  which  she  would 
find  it  impossible  to  use.  And  if 
Nora  did  not  go  out  to  the  Islands, 
what  was  to  become  of  her  unless 
-  she  married  this  man  ?  Sir  Marma- 
■Si^  duke,  when  all  was  explained  to  him, 
Z'l,'  declared  that  a  girl  must  do  what  her 
parents  ordered  her  to  do.  "  Other 
gu-ls  live  with  their  fathers  and  mothers,  and  so  must  she."  Lady 
Rowley  endeavoured  to  explain  that  other  girls  lived  with  their  fathers 
and  mothers,  because  they  found  themselves  in  established  homes  from 
which  they  are  not  disposed  to  run  away ;  but  Nora's  position  was,  as 
she  alleged,  very  diflfercnt.  Nora's  home  had  latterly  been  with  her 
sister,  and  it  was  hardly  to  be  expected  that  the  parental  authority 
should  not  find  itself  impaired  by  the  interregnum  which  had  taken 
place.  Su-  Marmaduke  would  not  see  the  thing  in  the  same  light,  and 
was  disposed  to  treat  his  daughter  with  a  high  hand.  If  she  would 
not  do  as  she  was  bidden,  she  should  no  longer  bo  daughter  of  his. 
In  answer  to  this  Lady  Rowley  could  only  repeat  her  conviction  that 
Nora  would  not  go  out  to  the  Mandarins ;  and  that  as  for  disin- 
heriting her,  casting  her  oil',  cursing  her,  and  the  rest, — she  had  no 
belief  in  such  doings  at  all.  "On  the  stage  they  do  such  thhigs  as 
that,"  she  said;  "  and,  perhaps,  they  used  to  do  it  oucc  in  rcaUty. 

VOL.  II.  p 


oli  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

But  you  know  that  it's  out  of  the  question  now.  Fancy  your  standing 
up  and  cursing  at  the  dear  girl,  just  as  we  are  all  starting  from  South- 
ampton ! "  Sir  Marmadukc  knew  as  well  as  his  wife  that  it  would  bo 
impossible,  and  only  muttered  something  about  the  "dear  girl" 
behaving  herself  with  great  impropriety. 

They  were  all  aware  that  Nora  was  not  going  to  leave  England, 
because  no  berth  had  been  taken  for  her  on  board  the  ship,  and  because, 
while  the  other  girls  were  preparing  for  their  long  voyage,  no  prepa- 
rations were  made  for  her.  Of  course  she  was  not  going.  Sir  Mar- 
maduke  would  probably  have  given  way  altogether  immediately  on 
his  return  to  London,  had  he  not  discussed  the  matter  with  his  friend 
Colonel  Osborne.  It  became,  of  course,  his  duty  to  make  some 
inquiry  as  to  the  Stanbury  family,  and  he  knew  that  Osborne  had 
visited  Mrs.  Stanbury  when  he  made  his  unfortunate  pilgrimage  to 
the  porch  of  Cockchaffington  Church.  He  told  Osborne  the  whole 
story  of  Nora's  engagement,  telling  also  that  other  most  heart-breaking 
tale  of  her  conduct  in  regard  to  Mr.  Glascock,  and  asked  the  Colonel 
what  he  thought  about  the  Stanburys.  Now  the  Colonel  did  not  hold 
the  Stanburys  in  high  esteem.  He  had  met  Hugh,  as  the  reader  may 
perhaps  remember,  and  had  had  some  intercourse  with  the  young 
man,  which  had  not  been  quite  agreeable  to  him,  on  the  platform  of 
the  railway  station  at  Exeter.  And  he  had  also  heard  something  of 
the  ladies  at  Nuncombe  Putney  during  his  short  sojourn  at  the  house 
of  Mrs.  Crocket.  "My  belief  is,  they  are  beggars,"  said  Colonel 
Osborne. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  shaking  his  head. 

"  "When  I  went  over  to  call  on  Emilj^, — that  time  I  was  at  Cock- 
chaffington, you  know,  when  Trevelyan  made  himself  such  a  d 

fool, — I  found  the  mother  and  sister  living  in  a  decentish  house 
enough  ;  but  it  wasn't  their  house." 

"  Not  their  own,  you  mean  ?" 

"  It  was  a  place  that  Trevelyan  had  got  this  young  man  to  take  for 
Emily,  and  they  had  merely  gone  there  to  be  with  her.  They  had 
been  living  in  a  little  bit  of  a  cottage ;  a  sort  of  a  place  that  any — 
any  ploughman  would  live  in.     Just  that  kind  of  cottage." 

"  Goodness  gracious  !  " 

"And  they've  gone  to  another  just  like  it; — so  I'm  told." 

"And  can't  he  do  anything  better  for  them  than  that  ?"  asked  Sir 
Marmaduke. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  him.  I  have  met  him,  you  know.  He 
used  to  be  with  Trevelyan ; — that  was  when  Nora  took  a  fancy  for 


LADY   ROWLEY   CONQUERED.  315 

Lim,  of  course.  And  I  saw  him  onco  down  in  Devonsbiro,  when  I 
must  say  he  behaved  uncommonly  badly, — doing  all  ho  could  to  foster 
Trevclyan's  stupid  jealousy." 

"  He  has  changed  his  mind  about  that,  I  think." 

"  Perhaps  ho  has  ;  but  he  behaved  very  badly  then.  Let  him  shew 
np  his  income ; — that,  I  take  it,  is  the  question  in  such  a  case  as  this. 
His  father  was  a  clergyman,  and  therefore  I  suppose  he  must  be  con- 
sidered to  be  a  gentleman.  But  has  he  means  to  support  a  wife,  and 
keep  up  a  house  in  Loudon  ?  If  he  has  not,  that  is  an  end  to  it,  I 
should  say." 

But  Sir  Marmaduke  could  not  see  his  way  to  any  such  end,  and, 
although  he  still  looked  black  upon  Nora,  and  talked  to  his  wife  of 
his  determination  to  stand  no  contumacy,  and  hinted  at  cursing,  dis- 
inheriting, and  the  like,  he  began  to  perceive  that  Nora  would  have 
her  own  way.  In  his  unhappiness  he  regretted  this  visit  to  England, 
and  almost  thought  that  the  Mandarins  were  a  pleasanter  residence 
than  London.  He  could  do  pretty  much  as  he  pleased  there,  and 
could  live  quietly,  without  the  trouble  which  encountered  him  now  on 
every  side. 

Nora,  immediately  on  her  return  to  London,  had  written  a  note  to 
Hugh,  simply  telling  him  of  her  arrival  and  begging  him  to  come  and 
see  her.  "  Mamma,"  she  said,  "  I  must  see  him,  and  it  would  bo 
nonsense  to  say  that  he  must  not  come  here.  I  have  done  what  I 
have  said  I  would  do,  and  you  ought  not  to  make  difficulties."  Lady 
Piowlcy  declared  that  Sir  Marmaduke  would  be  very  angry  if  Hugh 
were  admitted  without  his  express  permission.  "I  don't  want  to  do 
anything  in  the  dark,"  continued  Nora,  "but  of  course  I  must  see 
him.  I  suppose  it  will  be  better  that  he  should  come  to  me  than 
that  I  should  go  to  him  ?"  Lady  Rowley  quite  understood  the  threat 
that  was  conveyed  in  this.  It  would  be  much  better  that  Hugh 
should  come  to  the  hotel,  and  that  he  should  be  treated  then  as  an 
accepted  lover.  She  had  come  to  that  conclusion.  But  she  was 
obliged  to  vacillate  for  awhile  between  her  husband  and  her  daughter. 
Hugh  came  of  coui'se,  and  Sir  Marmaduke,  by  his  wife's  advice,  kept 
out  of  the  way.  Lady  Rowley,  though  she  was  at  home,  kept  herself 
also  out  of  the  way,  remaining  above  with  her  two  other  daughters. 
Nora  thus  achieved  the  glory  and  happiness  of  receiving  her  lover 
alone. 

"My  owa  true  girl!"  he  said,  speaking  with  his  arms  still  round 
her  waist. 

"  I  am  true  enough ;  but  whether  I  am  your  own, — that  is  another 
question." 


J316  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

"You  mean  to  be?" 

"  But  papa  doesn't  mean  it.  Papa  says  that  you  are  nobody,  and 
that  you  haven't  got  an  income ;  and  thinks  that  I  had  better  go  back 
and  be  an  old  maid  at  the  Mandarins." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  yourself,  Nora  ?" 

"  "What  do  I  think  ?  As  far  as  I  can  understand,  young  ladies  are 
not  alloAvcd  to  think  at  all.  They  have  to  do  what  their  papas  tell 
them.  That  will  do,  Hugh.  You  can  talk  without  takmg  hold  of 
me." 

"  It  is  such  a  time  since  I  have  had  a  hold  of  you, — as  j-ou  call  it." 

"It  will  be  much  longer  before  you  can  do  so  again,  if  I  go  back 
to  the  Islands  with  papa.  I  shall  expect  j'ou  to  be  true,  you  know  ; 
and  it  will  be  ten  years  at  the  least  before  I  can  hope  to  be  home 
again." 

"I  don't  think  5-0U  mean  to  go,  Nora." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  ?  That  idea  of  yours  of  walking  out  to  the 
next  church  and  getting  ourselves  married  sounds  very  nice  and 
independent,  but  you  know  that  it  is  not  practicable." 

"  On  the  other  hand,  I  know  it  is." 

"It  is  not  practicable  for  me,  Hugh.  Of  all  things  in  the  world  I 
don't  want  to  be  a  Lydia.  I  won't  do  anything  that  anybody  shall 
ever  say  that  your  wife  ought  not  to  have  done.  Young  women 
when  they  are  married  ought  to  have  their  papas'  and  mammas'  con- 
sent. I  have  been  thinking  about  it  a  great  deal  for  the  last  month 
or  two,  and  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  that." 

"  What  is  it  all  to  come  to,  then  ?" 

"I  mean  to  get  papa's  consent.     That  is  what  it  is  to  come  to." 

"  And  if  he  is  obstinate  ?" 

"  I  shall  coax  him  round  at  last,  ^^^len  the  time  for  going  comes, 
he'll  yield  then." 

"But  you  will  not  go  with  them  ?"  As  he  asked  this  he  came  to 
her  and  tried  again  to  take  her  by  the  waist ;  but  she  retreated  from 
him,  and  got  herself  clear  from  his  arm.  "  If  you  are  afraid  of  me, 
I  shall  know  that  you  think  it  possible  that  we  may  be  parted." 

"I  am  not  a  bit  afraid  of  you,  Hugh." 

"Nora,  I  think  you  ought  to  tell  me  something  definitely." 

"  I  think  I  have  been  definite  enough,  sir.  You  may  be  sure  of 
this,  however ; — I  will  not  go  back  to  the  Islands." 

"  Give  me  your  hand  on  that." 

"There  is  my  hand.  But,  remember; — I  had  told  you  just  as 
much  before.     I  don't  mean  to  go  back.     I  mean  to  stay  here.     I 


I    MUST    ALWAYS    REMEMBER    THAT    I    MET    YOU    THERE. 


LADY    RO-\VLET    CONQVEHED.  317 

niefin  J — but  I  do  not  tbink  I  will  Icll  you  all  the  things  I  mean  to 

do." 

"  You  mean  to  be  my  wife  ?" 

"  Certainly  ; — some  day,  when  the  difficulty  about  the  chairs  and 
tables  can  settle  itself.  The  real  question  now  is, — what  am  I  to  do 
with  myself  when  papa  and  mamma  are  gone  ?" 

"  Become  Mrs.  H.  Stanbury  at  once.  Chairs  and  tables !  You 
shall  have  chairs  and  tables  as  many  as  you  want.  You  won't  be  too 
proud  to  live  in  lodgings  for  a  few  months  ?" 

"There  must  be  preliminaries,  Hugh, — even  for  lodgings,  though 
they  may  be  very  slender.  Papa  goes  in  less  than  three  weeks  now, 
and  mamma  has  got  something  else  to  think  of  than  my  marriage 
garments.  And  then  there  are  all  manner  of  difficulties,  money  difficul- 
ties and  others,  out  of  which  I  don't  see  my  way  yet."  Hugh  began 
to  asseverate  that  it  was  his  business  to  help  her  through  all  money 
difficulties  as  well  as  others  ;  but  she  soon  stopped  his  eloquence. 
"It  wUlbe  by-and-by,  Hugh,  and  I  hope  you'll  support  the  bm-den 
like  a  man ;  but  just  at  present  there  is  a  hitch.  I  shouldn't  have 
come  over  at  all ; — I  should  have  stayed  with  Emily  in  Italy,  had  I 
not  thought  that  I  was  bound  to  see  you." 

"  My  own  darling  !  " 

"  "\Mien  papa  goes,  I  think  that  I  had  better  go  back  to  her." 

"  I'll  take  you  !"  said  Hugh,  picturing  to  himself  all  the  pleasures 
of  such  a  tour  together  over  the  Alps. 

"  No  you  won't,  because  that  would  be  improper.  When  wo 
travel  together  we  must  go  Darby  and  Joan  fashion,  as  man  and 
wife.  I  think  I  had  better  go  back  to  Emily,  because  her  position 
there  is  so  terrible.  There  must  come  some  end  to  it,  I  suppose 
soon.  He  \vill  be  better,  or  he  will  become  so  bad  that, — that 
medical  interference  will  be  unavoidable.  But  I  do  not  like  that  she 
should  be  alone.  She  gave  me  a  home  when  she  had  one ; — and  I 
must  always  remember  that  I  met  you  there."  After  this  there  was 
of  course  another  attempt  with  Hugh's  right  arm,  which  on  this  occa- 
sion was  not  altogether  unsuccessful.  And  then  she  told  him  of  her 
friendship  for  Mr.  Glascock's  wife,  and  of  her  intention  at  some 
future  time  to  visit  them  at  Monkhams. 

"  And  see  all  the  glories  that  might  have  been  your  own,"  he  said. 

"  And  think  of  the  young  man  who  has  robbed  me  of  them  all ! 
And  you  are  to  go  there  too,  so  that  you  may  see  what  you  have  done. 
There  was  a  time,  Hugh,  when  1  was  very  nearly  pleasing  all  my 
friends  and  shewing  myself  to  be  a  young  lady  of  high  taste  and 
noble  fortune, — and  an  obedient,  good  girl." 


318  HE   KNEW   HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

"And  why  didn't  you?" 

"  I  thought  I  would  wait  just  a  little  longer.     Because, — because, 

— because .     Oh,  Hugh,  how  cross  you  were  to  me  afterwards 

when  you  came  down  to  Nuncombe  and  would  hardly  speak  to  me  !" 

"And  why  didn't  I  speak  to  you  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  Because  you  were  cross,  and  surly,  and  thinking 
of  nothing  but  your  tobacco,  I  believe.  Do  you  remember  how  we 
vralked  to  Liddon,  and  you  hadn't  a  word  for  anybody  ?  " 

"  I  remember  I  wanted  you  to  go  down  to  the  river  with  mo,  and 
you  wouldn't  go." 

"  You  asked  me  only  once,  and  I  did  so  long  to  go  with  you.  Do 
you  remember  the  rocks  in  the  river  ?  I  remember  the  place  as 
though  I  saw  it  now ;  and  how  I  longed  to  jump  from  one  stone  to 
another.  Hugh,  if  we  are  ever  married,  you  must  take  me  there, 
and  let  me  jump  on  those  stones." 

"  You  pretended  that  you  could  not  think  of  wetting  your  feet." 

"  Of  course  I  pretended, — because  you  were  so  cross,  and  so  cold. 
Oh,  dear !     I  wonder  whether  you  will  ever  know  it  all." 

"  Don't  I  know  it  all  now  ?" 

"I  suppose  you  do,  nearly.  There  is  mighty  little  of  a  secret  in 
it,  and  it  is  the  same  thing  that  is  going  on  always.  Only  it  seems  so 
strange  to  me  that  I  should  ever  have  loved  any  one  so  dearly, — and 
that  for  next  to  no  reason  at  all.  You  never  made  yourself  very 
charming  that  I  know  of; — did  you  ?" 

"I  did  my  best.     It  wasn't  much,  I  dare  say." 

"You  did  nothing,  sir, — except  just  let  me  fall  in  love  with  j'ou. 
And  you  were  not  quite  sure  that  you  would  let  me  do  that." 

"  Nora,  I  don't  think  you.  do  understand." 

"  I  do  ; — perfectly.  Why  were  you  cross  with  me,  instead  of  say- 
ing one  nice  word  when  you  were  down  at  Nuncombe  ?  I  do  under- 
stand." 

"Why  was  it?" 

"Because  you  did  not  think  well  enough  of  me  to  believe  that  I 
v.'ould  give  myself  to  a  man  who  had  no  fortune  of  his  own.  I  know 
it  nov^%  and  I  knev/  it  then ;  and  therefore  I  wouldn't  dabble  in  the 
river  with  you.  But  it's  all  over  now,  and  we'll  go  and  get  wet 
together  like  dear  little  children,  and  Priscilla  shall  scold  us  when  we 
come  back."    ■ 

They  were  alone  in  the  sitting-room  for  more  than  an  hour,  and 
Lady  Rowley  was  patient  up-stairs  as  mothers  will  be  patient  in  such 
emergencies.     Sophie  and  Ijucy  had  gone  out  and  left  her ;  and  there 


LADY    ROWLEY   CONQUERED.  319 

sbo  remained  telling  herself,  as  the  ^voary  minutes  ■svcut  by,  that  as 
the  thing  was  to  be,  it  was  well  that  the  yoimg  people  should  bo 
together,  Hugh  Stanbury  could  never  be  to  her  what  Mr.  Glascock 
would  have  been, — a  son-in-law  to  sit  and  think  about,  and  dream  of, 
and  be  proud  of, — whose  existence  as  her  son-in-law  would  in  itself 
have  been  a  happiness  to  her  out  in  her  banishment  at  the  other 
side  of  the  Avorld ;  but  nevertheless  it  was  natural  to  her,  as  a  soit- 
hearted  loving  mother  with  many  daughters,  that  any  son-in-law 
should  be  dear  to  her.  Now  that  she  had  gradually  brought  herself 
round  to  believe  in  Nora's  marriage,  she  was  disposed  to  make  the 
best  of  Hugh,  to  remember  that  he  was  certainly  a  clever  man,  that 
he  v>-as  an  honest  fellow,  and  that  she  had  heard  of  him  as  a  good  son 
and  a  kind  brother,  and  that  he  had  behaved  well  in  reference  to  her 
Emily  and  Trevelyan.  She  was  quite  willing  now  that  Hugh  should 
be  happy,  and  she  sat  there  thinking  that  the  time  was  very  long, 
but  still  waiting  patiently  till  she  should  be  summoned.  "You  must 
let  me  go  for  mamma  for  a  moment,"  Nora  said.  "  I  want  you  to 
see  her  and  make  yourself  a  good  boy  before  her.  If  you  are  ever 
to  be  her  son-in-law,  you  ought  to  be  in  her  good  graces."  Hugh 
declared  that  he  would  do  his  best,  and  Nora  fetched  her  mother. 

Stanbiuy  found  some  difficulty  in  making  himself  a  "good  boy" 
in  Lady  Rowley's  presence  ;  and  Lady  Rowley  herself,  for  some 
time,  felt  very  strongly  the  aM'kwardness  of  the  meeting.  She  had 
never  formally  recognised  the  young  man  as  her  daughter's  accepted 
suitor,  and  was  not  yet  justified  in  doing  so  by  any  permission  from 
Sir  Marmadukc  ;  but,  as  the  young  people  had  been  for  the  last  hour 
or  two  alone  together,  with  her  comiivance  and  sanction,  it  was  indis- 
pensable that  she  should  in  some  way  signify  her  parental  adherence 
to  the  arrangement.  Nora  began  by  talking  about  Emily,  and  Tre- 
vel5'an's  condition  and  mode  of  living  were  discussed.  Then  Lady 
Rowley  said  something  about  their  coming  journey,  and  Hugh,  with 
a  lucky  blunder,  spoke  of  Nora's  intended  return  to  Italy.  "  "We  don't 
know  how  that  may  be,"  said  Lady  Rowley.  "  Her  papa  still  wishes 
her  to  go  back  with  us." 

"  Jlamma,  you  know  that  that  is  impossible,"  said  Nora. 

"  Not  impossible,  my  love." 

"But  she  will  not  go  back,"  said  Hugh.  "Lady  Rowley,  j'ou 
would  not  propose  to  separate  us  by  such  a  distance  as  that  ?" 

"It  is  Sir  Marmadukc  that  you  must  ask." 

"  Mamma,  mamma  !  "  exclaimed  Nora,  rushing  to  hor  mother's  side, 
"it  is  not  papa  that  v/e  must  ask, — not  now.     Wo  want  you  to  bo 


820  HE    KNEW   HE   AVAS   RIGHT. 

ouv  frieud.     Don't  wc,  Hngh?     And,  mamma,  if  you  will  really  be 
our  friend,  of  course,  papa  will  come  round." 

"My  dear  Nora!" 

"You  know  he  will,  mamma  ;  and  you  know  that  you  mean  to  be 
good  and  kind  to  us.  Of  course  I  can't  go  back  to  the  Islands  with 
you.  How  could  I  go  so  far  and  leave  him  behind  ?  He  might  have 
half-a-dozen  wives  before  I  could  get  back  to  him — " 

"  If  you  have  not  more  trust  in  him  than  that !  " 

"  Long  engagements  are  awful  bores,"  said  Hugh,  finding  it  to  be 
necessary  that  he  also  should  press  forward  his  argument. 

"I  can  trust  him  as  far  as  I  can  see  him,"  said  Nora,  "  and  there- 
fore I  do  not  want  to  lose  sight  of  him  altogether." 

Lady  EoAvley  of  course  gave  way  and  embraced  her  accepted  son- 
in-law.  After  all  it  might  have  been  worse.  He  saAvhis  way  clearly, 
he  said,  to  making  six  hundred  a  year,  and  did  not  at  all  doubt  that 
before  long  he  would  do  better  than  that.  He  proposed  that  they 
should  be  married  some  time  in  the  autumn,  but  was  willing  to 
acknowledge  that  much  must  depend  on  the  position  of  Trevelyan 
and  his  \xiie.  He  w^ould  hold  himself  ready  at  any  moment,  he  said, 
to  start  to  Italy,  and  would  do  all  that  could  be  done  by  a  brother. 
Then  Lady  Rowley  gave  him  her  blessing,  and  kissed  him  again, — 
and  Nora  kissed  him  too,  and  hung  upon  him,  and  did  not  push  him 
away  at  all  when  his  arm  crept  round  her  waist.  And  that  feeling 
came  upon  him  which  must  surely  be  acknowledged  by  all  engaged 
young  men  when  they  first  find  themselves  encouraged  by  mammas 
in  the  taking  of  liberties  which  they  have  hitherto  regarded  as  mys- 
teries to  be  hidden,  especially  from  maternal  eyes, — that  feeling  of 
being  a  fine  fat  calf  decked  out  with  ribbons  for  a  sacrifice. 


CHAPTER  XCI. 
FOUR  aCLOCK  IN  THE  MOENIXG. 


Another  week  went  by  and  Sir  Marmaduke  had  even  yet  not  surren- 
dered. He  quite  understood  that  Nora  was  not  to  go  back  to  the 
Islands.  And  had  visited  Mr,  and  Mrs.  Outhouse  at  St.  Diddulph's 
in  order  to  secm-e  a  home  for  her  there,  if  it  might  be  possible.  Mr. 
Outhouse  did  not  refuse,  but  gave  the  permission  in  such  a  fashion  as 
to  make  it  almost  equal  to  a  refusal.  "He  was,"  he  said,  "much 
attached  to  his  niece  Nora,  but  he  had  heard  that  there  was  a  love 
affair."     Sir  Marmaduke,  of  course,  could  not  deny  the  love  afi'air. 


FOUR   o'clock    in    THE    MORNING.  321 

There  ^Y;^s  cerlaiuly  a  love  affair  of  wliicli  lie  did  not  pcrs^onally 
approve,  as  the  gentleman  had  no  fixed  income  and  as  far  as  ho 
could  understand  no  fixed  profession.  "Such  a  love  affair," 
thought  Mr.  Outhouse,  "  was  a  sort  of  thing  that  he  didn't  know 
how  to  manage  at  all.  If  Nora  came  to  him,  was  the  young 
man  to  visit  at  the  house,  or  was  he  not  ?  "  Then  Mrs.  Outhouse 
said  something  as  to  the  necessity  of  an  anti-Stanhury  jiledgc  on  Xora's 
part,  and  Su'  Marmaduke  found  that  that  scheme  must  be  abandoned. 
Mrs.  Trevelyan  had  written  from  Florence  more  than  once  or  twice, 
and  in  her  last  letter  had  said  that  she  would  prefer  not  to  have  Nora 
with  her.  She  was  at  that  time  living  in  lodgings  at  Siena  and  had 
her  boy  there  also.  She  saw  her  husband  every  other  day;  but 
nevertheless, — according  to  her  statements, — her  visits  to  Casalunga 
were  made  in  opposition  to  his  wishes.  He  had  even  expressed  a  desire 
that  she  should  leave  Siena  and  return  to  England.  Ho  had  once 
gone  so  far  as  to  say  that  if  she  would  do  so,  he  Avould  follow  her. 
But  she  clearly  did  not  believe  him,  and  in  all  her  letters  spoke  of 
him  as  one  whom  she  could  not  regard  as  being  under  the  guidance 
of  reason.  She  had  taken  her  child  with  her  once  or  twice  to  the 
house,  and  on  the  first  occasion  Trevelyan  had  made  much  of  his 
son,  had  wept  over  him,  and  professed  that  in  losing  him  he  had 
lost  his  only  treasure ;  but  after  that  he  had  not  noticed  the  boy, 
and  latterly  she  had  gone  alone.  She  thought  that  perhaps  her  visits 
cheered  him,  breaking  the  intensity  of  his  solitude ;  but  he  never 
expressed  himself  gratified  by  them,  never  asked  her  to  remain  at 
the  house,  never  returned  with  her  into  Siena,  and  continually  spoke 
of  her  return  to  England  as  a  step  which  must  be  taken  soon, — 
and  the  sooner  the  better.  He  intended  to  follow  her,  he  said ;  and 
she  explained  very  fully  how  manifest  was  his  wish  that  she  should 
go,  by  the  temptation  to  do  so  which  he  thought  that  he  held  out 
by  this  promise.  He  had  spoken,  on  every  occasion  of  her  presence 
with  him,  of  Sir  Marmaduke's  attempt  to  prove  him  to  be  a  madman; 
but  declared  that  he  was  afraid  of  no  one  in  England,  and  would 
face  all  the  lawyers  in  Chancery  Lane  and  all  the  doctors  in  Savile 
Row.  Nevertheless,  so  said  Mrs.  Trevelyan,  he  would  undoubtedly 
remain  at  Casalunga  till  after  Sir  Marmaduke  should  have  sailed. 
He  was  not  so  mad  but  that  he  knew  that  no  one  else  would  be  so 
keen  to  take  steps  against  him  as  would  Sir  Marmaduke.  As  for 
his  health,  her  account  of  him  was  very  sad.  "  He  seemed,"  she 
said,  "  to  be  Avithering  away.  His  hand  was  mere  skin  and  bone. 
His   hair  and    beard   so  covered   his   thin    long  cheeks,  that  there 


322  IIK    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

was  notliiug  left  of  liis  face  but  liis  briglit,  largo,  mclanclioly  eyes. 
His  legs  had  become  so  frail  and  weak  that  they  would  hardly  bear 
his  weight  as  he  walked ;  and  his  clothes,  though  he  had  taken  a 
fancy  to  throw  aside  all  that  he  had  brought  with  him  from  England, 
hung  so  loose  about  him  that  they  seemed  as  though  they  would 
fall  from  him.  Once  she  had  ventured  to  send  out  to  him  from 
Siena  a  doctor  to  whom  she  had  been  recommended  in  Florence ; 
but  he  had  taken  the  visit  in  very  bad  part,  had  told  the  gentleman 
that  he  had  no  need  for  any  medical  services,  and  had  been  furious 
with  her,  because  of  her  ofience  in  having  sent  such  a  visitor.  He 
had  told  her  that  if  ever  she  ventured  to  take  such  a  liberty  again, 
he  would  demand  the  child  back,  and  refuse  her  permission  inside 
the  gates  of  Casalunga.  "Don't  come,  at  any  rate,  till  I  send  for 
you,"  Mrs.  Trevelyan  said  in  her  last  letter  to  her  sister.  "Your 
being  here  would  do  no  good,  and  would,  I  think,  make  him  feel 
that  he  was  being  watched.  My  hope  is,  at  last,  to  got  him  to 
return  yviih.  me.  If  jow  were  here,  I  think  this  would  be  less  likely. 
And  then  why  should  you  be  mixed  up  with  such  unutterable  sadness 
and  distress  more  than  is  essentially  necessary  ?  My  health  stands 
wonderfully  well,  though  the  heat  here  is  very  great.  It  is  cooler  at 
Casalunga  than  in  the  town, — of  which  I  am  glad  for  his  sake.  He 
perspires  so  profusely  that  it  seems  to  me  he  cannot  stand  the  waste 
much  longer.  I  know  he  will  not  go  to  England  as  long  as  papa  is 
there  ; — but  I  hope  that  he  may  be  induced  to  do  so  by  slow  stages 
as  soon  as  he  knov/s  that  papa  has  gone.  Mind  you  send  me  a  news- 
paper, so  that  he  may  see  it  stated  in  print  that  papa  has  sailed." 

It  folloAved  as  one  consequence  of  these  letters  from  Florence  that 
Nora  was  debarred  from  the  Italian  scheme  as  a  mode  of  passing  her 
time  till  some  house  should  be  open  for  her  reception.  She  had 
suggested  to  Hugh  that  she  might  go  for  a  few  weeks  to  Nuncombc 
Putney,  but  he  had  explained  to  her  the  nature  of  his  mother's  cot- 
tage, and  had  told  her  that  there  was  no  hole  there  in  which  she  could 
lay  her  head.  "  There  never  v^-as  such  a  forlorn  young  woman,"  she 
said,  "When  papa  goes  I  shall  literally  be  without  shelter."  There 
had  come  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Glascock, — at  least  it  was  signed  Caro- 
line Glascock,  though  another  name  might  have  been  used, — dated 
from  Milan,  saying  that  they  were  hurrying  back  to  Naples  even  at 
that  season  of  the  year,  because  Lord  Peterborough  was  dead.  "And 
she  is  Lady  Peterborough! "  said  Lady  Rowley,  unable  to  repress  the 
expression  of  the  old  regrets.  "  Of  course  she  is  Lady  Peterborough, 
mamma  ;  what  else  should  she  be  ? — though  she  does  not  so  sign 


FOUR    o'clock    IX    THE    MORNING.  023 

licrsclf."  "  Wc  tliiiik,"  said  the  American  peeress,  "  that  we  shall  bo 
iit  Monkhams  before  the  end  of  August,  and  Charles  says  that  you 
are  to  come  just  the  same.  There  will  bo  nobody  else  there,  of 
coui-sc,  because  of  Lord  Peterborough's  death."  "I  saw  it  in  the 
paper,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  "  and  quite  forgot  to  mention  it." 

That  same  evening  there  was  a  long  family  discussion  about  Nora's 
prospects.  They  were  all  together  in  the  gloomy  sitting-room  at 
Gregg's  Hotel,  and  Sir  Marmaduke  had  not  yielded.  The  ladies  had 
begun  to  feel  that  it  would  be  well  not  to  press  him  to  yield.  Prac- 
tically he  had  yielded.  There  was  now  no  question  of  cursing  and  of 
so-called  disinheritance.  Nora  was  to  remain  in  England,  of  coarse 
with  the  intention  of  being  married  to  Hugh  Stanbury ;  and  the  diffi- 
culty consisted  in  the  need  of  an  immediate  home  for  her.  It  wanted 
now  but  twelve  days  to  that  on  which  the  family  were  to  sail  from 
Southampton,  and  nothing  had  been  settled.  "  If  papa  will  allow  me 
something  ever  so  small,  and  will  trust  me,  I  will  live  alone  in  lodg- 
ings," said  Nora. 

"It  is  the  maddest  thing  I  ever  heard,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke. 

"Who  would  take  care  of  you,  Nora?"  asked  Lady  Rowley. 

"  And  who  would  walk  about  with  you  ?  "  said  Lucy. 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  would  be  possible  to  live  alone  like  that,"  said 
Sophie. 

"  Nobody  would  take  care  of  me,  and  nobody  would  walk  about 
with  mo,  and  I  could  live  alone  very  well,"  said  Nora.  "I  don't  see 
why  a  young  woman  is  to  be  supposed  to  be  so  absolutely  helpless  as 
all  that  comes  to.  Of  course  it  won't  be  vciy  nice, — but  it  need  not 
be  for  long." 

"  Why  not  for  long  '?  "  asked  Sir  Marmaduke. 

"  Not  for  very  long,"  said  Nora. 

"It  docs  not  seem  to  me,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  after  a  consider- 
able pause,  "  that  this  gentleman  himself  is  so  particularly  anxious 
for  the  match.  I  have  heard  no  day  named,  and  no  rational  proposi- 
tion made." 

"Papa,  that  is  unfair,  most  unfair, — and  ungenerous." 

"  Nora,"  said  her  mother,  "do  not  speak  in  that  way  to  yom*  father." 

"  Mamma,  it  is  unfair.  Papa  accuses  Mr.  Stanbury  of  being, — - 
being  lukewarm  and  untrue, — of  not  being  in  earnest." 

"I  would  rather  that  ho  were  not  in  earnest,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke. 

"Mr.  Stanbury  is  ready  at  any  time,"  continued  Nora.  "He 
would  have  the  banns  at  once  read,  and  marry  mo  in  thrco  w.\"ks, — 
if  I  would  lot  him." 


324  HE    KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

"  Good  gracious,  Nora  ! "  exclaimed  Lady  Eowley. 

"  But  I  have  refused  to  name  any  day,  or  to  make  any  arrange- 
ment, because  I  did  not  wish  to  do  so  before  papa  had  given  his  con- 
sent. That  is  why  things  are  in  this  "way.  If  papa  "will  but  let  me 
take  a  room  till  I  can  go  to  Monkhams,  I  will  have  everything 
arranged  from  there.  You  can  trust  Mr.  Glascock  for  that,  and  you 
can  trust  Jier." 

"  I  suppose  your  papa  will  make  you  some  allowance,"  said  Lady 
Eowley. 

"  She  is  entitled  to  nothing,  as  she  has  refused  to  go  to  her  proper 
home,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke. 

The  conversation,  which  had  now  become  very  disagreeable,  was  not 
allowed  to  go  any  further.  And  it  was  well  that  it  should  be  inter- 
rupted. They  all  knew  that  Sir  Marmaduke  must  be  brought  round 
by  degrees,  and  that  both  Nora  and  Lady  Eowley  had  gone  as  far  as 
was  prudent  at  present.  But  all  trouble  on  this  head  was  suddenly 
ended  for  this  evening  by  the  entrance  of  the  waiter  with  a  telegram. 
It  was  addressed  to  Lady  Rowley,  and  she  opened  it  with  trembling 
hands, — as  ladies  always  do  open  telegrams.  It  was  from  Emily 
Trevelyan.  "Louis  is  much  worse.  Let  somebody  come  to  me. 
Hugh  Stanbury  would  be  the  best." 

In  a  few  minutes  they  were  so  much  disturbed  that  no  one  quite 
knew  what  should  be  done  at  once.  Lady  Eowley  began  by  declar- 
ing that  she  would  go  herself.  Sir  Marmaduke  of  course  pointed 
out  that  this  was  impossible,  and  suggested  that  he  would  send  a 
lawj-er.  Nora  professed  herself  ready  to  start  immediately  on  the 
journey,  but  w\as  stopped  by  a  proposition  from  her  sister  Lucy  that 
in  that  case  Hugh  Stanbury  would  of  course  go  with  her.  Lady 
Eowley  asked  whether  Hugh  would  go,  and  Nora  asserted  that  he 
would  go  immediately  as  a  matter  of  course.  She  was  sure  he  would 
go,  let  the  people  at  the  D.  E.  say  what  they  might.  According  to 
her  there  was  alwaj^s  somebody  at  the  call  of  the  editor  of  the  D.  E, 
to  do  the  work  of  anybody  else,  when  anybody  else  wanted  to  go 
away.  Sir  Marmaduke  shook  his  head,  and  was  very  uneasy.  He 
still  thought  that  a  lawyer  would  be  best,  feeling,  no  doubt,  that  if 
Stanbury's  services  were  used  on  such  an  occasion,  there  must  be  an 
end  of  all  opposition  to  the  marriage.  But  before  half-an-hour  was 
over  Stanbury  was  sent  for.  The  boots  of  the  hotel  went  off 
in  a  cab  to  the  office  of  the  D.  E.  vdth  a  note  from  Lady  Eowley. 
"Dear  Mr.  Stanbury, — We  have  had  a  telegram  from  Emily,  and 
want  to  see  you,  at  once.  Please  come.  We  shall  sit  up  and  wait  for 
you  till  you  do  come. — E.  E." 


FOUR   o'clock    in    THE    MORNING.  325 

It  was  very  distressing  to  them  because,  let  the  result  be  what  it 
might,  it  was  all  but  impossible  that  Mrs.  Trcvelyan  should  be  with 
them  before  they  had  sailed,  aud  it  was  quite  out  of  the  question 
that  they  should  now  postpone  their  journey.  Were  Stanbury  to 
start  by  the  morning  train  on  the  following  day,  he  could  not  reach 
Siena  till  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day ;  and  let  the  result  be  Avhat 
it  might  when  he  arrived  there,  it  would  bo  out  of  the  question  that 
Emily  Trevelyan  should  come  back  quite  at  once,  or  that  she  should 
travel  at  the  same  speed.  Of  course  they  might  hear  again  by  tele- 
gram, and  also  by  letter ;  but  they  could  not  see  her,  or  have  any 
hand  in  her  plans.  "  If  anything  were  to  happen,  she  might  have 
come  with  us,"  said  Lady  llowley. 

"  It  is  out  of  the  question,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke  gloomily.  "  I 
could  not  give  up  the  places  I  have  taken." 

"  A  few  days  more  would  have  done  it." 

"I  don't  suppose  she  would  wish  to  go,"  said  Nora.  "  Of  course 
she  would  not  take  Louey  there.  "Why  should  she  ?  And  then  I 
don't  suppose  he  is  so  ill  as  that." 

"  There  is  no  saying,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke.  It  was  very  evident 
that,  whatever  might  be  Sir- Marmaduke' s  opinion,  he  had  no  strongly- 
developed  wish  for  his  son-in-law's  recovery. 

They  all  sat  up  waiting  for  Hugh  Stanbury  till  eleven,  twelve,  one, 
and  two  o'clock  at  night.  The  "boots"  had  returned  saying  that 
Mr.  Stanbury  had  not  been  at  the  office  of  the  newspaper,  but  that, 
according  to  information  received,  he  certainly  would  be  there  that 
night.  No  other  address  had  been  given  to  the  man,  and  the  note 
had  therefore  of  necessity  been  left  at  the  office.  Sir  Marmaduke 
became  very  fretful,  and  was  evidently  desirous  of  being  liberated 
from  his  night  watch.  But  he  could  not  go  himself,  and  shewed  his 
impatience  by  endeavouring  to  send  the  others  away.  Lady  Rowley 
replied  for  herself  that  she  should  certainly  remain  in  her  corner  on 
the  sofa  all  night,  if  it  were  necessary ;  and  as  she  slept  very  soundly 
in  her  comer,  her  comfort  was  not  much  impaired.  Nora  was 
pertinacious  in  refusing  to  go  to  bed.  "  I  should  only  go  to  my  own 
room,  papa,  and  remain  there,"  she  said.  "  Of  course  I  must  speak 
to  him  before  ho  goes."  Sophie  and  Lucy  considered  that  they  had 
as  much  right  to  sit  up  as  Nora,  aud  submitted  to  be  called  geese 
and  idiots  by  their  father. 

Sir  Marmaduke  had  arisen  with  a  snort  from  a  short  slumber, 
and  had  just  sworn  that  he  and  everybody  else  should  go  to  bed, 
■when  there  came  a  ring  at  the  front-door  bell.     The  trusty  boots  had 


326  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

also  remained  up,  and  in  two  minutes  Hugh  Stanbury  was  in  tlio 
room.  Ho  had  to  make  bis  excuses  before  anything  else  could  bo 
said.  When  he  reached  the  D.  R.  Office  between  ten  and  eleven, 
it  was  absolutely  incumbent  on  him  to  wn-ite  a  leading  article  before 
he  left  it.  He  had  been  in  the  reporter's  gallery  of  the  House  all 
the  evening,  and  he  had  come  away  laden  -with  his  article.  "  It 
was  certainly  better  that  we  should  remain  up,  than  that  the  whole 
town  should  be  disappointed,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  with  something 
of  a  sneer. 

"  It  is  so  xcry,  very  good  of  you  to  come,"  said  Nora. 

"  Indeed  it  is,"  said  Lady  Eowley  ;  "  but  we  were  quite  sure  you 
would  come."  Having  kissed  and  blessed  him  as  her  son-in-law, 
Lady  Rowley  was  now  prepared  to  love  him  almost  as  well  as 
though  he  had  been  Lord  Peterborough. 

"Perhaps,  Mr.  Stanbury,  we  had  better  shew  j'ou  this  telegi-am," 
said  Sir  Marmaduke,  who  had  been  standing  with  the  scrap  of  paper 
in  his  hand  since  the  ring  of  the  bell  had  been  heard.  Hugh  took 
the  message  and  read  it.  "I  do  not  know  what  should  have  made 
my  daughter  mention  your  name,"  continued  Sir  Marmaduke; — 
"but  as  she  has  done  so,  and  as  perhaps  the  unfortunate  invalid 
himself  may  have  alluded  to  you,  we  thought  it  best  to  send  for 
you." 

"  No  doubt  it  was  best.  Sir  Marmaduke." 

"We  are  so  situated  that  I  cannot  go.  It  is  absolutely  necessary 
that  we  should  leave  town  for  Southampton  on  Friday  week.  The 
ship  sails  on  Satui-day." 

"I  will  go  as  a  matter  of  course,"  said  Hugh.  "I will  start  at 
once, — at  any  time.  To  tell  the  truth,  when  I  got  Lady  Rowley's 
note,  I  thought  that  it  was  to  be  so.  Trevelyan  and  I  were  very 
intimate  at  one  time,  and  it  may  be  that  he  will  receive  me  withoiVt 
displeasure." 

There  was  much  to  be  discussed,  and  considerable  difficulty  in  the 
discussion.  This  was  enhanced,  too,  by  the  feeling  in  the  minds  of 
nil  of  them  that  Hugh  and  Sir  Marmaduke  would  not  meet  again, — 
probably  for  many  years.  "Were  they  to  part  now  on  terms  of  close 
affection,  or  were  they  to  part  almost  as  strangers  ?  Had  Lucy  and 
Sophie  not  persistently  remained  up,  Nora  would  have  faced  the 
difficulty,  and  taken  the  bull  by  the  horns,  and  asked  her  father 
to  sanction  her  engagement  in  the  presence  of  her  lover.  But  she 
could  not  do  it  before  so  many  persons,  even  though  the  persons 
were   her   own   nearest   relatives.      And  then  there   arose   another 


FOUR   o'clock   in   THE    MORXING.  327 

embarrassment.  Sir  Marmaduke,  who  bad  taugbt  bimsclf  to  believe 
tbat  Stanbury  was  so  poor  as  hardly  to  Lave  the  price  of  a  dinner 
in  his  pocket, — althon::,']!,  in  fact,  our  friend  Hugh  was  probably  the 
richer  man  of  the  two, — said  something  about  defraying  the  cost 
of  the  journey.  "  It  is  taken  altogether  on  our  behalf,"  said  Sir 
j\rarmaduke.  Hugh  became  red  in  the  face,  looked  angiy,  and 
muttered  a  word  or  two  about  Trevelyan  being  the  oldest  friend 
he  had  in  the  Avorld, — "even  if  there  were  nothing  else."  Sir 
Marmaduke  felt  ashamed  of  himself, — without  cause,  indeed,  for  the 
offer  was  natm-al, — said  nothing  further  about  it ;  but  appeared  to 
be  more  stiff  and  ungainly  than  ever. 

The  Bradshaw  was  had  out  and  consulted,  and  nearly  half  an 
hour  was  spent  in  poring  over  that  wondrous  volume.  It  is  the 
fashion  to  abuse  Bradshaw, — we  speak  now  especially  of  Bradshaw 
the  Continental, — because  all  the  minutest  details  of  the  autumn 
tour,  just  as  the  tourist  thinks  that  it  may  be  made,  cannot  be  made 
patent  to  him  at  once  without  close  research  amidst  crowded  figures. 
After  much  experience  we  make  bold  to  say  that  Bradshaw  knows 
more,  and  Avill  divulge  more  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  of  the  properest 
mode  of  getting  from  any  city  in  Europe  to  any  other  city  more  than 
fifty  miles  distant,  than  can  be  learned  in  that  first  city  in  a  single 
morning  with  the  aid  of  a  courier,  a  carriage,  a  pair  of  horses,  and 
all  the  temper  that  any  ordinary  tourist  possesses.  The  Bradshaw 
was  had  out,  and  it  was  at  last  discovered  that  nothing  could  bo 
gained  in  the  journey  from  London  to  Siena  by  starting  in  the 
morning.  Intending  as  he  did  to  travel  through  without  sleeping  on 
the  road,  Stanbury  could  not  do  better  than  leave  London  by  the 
night  mail  train,  and  this  he  determined  to  do.  But  when  that  was 
arranged,  then  came  the  nature  of  his  commission.  What  was  he  to 
do  ?  No  commission  could  be  given  to  him.  A  telegram  should  be 
sent  to  Emily  the  next  morning  to  say  that  he  was  coming  ;  and  then 
he  would  hurry  on  and  take  his  orders  from  her. 

They  wore  all  in  doubt,  terribly  in  doubt,  whether  the  aggravated 
malady  of  which  the  telegram  spoke  was  malady  of  the  mind  or  of  the 
body.  If  of  the  former  nature  then  the  difficulty  might  be  very  great 
indeed;  and  it  would  be  highly  expedient  that  Stanbury  should  have 
some  one  in  Italy  to  assist  him.  It  was  Nora  who  suggested  that  he 
should  carry  a  letter  of  introduction  to  Mr.  Spalding,  and  it  was  she 
who  wrote  it.  Sir  Marmaduke  had  not  foregathered  very  closely  with 
the  English  Minister,  and  nothing  was  said  of  assistance  that  should 
be  peculiarly  British.     Then,  at  last,  about  three  or  four  in  the  morn- 


328  IlK   KXEW    HE    "WAS   RIGHT. 

ing  came  the  moment  for  parting.  Sir  Mannaduke  had  suggested 
that  Stanbury  should  dine  with  them  on  the  next  day  before  he 
started,  but  Hugh  had  declined,  alleging  that  as  the  day  was  at  his 
command  it  must  be  devoted  to  the  work  of  providing  for  his  absence. 
In  truth.  Sir  Marmaduke  had  given  the  invitation  with  a  sm-ly  voice, 
and  Hugh,  though  he  was  ready  to  go  to  the  North  Pole  for  any 
others  of  the  family,  was  at  the  moment  in  an  aggressive  mood  of 
mind  towards  Sir  Marmaduke. 

"  I  will  send  a  message  directly  I  get  there,"  he  said,  holding  Lady 
Eowley  by  the  hand,  "  and  will  write  fully, — to  you, — immediately." 

"  God  bless  you,  my  dear  friend  ! "  said  Lady  Rowley,  crying. 

"  Good  night.  Sir  Marmaduke,"  said  Hugh. 

"  Good  night,  Mr.  Stanbury." 

Then  he  gave  a  hand  to  the  two  girls,  each  of  whom,  as  she  took 
it,  sobbed,  and  looked  away  from  Nora.  Nora  was  standing  away 
from  them,  by  herself,  and  away  from  the  door,  holding  on  to  her 
chair,  and  with  her  hands  clasped  together.  She  had  prepared  nothing, 
— not  a  word,  or  an  attitude,  not  a  thought,  for  this  farewell.  But 
she  had  felt  that  it  was  coming,  and  had  known  that  she  must  trust 
to  him  for  a  cue  for  her  own  demeanour.  If  he  could  say  adieu  with 
a  quiet  voice,  and  simply  with  a  touch  of  the  hand,  then  would  she 
do  the  same, — and  endeavour  to  think  no  worse  of  him.  Nor  had  ho 
prepared  anything  ;  but  when  the  moment  came  he  could  not  leave 
her  after  that  fashion.  He  stood  a  moment  hesitating,  not  approach- 
ing her,  and  merely  called  her  by  her  name, — "Nora!"  For  a 
moment  she  was  still ;  for  a  moment  she  held  by  her  chair ;  and  then 
she  rushed  into  his  arms.  He  did  not  much  care  for  her  father  nov\% 
but  kissed  her  hair  and  her  forehead,  and  held  her  closely  to  his 
bosom.     "  My  o^vn,  own  Nora  !  " 

It  was  necessary  that  Sir  Marmaduke  should  say  something.  There 
was  at  first  a  little  scene  between  all  the  women,  during  which  he 
arranged  his  deportment.  "Mr.  Stanbury,"  he  said,  "let  it  be  so. 
I  could  wish  for  my  child's  sake,  and  also  for  your  own,  that  your 
means  of  living  were  less  precarious."  Hugh  accepted  this  simply  as 
an  authority  for  another  embrace,  and  then  he  allowed  them  all  to  go 
to  bed. 


TREVELYAN    DISCOURSES   ON    I-IFE.  329 

CH.VPTER  XCII. 
TREVELYAX  DISCOURSES  ON  LIFE. 

Stanbury   made   his  journey   -without   pause    or   hindrance   till   ho 
reached  Florence,  and  as  the  train  for  Siena  made  it  necessary  that 
he  should  remain  there  for  four  or  five  hours,  he  went  to  an  inn,  and 
dressed  and  washed  himself,  and  had  a  meal,  and  was  then  driven 
to   Mr.    Spalding's   house.      He   found    the   American    Minister   at 
home,  and  was  received    with    cordiality  ;    but  Mr.   Spalding  could 
tell   him   little  or    nothing    about   Trcvclyan.      They   went   up   to 
Mi's.    Spalding's   room,    and   Hugh  was  told  by  hor  that  she  had 
seen   Mrs.  Trevelyan    once    since   her  niece's   marriage,    and    that 
then    she    had    represented    her    husband    as    being    very   feeble. 
Hugh,  in  the  midst  of  his  troubles,  was  amused  by  a  second  and  a 
third,  perhaps  by  a  fourth,  reference  to  "  Lady  Peterborough."     Mrs. 
Spalding's  latest   tidings    as  to  the  Trevelyans  had   been   received 
through  "  Lady  Peterborough  "  from  Nora  Rowley.     "Lady  Peter- 
borough was  at  the  present  moment  at  Naples,  but  was  expected  to 
pass  north  through  Florence  in  a  day  or  two.     They,  the  Spaldings 
themselves,  were  kept  in  Florence  in  this  very  hot  weather  by  this 
circumstance.     They  were  going  up  to  the  Tyrolese  mountains  for  a 
few  weeks  as  soon  as  "  Lady  Peterborough  "  should  have  left  them 
for  England,     "Lady  Peterborough"  would  have  been  so  happy  to 
make  Mr.   Stanbury's   acquaintance,  and    to    have   heard  something 
du-ect  from  her  friend  Nora.      Then  Mrs.  Spalding  smiled  archly, 
showing  thereby  that  she  know  all  about   Hugh    Stanbury  and  his 
relation  to  Nora  Piowlcy.     From  all  which,  and  in  accordance  with  the 
teaching  which  we  got, — alas,  now  many  years  ago, — from  a  great 
master  on  the  subject,  we  must  conclude  that  poor,  dear  Mrs.  Spald- 
ing was  a  snob.     Nevertheless,  with  all  deference  to  the  memory  of 
that  great  master,   we  think  that  Mrs.   Spalding's  allusions  to  the 
success  in  life  achieved  by  her  niece  were  natural  and  altogether 
pardonable ;  and  that  reticence  on  the  subject, — a  calculated  deter- 
mination to  abstain  from  mentioning  a  triumph  which    must  have 
been  very  dear  to  her, — would  have  betrayed  on  the  whole  a  con- 
dition of  mind  lower  than  that  which  she  exhibited.     "While  rank, 
wealth,  and  money  are  held  to  bo  good  things  by  all  around  us,  let 
them  bo  acknowledged  as  such.     It  is  natural  that  a  mother  should 
bo   as   proud  v.hen  her   daughter   marries  an  Earl's  heir  as   when 
her  son  becomes    Senior  Wrangler  ;    and  when  we  meet  a  lady  in 
VOL.  u.  p* 


330  HE   KNEW    IIK    WAS   RIGHT. 

Blrs.  Spalding's  condition  wlio  purposely  abstains  from  mentioning  the- 
name  of  lier  titled  daughter,  wo  sliall  be  disposed  to  judge  harshly  of 
the  secret  workings  of  that  lady's  thoughts  on  the  subject.  "We 
prefer  the  exhibition,  which  we  feel  to  be  natural.  Mr.  Spalding 
got  our  friend  by  the  button-hole,  and  was  making  him  a  speech  on  the 
perilous  condition  in  which  Mrs.  Trevclyan  was  placed ;  but  Stan- 
bury,  urged  by  the  circumstances  of  his  position,  pulled  out  his 
watch,  pleaded  the  hour,  and  escaped. 

He  found  Mrs.  Trevelyan  waiting  for  him  at  the  station  at  Siena. 
He  would  hardly  have  known  her, — not  from  any  alteration  that  was 
physically  personal  to  herself,  not  that  she  had  become  older  in  face, 
or  thin,  or  grey,  or  sickly, — but  that  the  trouble  of  her  life  had  robbed 
her  for  the  time  of  that  brightness  of  apparel,  of  that  pride  of  feminine 
gear,  of  that  sheen  of  high-bred  womanly  bearing  with  which  our 
wives  and  daughters  are  so  careful  to  invest  themselves.  She  knew 
herself  to  be  a  "wi'etched  woman,  whose  work  in  life  now  was  to 
watch  over  a  poor  prostrate  wretch,  and  who  had  thrown  behind  her 
all  ideas  of  grace  and  beauty.  It  was  not  quickly  that  this  condition 
had  come  upon  her.  She  had  been  unhappy  at  Nuucombe  Putney  ; 
but  unhappiuess  had  not  then  told  upon  the  outward  woman.  Sho 
had  been  more  wretched  still  at  St.  Diddulph's,  and  all  the  outward 
circumstances  of  life  in  her  uncle's  parsonage  had  been  very  wearisome 
to  her ;  but  she  had  striven  against  it  all,  and  the  sheen  and  outward 
brightness  had  still  been  there.  After  that  her  child  had  been  taken 
from  her,  and  the  days  which  she  had  passed  in  Manchester  Street 
had  been  very  grievous  ; — but  even  yet  she  had  not  given  way.  It 
was  not  till  her  child  had  been  brought  back  to  her,  and  she  had 
seen  the  life  which  her  husband  was  living,  and  that  her  anger, — hot 
anger, — had  been  changed  to  pitj',  and  that  with  pity  love  had  re- 
turned, it  vras  not  till  this  point  had  come  in  her  sad  life  that  her  dress 
became  always  black  and  sombre,  that  a  veil  habitually  covered  her 
face,  that  a  bonnet  took  the  place  of  the  jaunty  hat  that  she  had  worn, 
and  that  the  prettinesses  of  her  life  were  lain  aside.  "  It  is  very  good 
of  you  to  come,"  she  said  ;  "  very  good.  I  hardly  kuewv\^hat  to  do^ 
I  was  so  wretched.  On  the  day  that  I  sent  he  was  so  bad  that  I  \rvs- 
obliged  to  do  something."  Stanbury,  of  course,  inquired  after  Tre- 
velyan's  health,  as  they  were  being  driven  up  to  Mrs.  Trevelyan's 
lodgings.  On  the  day  on  which  she  had  sent  the  telegram  her  hus- 
band had  again  been  furiously  angry  with  her.  She  had  interfered, 
or  had  endeavoured  to  interfere,  in  some  arrangements  as  to  his  health 
and  comfort,  and  he  had  tui-ncd  upon  her  with  an  order  that  the  child 


TREVELYAN    DISCOURSES   OX   LIFE.  331 

sboulcl  l)C  at  once  sent  back  to  him,  and  that  she  sliould  immediately 
quit  Siena.  ""When  I  said  that  Loucy  could  not  be  sent, — and 
^vho  could  send  a  child  into  such  kcei^ing, — he  told  mo  that  I  was  the 
basest  liar  that  ever  broke  a  promise,  and  the  vilest  traitor  that  had  ever 
returned  evil  for  good.  I  Avas  never  to  come  to  him  again, — never; 
and  the  gate  of  the  house  would  be  closed  against  mc  if  I  appeared 
there." 

On  the  next  day  she  had  gone  again,  however,  and  had  seen  him, 
and  had  visited  him  on  every  day  since.  Nothing  further  had  been 
said  about  the  child,  and  he  had  now  become  almost  too  weak  for 
violent  anger.  "I  told  him  you  were  coming,  and  though  he  would 
not  say  so,  I  think  he  is  glad  of  it.     He  expects  you  to-morroAv." 

"  I  will  go  this  evening,  if  he  will  let  me." 

"Not  to-night.  I  think  he  goes  to  bed  almost  as  the  sun  sets.  I 
am  never  there  myself  after  four  or  five  in  the  afternoon.  I  told  him 
that  you  should  be  there  to-morrow, — alone.  I  have  hired  a  little 
can-iage,  and  you  can  take  it.  He  said  specially  that  I  was  not  to 
come  with  you.  Papa  goes  certainly  on  next  Saturday  ?  "  It  was  a 
Saturday  now, — this  day  on  which  Stanbury  had  arrived  at  Siena. 

"  He  leaves  town  on  Friday." 

"You  must  make  him  believe  that.  Do  not  tell  him  suddenly,  but 
bring  it  in  by  degi'ees.  Ho  thinks  that  I  am  deceiving  him.  He 
v/ould  go  back  if  he  knew  that  papa  were  gone." 

They  spent  a  long  evening  together,  and  Stanbury  learned  all  that 
Mrs.  Trevelyan  could  tell  him  of  her  husband's  state.  There  was 
no  doubt,  she  said,  that  his  reason  was  aficcted ;  but  she  thought  the 
state  of  his  mind  was  diseased  in  a  ratio  the  reverse  of  that  of  his 
body,  and  that  when  he  was  weakest  in  health,  then  were  his  ideas 
the  most  clear  and  rational.  He  never  now  mentioned  Colonel 
Osborne's  name,  but  would  refer  to  the  aflaii's  of  the  last  two  years 
as  though  they  had  been  governed  by  an  inexorable  Fate  which  had 
utterly  destroyed  his  happiness  without  any  fault  on  his  part.  "  You 
may  be  sure,"  she  said,  "that  I  never  accuse  him.  Even  when  ho 
says  terrible  things  of  me, — which  ho  does, — I  never  excuse  myself. 
I  do  not  think  I  should  answer  a  word,  if  he  called  me  the  vilest 
thing  on  earth."  Before  they  parted  for  the  night  many  questions 
were  of  course  asked  about  Nora,  and  Hugh  described  the  condition 
in  which  he  and  she  stood  to  each  other.  "Papa  has  consented, 
then?" 

"Yes, — at  foui-  o'clock  in  the  morning, — just  as  I  was  leaving 
them." 


332  IIK    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

"  And  when  Is  it  to  be  ?  " 

"  Nothing  has  been  settled,  and  I  do  not  as  yet  know  whore  she 
will  go  to  when  they  leave  London.  I  think  she  will  visit  Monkhams 
when  the  Glascock  people  return  to  England." 

"  What  an  episode  in  life, — to  go  and  see  the  place,  when  it  might 
all  now  have  been  hers  !  " 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  feel  dreadfully  ashamed  of  myself  for  having 
marred  such  promotion,"  said  Hugh. 

*'  Nora  is  such  a  singular  girl ; — so  firm,  so  headstrong,  so  good, 
and  so  self-reliant  that  she  will  do  as  well  with  a  poor  man  as  she 
would  have  done  v;ith  a  rich.  Shall  I  confess  to  you  that  I  did  wish 
that  she  should  accept  Mr.  Glascock,  and  that  I  pressed  it  on  her 
very  strongly  ?     You  will  not  he  angry  with  me  ?" 

"  I  am  only  the  more  proud  of  her  ; — and  of  myself." 

"When  she  was  told  of  all  that  he  had  to  give  in  the  way  of  wealth 
and  rank,  she  took  the  bit  between  her  teeth  and  would  not  be  turned 
an  inch.     Of  course  she  was  in  love." 

"  I  hope  she  may  never  regret  it  ;■ — that  is  all." 

"  She  must  change  her  nature  first.  Everything  she  sees  at 
Monkhams  will  make  her  stronger  in  her  choice.  With  all  her  girlish 
ways,  she  is  like  a  rock ; — nothing  can  move  her." 

Early  on  the  next  morning  Hugh  started  alone  for  Casalunga,  having 
first,  however,  seen  Mrs.  Trcvelyan.  He  took  out  with  him  certain 
little  things  for  the  sick  man's  table ; — as  to  which,  however,  he  was 
cautioned  to  say  not  a  word  to  the  sick  man  himself.  And  it  was 
arranged  that  he  should  endeavour  to  fix  a  day  for  Trevelyan's  return 
to  England.  That  was  to  be  the  one  object  in  view.  "If  we  could 
get  him  to  England,"  she  said,  "he  and  I  would,  at  any  rate,  be 
together,  and  gradually  he  would  be  taught  to  submit  himself  to 
advice."  Before  ten  in  the  morning,  Stanbury  was  walking  up  the 
hill  to  the  house,  and  wondering  at  the  dreary,  hot,  hopeless  desola- 
tion of  the  spot.  It  seemed  to  him  that  no  one  could  live  alone  in 
such  a  place,  in  such  weather,  without  being  driven  to  madness.  The 
soil  was  parched  and  dusty,  as  though  no  drop  of  rain  had  fallen 
there  for  months.  The  lizards,  glancing  in  and  out  of  the  broken 
walls,  added  to  the  appearance  of  heat.  The  vegetation  itself  was  of 
a  faded  yellowish  green,  as  though  the  glare  of  the  sun  had  taken  the 
fresh  colour  out  of  it.  There  was  a  noise  of  grasshoppers  and  a  hum 
of  flies  in  the  air,  hardly  audible,  but  all  giving  evidence  of  the  heat. 
Not  a  human  voice  was  to  be  heard,  nor  the  sound  of  a  human  foot, 
and  there  was  no  shelter ;  but  the  sun  blazed  down  full  upon  every- 


TREVELYAX    DISCOUUSES   ON    LIFE.  333 

thing.  lie  took  off  bis  bat,  and  rubbed  bis  bead  with  bis  bandkcr- 
cbicf  as  bo  struck  tbe  door  witb  bis  stick.  Ob  God,  to  wbat  misery 
bad  a  little  folly  brought  two  human  beings  who  bad  had  every 
blessing  that  the  world  could  give  within  their  reach ! 

In  a  few  minutes  he  was  conducted  through  tbe  house,  and  found 
Trcvclyan  seated  in  a  chaii*  under  the  verandah  which  looked  down 
upon  tbe  olive  trees.  He  did  not  even  get  up  from  his  seat,  but  put 
out  his  left  band  and  welcomed  his  old  friend.  "  Stanbury,"  he  said, 
"I  am  glad  to  sec  j-ou, — for  auld  lang  syne's  sake.  "When  I  found 
out  this  retreat,  I  did  not  mean  to  have  friends  round  me  here.  I 
wanted  to  try  wbat  solitude  was  ; — and,  by  heaven,  I've  tried  it ! " 
He  was  dressed  in  a  bright  Italian  dressing-gown,  or  woollen  paletot, 
— ItaUan,  as  having  been  bought  in  Ital)',  though,  doubtless,  it  had 
come  fi'om  France, — and  on  his  feet  he  had  green  worked  slippers, 
and  on  his  head  a  brocaded  cap.  He  bad  made  but  little  other  prepa- 
ration fur  bis  friend  in  tbe  w'ay  of  dressing.  His  long  dishevelled  hair 
came  down  over  bis  neck,  and  his  beard  covered  his  face.  Beneath 
his  dressing-gown  bo  had  on  a  night-shirt  and  drawers,  and  was  as 
dirty  in  appearance  as  he  was  gaudy  in  colours.  "  Sit  do^vn  and  let 
us  two  moralise,"  he  said.  "  I  spend  my  life  hero  doing  nothing, — 
nothing, — nothing ;  while  you  cudgel  your  brain  from  day  to  day  to 
mislead  the  British  public.  Which  of  us  two  is  taking  the  nearest 
road  to  the  devil  ?  " 

Stanbmy  seated  himself  in  a  second  arm-chair,  which  there  was 
there  in  the  verandah,  and  looked  as  carefully  as  be  dared  to  do  at 
his  friend.  There  could  be  no  mistake  as  to  tbe  restless  gleam  of  that 
eye.  And  then  tbe  affected  air  of  case,  and  the  would-be  cynicism, 
and  tbe  pretence  of  false  motives,  all  told  tbe  same  story.  "  They 
used  to  tell  us,"  said  Stanbury,  "that  idleness  is  the  root  of  all  evil." 

**  They  have  been  telling  us  since  the  world  began  so  many  lies, 
that  I  for  one  have  determined  never  to  believe  anything  again. 
Labour  leads  to  greed,  and  greed  to  selfishness,  and  selfishness  to 
treachery,  and  treachery  straight  to  the  devil, — straight  to  the  devil. 
Ha,  my  friend,  all  your  leading  articles  won't  lead  you  out  of  that. 
^^'bat's  the  news  ?  Who's  alive  ?  Who  dead  ?  Who  in  ?  AVho  out  ? 
What  think  you  of  a  man  who  has  not  seen  a  newspaper  for  two 
months;  and  who  holds  no  conversation  with  the  world  further 
than  is  needed  for  the  cooking  of  bis  polenta  and  tbe  cooling  of  bis 
modest  wine-flask  ?" 

"You  sec  your  wife  sometimes,"  said  Stanbury. 

"  My  wife  !     Now,  my  friend,  let  us  drop  that  subject.     Of  all 


334  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS    RIGHT. 

topics  of  talk  it  is  the  most  distressing  to  man  in  general,  and  I  own 
that  I  am  no  exception  to  the  lot.  Wives,  Stanbuiy,  are  an  evil, 
more  oi"  less  necessary  to  humanity,  and  I  o^va  to  being  one  who 
has  not  escaped.  The  -world  must  be  populated,  though  for  what 
reason  one  does  not  see.  I  have  helped, — to  the  extent  of  one  male 
bantling ;  and  if  you  are  one  who  consider  population  desirable,  I 
Y,-ill  express  my  regret  that  I  should  have  done  no  more." 

It  was  very  difficult  to  force  Trevelyan  out  of  this  humour,  and 
it  was  not  till  Stanbury  had  risen  apparently  to  take  his  leave  that 
he  found  it  possible  to  say  a  word  as  to  his  mission  there.  "  Don't 
you  think  you  would  be  happier  at  home  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Where  is  my  home,  Sir  Ivnight  of  the  midnight  pen  ?" 

"  England  is  yoiu-  home,  Trevelyan." 

"No,  sii";  England  was  my  home  once;  but  I  have  taken  tho 
liberty  accorded  to  me  by  my  Creator  of  choosing  a  new  country. 
Italy  is  now  my  nation,  and  Casalunga  is  my  home." 

"  Every  tie  you  have  in  the  world  is  in  England." 

"  I  have  no  tie,  sir; — no  tie  anywhere.  It  has  been  my  study  to 
untie  all  the  ties ;  and,  by  Jove,  I  have  succeeded.  Look  at  me 
here.  I  have  got  rid  of  the  trammels  pretty  well, — haven't  I  ? — 
have  unshackled  myself,  and  thrown  off  the  paddings,  and  the 
wrappings,  and  the  swaddling  clothes.  I  have  got  rid  of  the  con- 
ventionalities, and  can  look  Nature  straight  in  the  face.  I  don't 
even  want  the  Daily  Record,  Stanbury ; — think  of  that ! " 

Stanbury  paced  the  length  of  the  terrace,  and  then  stopped  for 
a  moment  down  under  the  blaze  of  the  sun,  in  order  that  he  might 
think  how  to  address  this  philosopher.  "Have  you  heard,"  he 
said  at  last,  "  that  I  am  going  to  marry  your  sister-in-law,  Nora 
Rowley?" 

"  Then  there  Avill  be  two  more  full-grown  fools  in  the  world  certainly, 
and  probably  an  infinity  of  young  fools  coming  afterwards.  Excuse 
me,  Stanbury,  but  this  solitude  is  apt  to  make  one  plain-spoken." 

"I  got  Sir  Marmaduke's  sanction  the  day  before  I  left." 

"Then  you  got  the  sanction  of  an  illiterate,  ignorant,  self-sufficient, 
and  most  contemptible  old  man ;  and  much  good  may  it  do  you." 

"  Let  him  be  what  he  may,  I  was  glad  to  have  it.  Most  probably 
I  shall  never  see  him  again.  He  sails  from  Southampton  for  the 
Mandarins  on  this  day  week." 

"He  does, — does  he  ?  May  the  devil  sail  along  with  him! — that 
is  all  I  say.  And  does  my  much  respected  and  ever-to-be-beloved 
mother-in-law  sail  A^dth  him  ?" 


TREVEIA'AN'    DISCOURSIiS   ON   LIFE.  335 

"  Tluy  all  return  together, — except  Nora." 

"  AVbo  rcmaius  to  comfort  you?  I  liopc  you  maybe  comforted; 
— that  is  all.  Don't  bo  too  particular.  Let  ber  choose  her  ov/n 
friends,  and  go  her  own  gait,  and  have  her  own  way,  and  do  you 
bo  blind  and  deaf  and  dumb  and  properly  submissive ;  and  it  may  bo 
that  she'll  give  you  your  breakfast  and  dinner  in  your  ovm  house, — 
so  long  as  your  hours  don't  interfere  with  her  pleasures.  If  she 
should  even  urge  you  beside  yourself  by  her  vanity,  folly,  and 
disobedience, — so  that  at  last  you  are  driven  to  express  your  feeling, 
— no  doubt  she  will  come  to  you  after  a  while  and  tell  you  with 
the  sweetest  condescension  that  she  forgives  you.  "WTien  she  has 
been  out  of  yoiu*  house  for  a  twelvemonth  or  more,  she  will  offer 
to  come  back  to  you,  and  to  forget  everything, — on  condition  that 
you  will  do  exactly  as  she  bids  you  for  the  future." 

This  attempt  at  satire,  so  fatuous,  so  plain,  so  false,  together  with 
the  would-be  jaunty  manner  of  the  speaker,  who,  however,  failed 
I'epeatedly  in  his  utterances  from  sheer  physical  exhaustion,  was 
excessively  painful  to  Stanbury.  What  can  one  do  at  any  time  with 
a  madman?  "I  mentioned  my  marriage,"  said  he,  "to  prove  my 
right  to  have  an  additional  interest  in  your  wife's  happiness." 

"  You  are  quite  welcome,  whether  you  marry  the  other  one  or  not ; 
— welcome  to  take  any  interest  you  please.  I  have  got  beyond  all 
that,  Stanbury  ; — yes,  by  Jove,  a  long  way  beyond  all  that." 

"You  have  not  got  beyond  loving  your  wife,  and  your  child, 
Trevolyan?" 

"  Upon  my  word,  yes  ; — I  think  I  have.  There  may  be  a  grain  of 
weakness  left,  you  know.  But  what  have  you  to  do  with  my  love  for 
my  wife?" 

"  I  was  thinking  more  just  now  of  her  love  for  you.  There  she  is 
at  Siena.     You  cannot  mean  that  she  should  remain  there  ?" 

"  Certainly  not.     What  the  deuce  is  there  to  keep  her  there  ?" 

"  Come  with  her  then  to  England." 

"  "Why  should  I  go  to  England  with  her  ?  Because  you  bid  me,  or 
because  she  wishes  it, — or  simply  because  England  is  the  most 
damnable,  puritanical,  God-forgotten,  and  stupid  country  on  the  face 
of  the  globe  ?  I  know  no  other  reason  for  going  to  England.  "Will 
you  take  a  glass  of  wine,  Stanbury?"  Hugh  declined  the  offer. 
"  You  will  excuse  me,"  continued  Trevclj-an  ;  "  I  always  take  a  glass 
of  wine  at  this  hour."  Then  he  rose  from  his  chair,  and  helped  him- 
self from  a  cupboard  that  was  near  at  hand.  Stanbury,  watching 
him  as  he  filled  his  glass,  could  see  that  his  legs  were  hardly  strong 


33G  HE   KNEW   HE   AVAS   RIGHT. 

enough  to  carry  him.  And  Stanbury  saw,  moreover,  that  the  unfor- 
tunate man  took  two  glasses  out  of  the  bottle.  "Go  to  England 
indeed.  I  do  not  think  much  of  this  country  ;  but  it  is,  at  any  rate, 
bettor  than  England." 

Hugh  perceived  that  he  could  do  nothing  more  on  the  present  occa- 
sion. Having  heard  so  much  of  Trevelyan's  debility,  he  had  been 
astonished  to  hear  the  man  speak  with  so  much  volubility  and 
attempts  at  high-flown  spirit.  Before  he  had  taken  the  wine  he  had 
almost  sunk  into  his  chair,  but  still  he  had  continued  to  speak  with 
the  same  fluent  would-be  cynicism.  "  I  will  come  and  see  3'ou 
again,"  said  Hugh,  getting  up  to  take  his  departure. 

"  You  might  as  well  save  your  trouble,  Stanbury ;  but  j'ou  can 
come  if  you  please,  you  know.  If  j'ou  should  find  yom'self  locked 
out,  you  won't  be  angry.  A  hermit  such  as  I  am  must  assume 
privileges." 

"  I  won't  be  angry,"  said  Hugh,  good  humouredly. 

"I  can  smell  what  you  are  come  about,"  said  Trevelyan.  "You 
and  my  wife  want  to  take  me  away  from  here  among  you,  and  I 
think  it  best  to  stay  here.  I  don't  want  much  for  myself,  and  why 
should  I  not  live  here  ?  My  wife  can  remain  at  Siena  if  she  pleases, 
or  she  can  go  to  England  if  she  pleases.  She  must  give  me  the  same 
liberty ; — the  same  liberty, — the  same  liberty."  After  this  he  fell 
a-coughing  violently,  and  Stanbury  thought  it  better  to  leave  him. 
He  had  been  at  Casalunga  about  two  hours,  and  did  not  seem  as  yet 
to  have  done  any  good.  He  had  been  astonished  both  by  Trevelyan's 
weakness,  and  by  his  strength  ;  by  his  folly,  and  by  his  sharpness. 
Hitherto  he  could  see  no  way  for  his  future  sister-in-law  out  of  her 
troubles. 

When  he  was  with  her  at  Siena,  he  described  what  had  taken  place 
with  all  the  accuracy  in  his  power.  "He  has  intermittent  days," 
said  Emily.  "  To-morrow  he  will  be  in  quite  another  frame  of  mind, 
— melancholy,  silent  perhaps,  and  self-reproachful.  We  will  both  go 
to-morrow,  and  we  shall  find  probably  that  he  has  forgotten  alto- 
gether what  has  passed  to  day  between  you  and  him." 

So  their  plans  for  the  morrow  were  formed. 


CHAPTER  XCm. 


-S-.^J"  THAT  YOU  FORGIVE  ME. 


y  X  the  following  day,  again  early  in  the 
morning,  Mrs.  Trevelyau  and  Stanbury 
were  driven  out  to  Casalunga.  The 
country  people  along  the  road  knew 
the  carriage  well,  and  the  lady  who 
occupied  it,  and  would  say  that  the 
English  wife  was  going  to  see  her  mad 
husband.  Mrs.  Trevelyan  knew  that 
these  words  were  common  in  the  peo- 
ple's mouths,  and  explained  to  her 
"^^  companion  how  necessary  it  Avould  be 
to  use  these  rumours,  to  aid  her  in  put- 

y^t.    ._    /J'*^-'-%[fjS^''^-^^^^.    ^'^'^S  some  restraint  over  her   husband 
-« >^^. .'-  I  »!'•/--»«  ' -'    -  —  =*'     pygjj  iu  j;}jjg  couutry,  should  they  fail  in 

their  effort  to  take  him  to  England.  She 
saw  the  doctor  in  Siena  constantly,  and 
had  learned  from  him  how  such  steps  might  be  taken.  The  measure 
proposed  would  be  slow,  dillicult,  inefficient,  and  very  hard  to  set 
aside,  if  once  taken ; — but  still  it  might  be  indispensable  that  some- 
thing should  be  done.  "  He  would  be  so  much  worse  off  here  than 
he  would  be  at  home,"  she  said; — "if  we  could  only  make  him 
understand  that  it  Avould  be  so."  Then  Stanbury  asked  about  the 
wine.  It  seemed  that  of  late  Trevelyan  had  taken  to  drink  freely,  but 
only  of  the  wine  of  the  country.  But  the  wine  of  the  country  in 
these  parts  is  sufliciently  stimulating,  and  Mrs.  Trevelyau  acknow- 
ledged that  hence  had  arisen  a  further  cause  of  fear. 

They  walked  up  the  hill  together,  and  Mrs.  Trevelyan,  now  well 
knowing  the  ways  of  the  place,  went  round  at  once  to  the  front 
terrace.  There  he  was,  seated  in  his  arm-chair,  dressed  in  the  same 
way  as  yesterday,  dirty,  dishevelled,  and  gaudy  with  various  colours  ; 
but  Stanbury  could  see  at  ouce  that  his  mood  had  greatly  changed. 

VOL.   II.  Q 


338  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS   UIGIIT. 

He  rose  slowly,  dragging  himself  up  out  of  his  chair,  as  they  came  up 
to  him,  hut  shewing  as  he  did  so, — and  perhaps  somewhat  assuming, 
— the  impotency  of  querulous  sickness.  His  wife  went  to  him,  and 
took  him  by  the  hand,  and  placed  him  back  in  his  chair.  He  w^as 
weak,  he  said,  and  had  not  slept,  and  suffered  from  the  heat ;  and 
then  he  begged  her  to  give  him  Avine.  This  she  did,  half  filling  for 
him  a  tumbler,  of  which  he  swallowed  the  contents  greedily.  "  You 
see  me  very  poorly,  Stanbury, — very  poorly,"  he  said,  seeming  to 
ignore  all  that  had  taken  place  on  the  previous  day. 

*'  You  want  change  of  climate,  old  fellow,"  said  Stanbury. 

**  Change  of  everything; — I  want  change  of  everything,"  he  said. 
*'  If  I  could  have  a  new  body  and  a  new  mind,  and  a  new  soul ! " 

"  The  mind  and  soul,  dear,  will  do  well  enough,  if  you  will  let  us 
look  after  the  body,"  said  his  wife,  seating  herself  on  a  stool  near  his 
feet.  Stanbury,  who  had  settled  beforehand  how  he  would  conduct 
himself,  took  out  a  cigar  and  lighted  it ; — and  then  they  sat  together 
silent,  or  nearly  silent,  for  half  an  hour.  She  had  said  that  if  Hugh 
would  do  so,  Trevelyan  would  soon  become  used  to  the  presence  of 
his  old  friend,  and  it  seemed  that  he  had  already  done  so.  More  than 
once,  when  he  coughed,  his  wife  fetched  him  some  drink  in  a  cup, 
which  he  took  from  her  without  a  word.  And  Stanbury  the  while 
went  on  smoking  in  silence. 

"  You  have  heard,  Louis,"  she  said  at  last,  '•'  that,  after  all,  Nora 
and  Mr.  Stanbury  are  going  to  be  married?" 

"  Ah ; — yes  ;  I  think  I  was  told  of  it.  I  hope  you  may  be  happy, 
Stanbury; — happier  than  I  have  been."  This  was  unfortunate,  but 
neither  of  the  visitors  winced,  or  said  a  word. 

"  It  will  be  a  pity  that  papa  and  mamma  cannot  be  present  at  the 
wedding,"  said  Mrs.  Trevelyan. 

"  If  I  had  to  do  it  again,  I  should  not  regret  j^our  father's  absence ; 
I  must  say  that.  He  has  been  my  enemy.  Yes,  Stanbury, — my 
enemy.  I  don't  care  Avho  hears  me  say  so.  I  am  obliged  to  stay 
here,  because  that  man  would  swear  everj''  shilling  I  have  away  from 
me  if  I  were  in  England.  He  would  strive  to  do  so,  and  the  struggle 
in  my  state  of  health  would  be  too  much  for  me." 

"  But  Sir  Marmaduke  sails  from  Southampton  this  very  week,"  said 
Stanbury. 

"  I  don't  know.  He  is  always  sailing,  and  always  coming  back 
again.  I  never  asked  him  for  a  shilling  in  my  life,  and  yet  he  has 
treated  me  as  though  I  were  his  bitterest  enemy." 

"  He  will  trouble  you  no  more  now,  Louis,"  said  Mrs.  Trevelyan. 


SAY    THAT   YOU    FORGIVE    ME.  339 

"He  cannot  trouble  you  again.  He  will  have  left  England  before 
you  can  possibly  reach  it." 

"  He  will  have  left  other  traitors  behind  him, — though  none  as  bad 
ns  himself,"  said  Trevelyan. 

Stanbury,  when  his  cigar  was  finished,  rose  and  left  the  husband 
and  wife  together  on  the  terrace.  There  was  little  enough  to  be  seen 
at  Casalunga,  but  he  strolled  about  looking  at  the  place.  He  went 
into  the  huge  granary,  and  then  down  among  the  olive  trees,  and  up 
into  the  sheds  which  had  been  built  for  beasts.  He  stood  and  teased 
the  lizards,  and  listened  to  the  hum  of  the  insects,  and  wiped  away 
the  perspiration  which  rose  to  his  brow  even  as  he  was  standing.  And 
all  the  while  he  was  thinking  what  he  would  do  next,  or  what  say 
next,  with  the  view  of  getting  Trevelyan  away  from  the  place. 
Hitherto  he  had  been  very  tender  with  him,  contradicting  him  in 
nothing,  taking  from  him  good  humouredly  any  absurd  insult  which 
he  chose  to  ofler,  pressing  upon  him  none  of  the  evil  which  he  had 
himself  occasioned,  saying  to  him  no  word  that  could  hurt  either  his 
pride  or  his  comfort.  But  he  could  not  see  that  this  would  be  effica- 
cious for  the  purpose  desired.  He  had  come  thither  to  help  Nora's 
sister  in  her  terrible  distress,  and  he  must  take  upoa  himself  to  make 
some  plan  for  giving  this  aid.  '\Mien  he  had  thought  of  all  this  and 
made  his  plan,  he  sauntered  back  round  the  house  on  to  the  terrace. 
She  was  still  there,  sitting  at  her  husband's  feet,  and  holding  one  of 
his  hands  in  hers.  It  was  well  that  the  wife  should  be  tender,  but 
he  doubted  whether  tenderness  would  suffice. 

"  Trevelyan,"  he  said,  "  you  know  why  I  have  come  over  here  ?" 

*'  I  suppose  she  told  you  to  come,"  said  Trevelyan. 

"  Well ;  yes  ;  she  did  tell  me.  I  came  to  try  and  get  you  back  to 
England.  If  you  remain  here,  the  climate  and  solitude  together  will 
kill  you." 

"  As  for  the  climate,  I  like  it; — and  as  for  solitude,  I  have  got  used 
even  to  that." 

"And  then  there  is  another  thing,"  said  Stanbury. 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Trevelyan,  starting. 

^'  You  are  not  safe  here." 

^' How  not  safe?" 

"  She  could  not  tell  you,  but  I  must."  His  wife  was  still  holding 
Lis  hand,  and  he  did  not  at  once  attempt  to  withdraw  it ;  but 
he  raised  himself  in  his  chair,  and  fixed  his  eyes  fiercely  on  Stanbury. 
•'  They  will  not  let  you  romuin  here  quietly,"  said  Stanburv. 

♦'Who  will  not?" 


340  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

"The  Italians.  They  are  ah-ead}-  saymg  that  you  arc  not  fit  to  be 
alone  ;  and  if  once  they  get  you  into  their  hands, — under  some 
Italian  medical  board,  perhaps  into  some  Italian  asylum,  it  might  be 
years  before  you  could  get  out, — if  ever.  I  have  come  to  tell  you 
what  the  danger  is.     I  do  not  know  whether  you  will  believe  me." 

"Is  it  so  ?"  he  said,  turning  to  his  wife. 

"  I  believe  it  is,  Louis." 

"  And  who  has  told  them  ?  Who  has  been  putting  them  up  to  it  ?  " 
Now  his  hand  had  been  withdrawn.  "  My  God,  am  I  to  be  followed 
here  too  with  such  persecution  as  this  ? ' ' 

"  Nobody  has  told  them, — but  people  have  eyes." 

"  Liar,  traitor,  fiend  ! — it  is  you  ! "  he  said,  turning  upon  his  wife. 

"  Louis,  as  I  hope  for  mercy,  I  have  said  not  a  word  to  any  one 
that  could  injure  you." 

"  Trevelyan,  do  not  be  so  unjust,  and  so  foolish,"  said  Stanbury. 
"It  is  not  her  doing.  Do  you  suppose  that  you  can  live  here  like 
this  and  give  rise  to  no  remarks  ?  Do  you  think  that  people's  eyes 
are  not  open,  and  that  their  tongues  will  not  speak  ?  I  tell  you,  you 
are  in  danger  here." 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  Where  am  I  to  go  ?  Can  not  they  let  me 
stay  till  I  die  ?  Whom  am  I  hurting  here  ?  She  may  have  all  my 
money,  if  she  wants  it.     She  has  got  my  child." 

"I  want  nothing,  Louis,  but  to  take  you  where  you  may  be  safe 
and  well." 

"  Why  are  you  afraid  of  going  to  England  ?"  Stanbury  asked. 

"Because  they  have  threatened  to  put  me — in  a  madhouse." 

"Nobody  ever  thought  of  so  treating  you,"  said  his  wufe. 

"  Your  father  did, — and  your  mother.     They  told  me  so." 

"  Look  here,  Trevelyan.  Sir  Marmaduke  and  Ladj-  Piowley  are 
gone.  They  Avill  have  sailed,  at  least,  before  we  can  reach  England. 
Whatever  may  have  been  either  their  wishes  or  their  power,  they  can 
do  nothing  now.  Here  something  would  be  done, — very  soon  ;  you 
may  take  my  word  for  that.  If  you  will  return  with  me  and  your 
wife,  you  shall  choose  your  own  place  of  abode.  Is  not  that  so, 
Emily?" 

"He  shall  choose  everything.  His  boy  will  be  with  him,  and  I 
will  be  with  him,  and  he  shall  be  contradicted  in  nothing.  If  he  onlv 
knew  my  heart  towards  him  !  " 

"  You  hear  what  she  says,  Trevelyan  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  hear  her." 

"  And  you  believe  her  ?  " 


SAY    IHAT    YOU    FORGIVE    MK.  311 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  Staubiny,  how  sboukl  you  like  to  bo 
b)cko(l  up  in  a  madhouse  ami  grin  through  the  bars  till  your  heart 
was  broken.     It  would  not  take  long  Avith  me,  I  know." 

'•  You  shall  never  be  locked  up ; — never  be  touched,"  said  bis  wife. 

"  I  am  very  harmless  here,"  he  said,  almost  crying ;  '•  very  harm- 
less. I  do  not  think  anybody  here  will  touch  me,"  he  added  after- 
wards. "  And  there  are  other  places.  There  are  other  places.  My 
God,  that  I  should  be  driven  about  the  world  like  this  !  "  The  con- 
iVrence  was  ended  by  his  saving  that  he  would  take  two  days  to 
think  of  it,  and  by  liis  then  desiring  that  they  would  both  leave  him. 
They  did  so,  and  descended  the  hill  together,  knowing  that  he  was 
watching  them, — that  he  would  watch  them  till  they  were  out  of 
sight  from  the  gate; — for,  as  Mrs.  Trevelyan  said,  he  never  came 
down  the  hill  now,  knowing  that  the  labour  of  ascending  it  was  too 
much  for  him.  "When  they  were  at  the  carriage  they  were  met  by 
one  of  the  women  of  the  house,  and  strict  injunctions  M'ere  given 
to  her  by  Mrs.  Trevelyan  to  send  on  word  to  Siena  if  the  Hignore 
should  prepare  to  move.  "  He  cannot  go  far  without  my  knowing  it," 
said  she,  "  because  he  draws  his  money  in  Siena,  and  lately  I  have 
taken  to  him  what  he  wants.  He  has  not  enough  with  him  for  a  long 
journey."  For  Stanbury  had  suggested  that  he  might  be  ofl'  to  seek 
another  residence  in  another  country,  and  that  they  would  find  Casa- 
lunga  vacant  when  they  reached  it  on  the  following  Tuesday.  But 
he  told  himself  almost  immediately, — not  caring  to  express  such  an 
opinion  to  Emily, — that  Trevelyan  ^\ onld  hardly  ba^e  strength  even 
to  prepare  for  such  a  journey  by  himself. 

On  the  intervening  day,  the  Monday,  Stanbury  had  no  occupation 
whatever,  and  he  thought  that  since  he  was  born  no  day  had  ever 
been  so  long.  Siena  contains  many  monuments  of  interest,  and  much 
that  is  valuable  in  art, — having  bad  a  school  of  painting  of  its  own, 
and  still  retaining  in  its  public  gallery  specimens  of  its  school,  of 
which  as  a  city  it  is  justly  proud.  There  are  palaces  there  to  bo 
beaten  for  gloomy  majesty  by  none  in  Italy.  There  is  a  cathedral 
which  was  to  have  been  the  largest  in  the  Avoild,  and  than  which 
few  are  more  worthy  of  prolonged  inspection.  The  town  is  old,  and 
quaint,  and  picturesque,  and  dirty,  and  attractive, — as  it  becomes  a 
town  in  Italy  to  be.  But  in  July  all  such  charms  are  thrown  away. 
Jn  July  Italy  is  not  a  land  of  charms  to  an  Englishman.  Poor  Stan- 
bury did  wander  into  the  cathedral,  and  llnding  it  the  coolest  phico 
in  the  town,  went  to  sleep  on  a  stone  step.  He  was  awoke  by  tho 
voice  of  the  jiriests  as  they  began  to  chant  the  vespers.     The  good- 


342  HE   KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

iiaturcd  Italians  bad  let  him  sleep,  and  would  have  let  him  sleep  till' 
the  doors  were  closed  for  the  night.  At  five  he  dined  with  Mrs. 
Trevelyan,  and  then  endeavoured  to  while  away  the  evening  thinking 
of  Nora  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth.  He  was  standing  in  this  way  at 
the  hotel  gatcAvay,  when,  on  a  sudden,  all  Siena  was  made  alive  by 
the  clatter  of  an  open  carriage  and  four  on  its  way  through  the  town 
to  the  railway.  On  looking  up,  Stanbury  saw  Lord  Peterborough  in 
the  carriage, — with  a  lady  whom  he  did  not  doubt  to  be  Lord  Peter- 
borough's wife.  He  himself  had  not  been  recognised,  but  he  slowly 
followed  the  carriage  to  the  railway  station.  After  the  Italian  fashion, 
the  arrival  was  three-quarters  of  an  hour  before  the  proper  time,  and 
Stanbury  had  full  opportunity  of  learning  their  news  and  telling  his 
own.  They  were  coming  up  from  Rome,  and  thought  it  preferable  tO' 
take  the  route  by  Siena  than  to  use  the  railway  through  the  Maremma  ; 
and  they  intended  to  reach  Florence  that  night. 

"  And  do  you  think  he  is  really  mad  ?"  asked  Lady  Peterborough. 

*'  He  is  undoubtedly  so  mad  as  to  be  unfit  to  manage  anything  for 
himself,  but  he  is  not  in  such  a  condition  that  any  one  would  wish  to 
see  him  put  into  confinement.  If  he  were  raving  mad  there  would 
be  less  difficulty,  though  there  might  be  more  distress." 

A  great  deal  was  said  about  Nora,  and  both  Lord  Peterborough 
and  his  wife  insisted  that  the  marriage  should  take  place  at  Monk- 
hams.  "We  shall  be  home  now  in  less  than  three  weeks,"  said 
Caroline,  "  and  she  must  come  to  us  at  once.  But  I  will  write  to  her 
from  Florence,  and  tell  her  how  we  saw  you  smoking  your  pipe  under 
the  archway.     Not  that  my  husband  knew  you  in  the  least." 

"  Upon  my  word  no,"  said  the  husband, — "one  didn't  expect  to 
find  you  here.  Good-bye.  I  hope  j'ou  may  succeed  in  getting  him 
home.  I  went  to  him  once,  but  could  do  very  little."  Then  the 
train  started,  and  Stanbury  went  back  to  Mrs.  Trevelj'an. 

On  the  next  day  Stanbury  went  out  to  Casalunga  alone.  He  had 
calculated,  on  leaving  England,  that  if  any  good  might  be  done  at 
Siena  it  could  be  done  in  three  days,  and  that  he  would  have  been 
able  to  start  on  his  return  on  the  Wednesday  morning, — or  on  Wed- 
nesday evening  at  the  latest.  But  now  there  did  not  seem  to  be  any 
chance  of  that ; — and  he  hardly  knew  how  to  guess  when  he  might 
get  away.  He  had  sent  a  telegram  to  Lady  Rowley  after  his  first 
visit,  in  which  he  had  simply  said  that  things  were  not  at  all  changed 
at  Casalunga,  and  he  had  written  to  Nora  each  day  since  his  arrival. 
His  stay  was  prolonged  at  great  expense  and  inconvenience  to  him- 
self ;  and  yet  it  was  impossible  that  he  should  go  and  leave  his  work 


SAY  TirAT   YOU   FORGIVE    MK.  343 

hftif  finished.  As  he  walked  up  tho  hill  to  tho  house  he  felt  very 
angry  with  Trevelyau,  and  prepared  himself  to  use  hard  words  and 
dreadful  threats.  But  at  tho  very  moment  of  his  entrance  on  the 
ten-ace,  Trcvelyan  professed  himself  ready  to  go  to  England.  "  That's 
right,  old  fellow,"  said  Hugh.  "  I  am  so  glad."  But  in  expressing 
his  joy  ho  had  hardly  noticed  Trevclyau's  voice  and  appearance. 

"I  might  as  well  go,"  he  said.  "  It  matters  little  where  I  am,  or 
whether  they  say  that  I  am  mad  or  sane." 

"  "When  we  have  you  over  there,  nobody  shall  say  a  word  that  is 
disagreeable." 

"  I  only  hope  that  j'ou  may  not  have  the  trouble  of  burying  me  on 
the  road.  You  don't  know,  Stanbury,  how  ill  I  am.  I  cannot  eat. 
If  I  were  at  the  bottom  of  that  hill,  I  could  no  more  walk  up  it  than 
I  could  fly.  I  cannot  sleep,  and  at  night  my  bed  is  wet  through 
with  perspiration.  I  can  remember  nothing, — nothing  but  what  I 
ought  to  forget." 

"  We'll  put  you  on  to  your  legs  again  when  wc  get  you  to  your 
own  climate." 

"I  shall  be  a  poor  traveller, — a  poor  traveller;  but  I  will  do  my 
best." 

When  would  he  start '?  That  was  tho  next  question.  Trevelyan 
asked  for  a  week,  and  Stanbury  brought  him  down  at  last  to  three 
days.  They  would  go  to  Florence  by  the  evening  train  on  Friday, 
and  sleep  there.  Emily  should  come  out  and  assist  him  to  arrange 
bis  things  on  the  morrow.  Having  finished  so  much  of  his  business, 
Stanbury  returned  to  Siena. 

They  both  feared  that  he  might  be  found  on  the  next  day  to  have 
departed  from  his  intention ;  but  no  such  idea  seemed  to  have 
occurred  to  him.  He  gave  instructions  as  the  notice  to  be  served 
<m  the  agent  from  the  Hospital  as  to  his  house,  and  allowed  Emily  to 
go  among  his  things  and  make  preparations  for  the  journey.  He  did 
not  say  much  to  her;  and  when  she  attempted,  with  a  soft  half- 
uttered  word,  to  assure  him  that  the  threat  of  Italian  interference, 
which  had  come  from  Stanbury,  had  not  reached  Stanbury  from  her, 
he  simply  shook  his  head  sadly.  She  could  not  understand  whether 
he  did  not  believe  her,  or  whether  he  simply  wished  that  the  subject 
should  be  dropped.  She  could  elicit  no  sign  of  affection  from  him, 
nor  would  he  willingly  accept  such  from  her ; — but  he  allowed  her  to 
prepare  for  the  journey,  and  never  hinted  that  his  purpose  might 
again  be  liable  to  change.  On  the  Friday,  Emily  with  her  child,  and 
Hugh  with  all  their  baggage,  travelled  out  on  the  road  to  Casalunga, 


314  IIK    KNEW    HE    AVAS    KIGHT. 

thinking  it  better  that  there  should  be  no  halt  in  the  town  on  their 
return.  At  Casalunga,  Hugh  -went  up  the  hill  with  the  driver,  leaving 
Mrs.  Trevclyan  in  the  carriage.  He  had  been  out  at  the  house  before 
in  the  morning,  and  had  given  all  necessary  orders  ; — but  still  at  the 
last  moment  he  thought  that  there  might  be  failure.  But  Trevelyau 
was  ready,  having  dressed  himself  up  with  a  laced  shirt,  and  changed 
his  dressing-gown  for  a  blue  frock-coat,  and  his  brocaded  cap  for  a 
Paris  hat,  very  pointed  before  and  behind,  and  closely  turned  up  at 
the  sides.  But  Stanbury  did  not  in  the  least  care  for  his  friend's 
dress.  "Take  my  arm,"  he  said,  "  and  we  Avill  go  down,  fair  and 
easy.  Emily  would  not  come  up  because  of  the  heat."  He  suflered 
himself  to  be  led,  or  almost  carried  down  the  hill ;  and  three  women, 
and  the  coachman,  and  an  old  countryman  who  worked  on  the 
farm,  followed  with  the  luggage.  It  took  about  an  horn*  and  a  half 
to  pack  the  things  ;  but  at  last  they  were  all  packed,  and  corded,  and 
bound  together  with  sticks,  as  though  it  were  intended  that  they 
should  travel  in  that  form  to  Moscow.  Trevelyan  the  meanwhile  sat 
on  a  chair  which  had  been  brought  out  for  him  from  one  of  the 
cottages,  and  his  wife  stood  beside  him  with  her  boy.  "  Now  then 
we  are  ready,"  said  Stanbury.  And  in  that  way  they  bade  farewell 
to  Casalunga.  Trevelyau  sat  speechless  in  the  carriage,  and  would 
not  even  notice  the  child.  He  seemed  to  be  half  dreaming  and  to  fix 
his  eyes  on  vacancy.  "  He  appears  to  think  of  nothing  now,"  Emily 
said  that  evening  to  Stanbury.  But  who  can  tell  how  busy  and  hoAV 
troubled  are  the  thoughts  of  a  madman  ! 

They  had  now  succeeded  in  their  object  of  inducing  their  patient  to 
return  vnth  them  to  England  ;  but  what  were  they  to  do  with  him 
when  they  had  reached  home  with  him  ?  They  rested  only  a  night 
at  Florence ;  but  they  found  their  fellow-traveller  so  weary,  that 
they  were  unable  to  get  beyond  Bologna  on  the  second  day.  Many 
questions  were  asked  of  him  as  to  where  he  himself  would  wish  to 
take  up  his  residence  in  England ;  but  it  was  found  almost  impossible 
to  get  an  answer.  Once  he  suggested  that  he  would  like  to  go  back 
to  Mrs.  Fuller's  cottage  at  Willesden,  from  whence  they  concluded 
that  he  would  wish  to  live  somewhere  out  of  London.  On  his  first 
day's  journey,  he  was  moody  and  silent, — wilfully  assuming  the  airs 
of  a  much-injured  person.  He  spoke  hardly  at  all,  and  would  notice 
nothing  that  was  said  to  him  by  his  wife.  He  declared  once  that  he 
regarded  Stanbury  as  his  keeper,  and  endeavoured  to  be  disagreeable 
and  sullenly  combative  ;  but  on  the  second  day,  he  w\as  too  weak  for 
this,  and  accepted,  without  remonstrance,  the  attentions  that  were 


SAY    THAT    YOU    rORGlVF,    MH.  345 

paid  to  him.  At  Bologna  tboy  rested  a  day,  and  from  tlioucc  Lulli 
Stanliury  and  Mrs.  Trevelyan  wrote  to  Nora.  Thoy  ilid  not  kiow 
where  she  might  he  now  staying,  hut  the  letters,  hy  agreement,  were 
addressed  to  Gregg's  Hotel.  It  was  suggested  that  lodgings,  or,  if 
possihie,  a  small  furnished  house,  should  he  taken  in  the  neighhour- 
hood  of  Mortlake,  Richmond,  or  Teddington,  and  that  a  telegram  as 
w  L-U  as  letter  should  he  sent  to  them  at  the  Paris  hotel.  As  they 
(•(udd  not  travel  quick,  there  might  be  time  enough  for  them  in  this 
way  to  know  whither  they  should  go  on  their  reaching  London. 

They  stayed  a  day  at  Bologna,  and  then  they  went  on  again, — to 
Turin,  over  the  moiantaius  to  Chambery,  thence  to  Dijon,  and  on  to  Paris. 
At  Chamhery  they  remained  a  couple  of  days,  fancying  that  the  air 
tliero  was  cool,  and  that  the  delay  would  be  salutary  to  the  sick  man. 
At  Turin,  finding  that  they  wanted  further  assistance,  they  had  hired  a 
courier,  and  at  last  Trevelyan  allowed  himself  to  he  carried  in  and  out 
of  the  carriages  and  up  and  down  the  hotel  stairs  almost  as  though 
he  were  a  child.     The  delay  was  terribly  grievous  to  Stanhury,  and 
Mrs.  Trevelyan,  perceiving  this  more  than  once,  hogged  him  to  leave 
them,  and  to  allow  her  to  finish   the  journey  with   the   aid  of  the 
courier.     But  this  he  could  not  do.     lie  wrote  letters  to  his  friends 
at  the  D.  R.  office,  explaining  his  position  as  well  as  he  could,  and 
suggesting  that  this   and  that   able   assistant    should    enlighten   the 
l^ritish  people  on  this  and  that  subject,  which  would, — in  the  course 
of   nature,   as  arranged  at  the  D.   R.   office, — have  fallen  into    his 
liauds.     He  and  Mrs.  Trevelyan  became  as  brother  and  sister  to  each 
other  on  their  way  home,- — as,  indeed,  it  was  natural  that  they  should 
do.     Were  they  doing  right  or  wrong  in  this  journey  that  they  were 
taking  ?    They  could  not  conceal  from  themselves  that  the  lahour  was 
almost  more  than  the  poor  wretch  could  endure  ;   and  that  it  might 
he,  as  he  himself  had  suggested,  that  they  would  he  called  on  to  bury 
him  on  the  road.     But  that  residence  at  Casalunga  had  been  so  ter- 
rible,— the  circumstances  of  it,  including  the  solitude,  sickness,  mad- 
ness, and  habits  of  life  of  the  wretched  hermit,  had  been  so  dangerous, 
— the  probability  cf  interference  on  the  part  of  some  native  authority 
KO  great,  and  the  chance  of  the  house  being  left  in  Trevelyan's  pos- 
session so  small,  that  it  had  seemed  to  him  that  they  had  no  other 
alternative ;  and  yet,  how  Avould  it  be  if  they  were  killing  him  by  the 
loil  of  travelling?     From  Chambery,  they  made  the  journey  to  Paris 
in   two   days,   and  during  that    time  Trevelyan    hardly    opened   his 
mouth.     He   slept   much,   and   ate  better  than  he  had  done  in  the 
hotter  climate  on  the  other  side  of  the  Alps. 


34G  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

Tlicy  found  a  telegram  at  Paris,  ■whicli  simply  contained  the  pro- 
mise of  a  letter  for  the  next  day.  It  had  been  sent  by  Nora,  before 
she  had  gone  out  on  her  search.  But  it  contained  one  morsel  of 
strange  information  ;  "  Lady  Milborough  is  going  with  me."  On  the 
next  day  they  got  a  letter,  saying  that  a  cottage  had  been  taken,  fur- 
nished, between  Richmond  and  Twickenham.  Lady  Milborough  had 
know^n  of  the  cottage,  and  everything  would  be  ready  then.  Nora 
would  herself  meet  them  at  the  station  in  London,  if  they  would,  as 
she  proposed,  stay  a  night  at  Dover.  They  were  to  address  to  her 
at  Lady  Milborough's  house,  in  Eccleston  Square.  In  that  case,  she 
would  have  a  carriage  for  them  at  the  Victoria  Station,  and  would  go 
down  with  them  at  once  to  the  cottage. 

There  were  to  be  two  days  more  of  weary  travelling,  and  then  they 
were  to  be  at  home  again.  She  and  he  would  have  a  house  together 
as  husband  and  wife,  and  the  curse  of  their  separation  would,  at  any 
rate,  be  over.  Her  mind  towards  him  had  changed  altogether  since 
the  days  in  which  she  had  been  so  indignant,  because  he  had  set  a 
policeman  to  watch  over  her.  All  feeling  of  anger  was  over  with  her 
now.  There  is  nothing  that  a  woman  will  not  forgive  a  man,  when 
he  is  weaker  than  she  is  herself. 

The  journey  was  made  first  to  Dover,  and  then  to  London.  Once, 
as  they  were  making  their  way  through  the  Kentish  hop-fields,  he  put 
out  his  hand  feebly,  and  touched  hers.  They  had  the  carriage  to  them- 
selves, and  she  was  do-\vn  on  her  knees  before  him  instantly.  "  Oh, 
Louis  !  Oh,  Louis  !  say  that  you  forgive  me  !  "  AYhat  could  a  woman 
do  more  than  that  in  her  mercy  to  a  man  ? 

"Yes; — yes;  yes,"  he  said;  "but  do  not  talk  now;  I  am  sa 
tired." 


CHAPTER  CXIV. 
A    SEAL    CHRISTIAJSr. 


In  the  meantime  the  Rowleys  were  gone.  On  the  Monday  after  tho 
departure  of  Stanbury  for  Italy,  Lady  Rowley  had  begun  to  look  the 
difficulty  about  Nora  in  the  face,  and  to  feel  that  she  must  do  some- 
thing towards  providing  the  poor  girl  with  a  temporary  home. 
Everybody  had  now  agi-eed  that  she  was  to  marry  Hugh  Stanbury 
as  soon  as  Hugh  Stanbury  could  be  ready,  and  it  was  not  to  be 
thought  of  that  she  should  be  left  out  in  the  world  as  one  in  disgraco 


A    REAL    CTIUISTIAN.  ?>47 

or  tiudcr  a  cloud.  But  -wliat  was  to  bo  clone  ?  Sir  I\rarma(luko  -was 
quite  incapable  of  suggesting  anything.  He  would  make  her  an 
allowance,  and  leave  her  a  small  sum  of  ready  money ; — but  as  to 
residence,  he  could  only  suggest  again  and  again  that  she  should  be 
sent  to  Mrs.  Outhouse.  Noav  Lady  Rowley  was  herself  not  very  fond 
of  Mrs.  Outhouse,  and  she  was  aware  that  Nora  herself  was  almost 
as  averse  to  St.  Diddulph's  as  she  was  to  the  Mandarins.  Nora 
already  knew  that  she  had  the  game  in  her  own  hands.  Once  when 
in  her  presence  her  father  suggested  the  near  relationship  and  pru- 
dent character  and  intense  respectability  of  Mrs.  Outhouse,  Nora, 
who  was  sitting  behind  Sir  Marmaduke,  shook  her  head  at  her 
mother,  and  Lady  Rowley  knew  that  Nora  Avould  not  go  to  St.  Did- 
dulph's. This  was  the  last  occasion  on  which  that  proposition  was 
discussed. 

Throughout  all  the  Trevelyan  troubles  Lady  Milborough  had  con- 
tinued to  shew  a  friendly  anxiety  on  behalf  of  Emily  Trevelyan.  She 
had  called  once  or  twice  on  Lady  Rowley,  and  Lady  Rowley  had  of 
course  returned  the  visits.  She  had  been  forward  in  expressing  her 
belief  that  in  truth  the  wife  had  been  but  little  if  at  all  to  blame, 
and  had  won  her  way  with  Lady  RoAvley,  though  she  had  never  been 
a  favoui-ite  with  cither  of  Lady  Rowley's  daughters.  Now,  in  her 
difficulty,  Lady  Rowley  went  to  Lady  Milborough,  and  returned  with 
an  invitation  that  Nora  should  come  to  Eccleston  Square,  cither  till 
such  time  as  she  might  think  fit  to  go  to  Monkhams,  or  till  Mrs. 
Trevelyan  should  have  returned,  and  should  be  desirous  of  having  her 
sister  with  her.  "When  Nora  first  heard  of  this  she  almost  screamed 
with  surprise,  and,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  with  disappointment 
also. 

"  She  never  liked  me,  mamma." 

"  Then  she  is  so  much  more  good-natured." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  go  to  her  merely  because  she  is  good-natured 
enough  to  receive  a  person  she  dislikes.  I  know  she  is  very  good.  I 
know  she  would  sacrifice  herself  for  anything  she  thought  right.  But, 
maniHia,  she  is  such  a  bore  !  " 

But  Lady  Rowley  would  not  be  talked  down,  even  by  Nora,  in  this 
fashion.  Nora  was  somewhat  touched  with  an  idea  that  it  would  be 
a  fine  independent  thing  to  live  alone,  if  it  were  only  for  a  week  or 
two,  just  because  other  young  ladies  never  lived  alone.  Perhaps 
there  was  some  half-formed  notion  in  her  mind  that  permission  to  do 
so  was  part  of  the  reward  due  to  her  for  having  refused  to  marry  a 
lord.     Staubury  was  in  some  respects  a  Bohemian,  and  it  would 


348  HE   KNEW    HE    AVAS   lUGIir. 

become  her,  she  thouglit,  to  have  a  little  practice  herself  iu  the 
Bohemian  line.  She  had,  indeed,  declined  a  Bohemian  marriage, 
feeling  strongly  averse  to  encounter  the  loud  displeasure  of  her  father 
and  mother ; — but  as  long  as  everything  was  quite  proper,  as  long  as 
there  should  be  no  running  away,  or  subjection  of  her  name  to 
scandal,  she  considered  that  a  little  independence  would  be  useful  and 
agreeable.  She  had  looked  forward  to  sitting  up  at  night  alone  by  a 
single  tallow  candle,  to  stretching  a  beefsteak  so  as  to  last  her  for 
two  days"  dinners,  and  perhaps  to  making  her  own  bed.  Now,  there 
would  not  be  the  slightest  touch  of  romance  in  a  visit  to  Lady  Mil- 
borough's  house  in  Ecclestou  Square,  at  the  end  of  July.  Lady 
Rowley,  however,  was  of  a  diflercnt  opinion,  and  spoke  her  mind 
plainly.  "  Nora,  my  dear,  don't  be  a  fool.  A  young  lady  like  you 
can't  go  and  live  in  lodgings  by  herself.  All  manner  of  things  would 
be  said.  And  this  is  such  a  very  kind  ofler !  You  must  accept  it, — 
for  Hugh's  sake.     I  have  already  said  that  you  would  accept  it."' 

"  But  she  will  be  going  out  of  town." 

"  She  will  stay  till  you  can  go  to  Monkhams, — if  Emily' is  not  back 
before  then.  She  knows  all  about  Emily's  aflairs ;  and  if  she  does 
come  back, — which  I  doubt,  poor  thing, — Lad}^  Milborough  and  you 
will  be  able  to  judge  whether  you  should  go  to  her."  So  it  was 
settled,  and  Nora's  Bohemian  Castle  in  the  Air  fell  into  shatters. 

The  few  remaining  days  before  the  departure  to  Southampton 
passed  quickly,  but  yet  sadly.  Sir  Marmaduke  had  come  to  England 
expecting  pleasure, — and  with  that  undefined  idea  which  men  so 
employed  alwaj^s  have  on  their  return  home  that  something  will  turn 
up  which  will  make  them  going  back  to  that  same  banishment  unne- 
cessary. "What  Governor  of  Hong-Kong,  what  Minister  to  Bogota, 
what  General  of  the  Forces  at  the  Gold  Coast,  ever  left  the  scene  of 
his  official  or  military  labours  without  a  hope,  which  was  almost  an 
expectation,  that  a  grateful  country  would  do  something  better  for 
him  before  the  period  of  his  return  should  have  arrived  ?  But  a 
grateful  country  was  doing  nothing  better  for  Sir  Marmaduke,  and  an 
ungrateful  Secretary  of  State  at  the  Colonial  Office  would  not  extend 
the  term  during  which  he  could  regard  himself  as  absent  on  special 
service.  How  thankful  he  had  been  when  first  the  tidinsis  reached 
him  that  he  was  to  come  home  at  the  expense  of  the  Crown,  and 
without  diminution  of  his  official  income  !  He  had  now  been  in 
England  for  five  months,  with  a  per  diem  allowance,  with  his  very 
cabs  paid  for  him,  and  he  vras  discontented,  sullen,  and  with  nothing 
to  comfort  him  but  his  official  grievance,  because  he  could  not  be 


A    RKAI.    CHRISTIAN'.  3  i9 

allowed  to  extend  his  period  of  special  service  more  thun  two  months 
beyond  the  time  at  which  those  special  serv-ices  were  in  truth  ended ! 
There  had  been  a  change  of  Ministry  in  the  last  month,  and  he  had 
thought  that  a  Conservative  Secretaiy  of  State  would  have  been 
kinder  to  him.  "  The  Duke  says  I  can  stay  three  months  with  leave 
of  absence  ; — and  have  half  my  pay  stopped.  I  wonder  whether  it 
ever  enters  into  his  august  mind  that  even  a  Colonial  Governor  must, 
eat  and  drink."  It  was  thus  he  expressed  his  great  grievance  to  his 
wife.  "  The  Duke,"  however,  had  been  as  inexorable  as  his  pre- 
decessor, and  Sir  Kowley,  with  his  large  family,  was  too  wise  to 
remain  to  the  detriment  of  his  pocket.  In  the  meantime  the  clerks  in 
the  office,  Avho  had  groaned  in  spirit  over  the  ignorance  displayed  in 
his  evidence  before  the  committee,  were  whispering  among  themselves 
that  he  ought  not  to  be  sent  back  to  his  seat  of  government  at  all. 

Lady  Kowley  also  was  disappointed  and  unhappy.  She  had  ex- 
pected so  much  i^leasure  from  her  visit  to  her  daughter,  and  she  had 
received  so  little  !  EmUy's  condition  was  very  sad,  but  in  her  heart 
of  hearts  perhaps  she  groaned  more  bitterly  over  all  that  Nora  had 
lost,  than  she  did  over  the  real  sorrows  of  her  elder  child.  To  have 
had  the  cup  at  her  lip,  and  then  not  to  have  tasted  it !  And  she  had 
the  solace  of  no  communion  in  this  sorrow.  She  had  accepted  Hugh 
Stanbury  as  her  son-in-law,  and  not  for  worlds  would  she  now  say  a 
word  against  him  to  any  one.  She  had  already  taken  him  to  her 
heai-t,  and  she  loved  him.  But  to  have  had  it  almost  within  her  grasp 
to  have  had  a  lord,  the  owner  of  Monkhams,  for  her  son-in-law  !  Poor 
Lady  Rowley! 

Sophie  and  Lucy,  too,  were  returning  to  their  distant  and  dull 
banishment  without  any  realisation  of  theu'  probable  but  unexpressed 
ambition.  They  made  no  complaint,  but  yet  it  was  hard  on  them 
that  their  sister's  misfortune  should  have  prevented  them  from  going, 
— almost  to  a  single  dance.  Poor  Sophie  and  poor  Lucy !  They 
nmst  go,  and  we  shall  hear  no  more  about  them.  It  was  thought 
well  that  Nora  should  not  go  down  with  them  to  Southampton. 
What  good  would  her  going  do  ?  '*  God  bless  you,  my  darling,"  said 
the  mother,  as  she  held  her  child  in  her  arms. 

"  Good-bye,  dear  mamma." 

"  Give  my  best  love  t(j  Hugh,  and  tell  him  that  I  pray  him  with 
my  last  word  to  be  good  to  you."  Even  then  she  was  thinking  of 
Lord  Peterborough,  but  the  memory  of  what  might  have  been  was 
buried  deep  in  her  mind. 

"  Nora,  t(.ll  me  all  about  it,"  said  Lucy. 


^50  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

*'  There  "u-ill  bo  nothing  to  tell,"  said  Nova. 

"  Tell  it  all  the  same,"  said  Lucy.  "  And  bring  Hugh  out  to  vmte 
a  book  of  travels  about  the  Mandarins.  Nobody  has  ever  written  a 
book  about  the  Mandarins."  So  they  parted  ;  and  when  Sir  Marma- 
duke  and  his  party  were  taken  off  in  two  cabs  to  the  Waterloo 
Station,  Nora  was  taken  in  one  cab  to  Eccleston  Square. 

It  may  be  doubted  whether  any  old  lady  since  the  world  began 
ever  did  a  more  thoroughly  Christian  and  friendly  act  than  this  which 
was  now  being  done  by  Lady  Milborough.  It  was  the  end  of  July, 
and  she  would  already  have  been  down  in  Dorsetshire,  but  for  her 
devotion  to  this  good  deed.  For,  in  truth,  what  she  was  doing  was 
not  occasioned  by  any  express  love  for  Nora  Rowley.  Nora  Rowley 
was  all  ver}'  well,  but  Nora  Rowley  towards  her  had  been  flippant, 
impatient,  and,  indeed,  not  always  so  civil  as  a  young  lady  should  be 
to  the  elderly  friends  of  her  married  sister.  But  to  Ladj'  Milborough 
it  had  seemed  to  be  quite  terrible  that  a  young  girl  should  be  left 
alone  in  the  world,  without  anybody  to  take  care  of  her.  Young 
ladies,  according  to  her  views  of  life,  were  fragile  plants  that  wanted 
much  nursing  before  they  could  be  allowed  to  be  planted  out  in  the 
gardens  of  the  world  as  married  vromen.  When  she  heard  from  Lady 
Rowley  that  Nora  was  engaged  to  marry  Hugh  Stanbury, — "You 
know  all  about  Lord  Peterborough,  Lady  Milborough ;  but  it  is  no 
use  going  back  to  that  now, — is  it  ?  And  Mr,  Stanbury  has  behaved 
so  exceedingly  well  in 'regard  to  poor  Louis," — when  Lady  Mil- 
borough heard  this,  and  heard  also  that  Nora  was  talking  of  going  to 
live  by  herself  in — lodgings  ! — she  swore  to  herself,  like  a  goodly 
Christian  woman,  as  she  was,  that  such  a  thing  must  not  be.  Eccles- 
ton Square  in  July  and  August  is  not  pleasant,  unless  it  be  to  an 
inhabitant  who  is  interested  in  the  fag-end  of  the  parliamentar)' 
session.  Lady  Milborough  had  no  interest  in  politics, — had  not  much 
interest  even  in  seeing  the  social  season  out  to  its  dregs.  She  ordi- 
narily remained  in  London  till  the  beginning  or  middle  of  July, 
because  the  people  with  whom  she  lived  were  in  the  habit  of  doing  so  ; 
— but  as  soon  as  ever  she  had  fixed  the  date  of  her  departure,  that 
day  to  her  was  a  day  of  release.  On  this  occasion  the  day  had  been 
fixed, — and  it  was  unfixed,  and  changed,  and  postponed,  because  it 
was  manifest  to  Lady  Milborough  that  she  could  do  good  by  remain- 
ing for  another  fortnight.  When  she  made  the  offer  she  said  nothing 
of  her  previous  arrangements.  "Lady  Rowley,  let  her  come  to  me. 
As  soon  as  her  friend  Lady  Peterborough  is  at  Monkhams,  she  can  go 
there." 


A    HEAL   CHRISTIAN.  351 

Thus  it  was  that  Nora  found  herself  established  in  Ecclcston  Square. 
As  she  took  her  place  in  Lady  Milborough's  drawing-room,  sho 
remembered  well  a  certain  day,  now  two  years  ago,  when  she  had 
first  heard  of  the  glories  of  Monkliams  in  that  very  house.  Lady 
Jlilborough,  as  good-natured  then  as  she  was  now,  had  brought  Mr. 
Glascock  and  Nora  together,  simply  because  she  had  heard  that  the 
gentleman  admired  the  young  lady.  Nora,  in  her  pride,  had  resented 
this  as  interference, — had  felt  that  the  thing  had  been  done,  and, 
though  she  had  valued  the  admiration  of  the  man,  had  ridiculed  the 
action  of  the  woman.  As  she  thought  of  it  now  she  was  softened  by 
gratitude.  She  had  not  on  that  occasion  been  suited  with  a  husband, 
but  she  had  gained  a  friend.  "  My  dear,"  said  Lady  Milborough, 
as  at  her  request  Nora  took  off  her  hat,  "  I  am  afraid  that  the 
parties  are  mostly  over, — that  is,  those  I  go  to  ;  but  we  will  drive  out 
every  day,  and  the  time  won't  be  so  very  long." 

"  It  won't  be  long  for  me.  Lady  Milborough  ; — but  I  cannot  but 
know  hov*'  terribly  I  am  putting  you  out." 

"lam  never  put  out.  Miss  Eowley,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  as  long  as 
I  am  made  to  think  that  what  I  do  is  taken  in  good  part." 

"Indeed,  indeed  it  shall  be  taken  in  good  part,"  said  Nora, 
— "  indeed  it  shall."  And  she  swore  a  solemn  silent  vow  of  friendship 
for  the  dear  old  woman. 

Then  there  came  letters  and  telegrams  from  Chambery,  Dijon,  and 
Paris,  and  the  joint  expedition  in  search  of  the  cottage  was  made  to 
Twickenham.  It  was  astonishing  how  enthusiastic  and  how  lovin^^ 
the  elder  and  the  younger  lady  were  together  before  the  party  from 
Italy  had  arrived  in  England.  Nora  had  explained  everything  about 
herself,— how  impossible  it  had  been  for  her  not  to  love  Hugh  Stan- 
burj' ;  how  essential  it  had  been  for  her  happiness  and  self-esteem 
that  she  should  refuse  Mr.  Glascock;  how  terrible  had  been  the 
tragedy  of  her  sister's  marriage.  Lady  Milborough  spoke  of  the 
former  subject  with  none  of  Lady  Rowley's  enthusiasm,  but  still  with 
an  evident  partiality  for  her  own  rank,  which  almost  aroused  Nora  to 
indignant  eloquence.  Lady  Milborough  was  contented  to  acknow- 
ledge that  Nora  might  be  right,  seeing  that  her  heart  was  so  firmly 
fixed  ;  but  she  was  clearly  of  opinion  that  Mr.  Glascock,  being 
Mr.  Glascock,  had  possessed  a  better  right  to  the  prize  in  question 
than  could  have  belonged  to  any  man  Avho  had  no  recognised  position 
in  the  world.  Seeing  that  her  heart  had  been  given  away,  Nora  was 
no  doubt  right  not  to  separate  her  hand  from  her  heart ;  but  Lady 
Milborough  was  of  opinion  that  young  ladies   ought  to  have  their 


352  HF.    KNEW    HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

hearts  under  better  control,  so  that  the  men  entitled  to  the  prizes 
should  get  them.  It  was  for  the  welfare  of  England  at  large  that  the 
eldest  sons  of  good  families  should  marry  the  sweetest,  prettiest, 
brightest,  and  most  lovable  girls  of  their  age.  It  is  a  doctrine  on 
behalf  of  which  very  much  may  be  said. 

On  that  other  matter,  touching  Emily  Trevelyan,  Lady  Milborough 
frankly  owned  that  she  had  seen  early  in  the  day  that  he  was  the  one 
most  in  fault.  "I  must  say,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  that  I  very  greatly 
dislike  your  friend.  Colonel  Osborne." 

"  I  am  sure  that  he  meant  not  the  slightest  harm, — no  more  than 
she  did." 

*•  He  was  old  enough,  and  ought  to  have  known  better.  And  when 
the  first  hint  of  an  uneasiness  in  the  mind  of  Louis  was  suggested  to 
him,  his  feelings  as  a  gentleman  should  have  prompted  him  to  remove 
himself.  Let  the  suspicion  have  been  ever  so  absurd,  he  should 
have  removed  himself.  Instead  of  that,  he  went  after  her, — into 
Devonshire." 

"  He  went  to  see  other  friends.  Lady  Milborough." 

"  I  hope  it  may  have  been  so  ;— I  hope  it  may  have  been  so.  But 
he  should  have  cut  off  his  hand  before  he  rang  at  the  door  of  the  house 
in  which  she  was  living.  You  will  understand,  my  dear,  that  I  acc[uit 
your  sister  altogether.  I  did  so  all  through,  and  said  the  same  to  poor 
Louis  when  he  came  to  me.  But  Colonel  Osborne  should  have  known 
better.  "Why  did  he  write  to  her  '?  AMiy  did  he  go  to  St.  Diddulph's "? 
Why  did  he  let  it  be  thought  that, — that  she  was  especially  his  friend. 
Oh  dear  ;  oh  dear  ;  oh  dear!     I  am  afraid  he  is  a  very  bad  man." 

"  We  had  known  him  so  long.  Lady  Milborough." 

"I  wish  you  had  never  known  him  at  all.  Poor  Louis  !  If  he  had 
only  done  what  I  told  him  at  fii'st,  all  might  have  been  well.  '  Go  to 
Naples,  with  your  wife,'  I  said.  '  Go  to  Naples.'  If' he  had  gone  to 
Naples,  there  would  have  been  no  journeys  to  Siena,  no  li\-ing  at 
Casalunga,  no  separation.  But  he  didn't  seem  to  see  it  in  the  same 
light.  Poor  dear  Louis.  I  wish  he  had  gone  to  Naples  vrhcn  I 
told  him." 

While  they  were  going  backwards  and  forwards,  looking  at  the 
cottage  at  Twickenham  and  trying  to  make  things  comfortable  there 
for  the  sick  man.  Lady  Milborough  hinted  to  Nora  that  it  might  be 
distasteful  to  Trevelyan,  in  his  present  condition,  to  have  even  a 
sister-in-law  staying  in  the  house  with  him.  There  was  a  little 
chamber  which  Nora  had  appropriated  to  herself,  and  at  first  it 
seemed  to  be  taken  for  granted  that  she  should  remain  there  at  least 


A    UKAL    niRISTTAN.  353 

till  the  10th  of  August,  on  which  day  Liiily  Peterborough  had  siguilied 
that  she  and  her  husband  would  bo  ready  to  receive  their  visitor.  ]5ut 
Lady  I\Iilborough  slept  on  the  suggestion,  and  on  the  ni'xt  morning 
hinted  her  disapprobation.  ''  You  shall  take  them  down  in  the 
carriage,  and  their  luggage  can  follow  in  a  cab ; — but  the  carriage  can 
bring  you  back.     You  will  see  how  things  are  then." 

"  Dear  Lady  -\iilborough,  you  would  go  out  of  town  at  once  if  I 
left  you." 

"And  I  shall  not  go  out  of  town  if  you  don't  leave  mo.  "What 
difterencc  docs  it  make  to  an  old  woman  like  me  ?  I  have  got  no 
lover  coming  to  look  for  me,  and  all  I  have  to  do  is  to  tell  my 
daughter-in-law  that  I  shall  not  be  there  for  another  week  or  so. 
Augusta  is  very  glad  to  have  me,  but  she  is  the  wisest  woman  in  tho 
world,  and  can  get  on  very  well  without  me." 

"And  as  I  am  the  silliest,  I  cannot." 

"  You  shall  put  it  in  that  way  if  you  like  it,  my  dear.  Girls  in 
your  position  often  do  want  assistance.  I  dare  say  you  think  mc 
very  straight-laced,  but  I  am  quite  sure  Mr.  Stanbury  Avill  be  grateful 
to  me.  As  you  are  to  bo  married  from  Monkhams,  it  will  be  quite 
well  that  you  should  pass  thither  through  my  house  as  an  interme- 
diate resting-place,  after  leaving  your  father  and  mother."  By  all 
Avhich  Lady  Milborough  intended  to  express  an  opinion  that  the  value 
of  the  article  which  Hugh  Stanbury  would  receive  at  the  altar  would 
be  enhanced  by  the  distinguished  purity  of  the  hands  through  which 
it  had  passed  before  it  came  into  his  possession ; — in  which  opinion 
she  was  probably  right  as  regarded  the  price  put  upon  the  article  by 
the  world  at  large,  though  it  may  perhaps  be  doubted  whether  the 
recipient  himself  would  be  of  the  same  opinion. 

"I  hope  you  know  that  I  am  grateful,  whatever  he  may  be,"  said 
Nora,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  think  that  you  take  it  as  it  is  meant,  and  that  makes  mc  quite 
comfortable." 

"  Lady  Milborough,  I  shall  love  you  fur  ever  and  ever.  I  don't 
think  I  ever  knew  anybody  so  good  as  you  arc, — or  so  nice." 

"  Then  I  shall  be  more  than  comfortable,"  said  Lady  Milborough. 
After  that  there  was  an  embrace,  and  the  thing  was  settled. 


"VOL.  II.  Q    * 


351  HE  KNEW    HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

CHAPTER  XCY. 

TREVELYAN  BACK  IN  ENGLAND. 

Nora,  with  Lady  Milborough's  carriage,  and  Lady  Milborongli's 
coach  and  footman,  and  with  a  cab  ready  for  the  higgage  close 
behind  the  carriage,  was  waiting  at  the  railway  station  when  th(; 
partj^  from  Dover  arrived.  She  soon  saw  Hugh  upon  the  platform, 
and  ran  to  him  with  her  news.  They  had  not  a  word  to  say  to  each 
other  of  themselves,  so  anxious  were  they  both  respecting  Trevelyau. 
"  We  got  a  bed-carriage  for  him  at  Dover,"  said  Hugh ;  "  and  I  think 
he  has  borne  the  journey  pretty  well; — but  he  feels  the  heat  almost 
as  badly  as  in  Italy.  You  will  hardly  know  him  when  you  see  him." 
Then,  when  the  rush  of  passengers  was  gone,  Trevelyan  was  brought 
out  by  Hugh  and  the  courier,  and  placed  in  Lady  Milborough's  car- 
riage. He  just  smiled  as  his  eye  fell  upon  Xora,  but  he  did  not  even 
put  out  his  hand  to  greet  her. 

"I  am  to  go  in  the  carriage  with  him,"  said  his  ^\^fe. 

"  Of  course  you  are, — and  so  will  I  and  Louey.  I  think  there 
will  be  room  :  it  is  so  large.  There  is  a  cab  for  all  the  things.  Dear 
Emily,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you." 

*'  Dearest  Nora  !  I  shall  be  able  to  speak  to  you  by-and-bye,  but 
you  must  not  be  angry  with  me  now.     How  good  you  have  been." 

"Has  not  she  been  good?  I  don't  understand  about  the  cottage. 
It  belongs  to  some  friend  of  hers  ;  and  I  have  not  been  able  to  say  a 
word  about  the  rent.  It  is  so  nice ; — and  looks  upon  the  river.  I 
hope  that  he  will  like  it." 

"You  will  be  with  us?" 

"Not  just  at  first.  Lady  Milborough  thmks  I  had  better  not, — 
that  he  will  like  it  better.  I  will  come  do^vn  almost  every  day,  and 
Avill  stay  if  you  think  he  will  like  it." 

These  few  words  were  said  while  the  men  were  putting  Trevelyan 
into  the  carriage.  And  then  another  arrangement  was  made.  Hugh 
hired  a  second  cab,  in  which  he  and  the  courier  made  a  part  of  the 
procession ;  and  so  they  all  went  to  Twickenham  together.  Hugh 
had  not  yet  learned  that  he  would  be  rewarded  by  coming  back  alone 
with  Nora  in  the  carriage. 

The  cottage  by  the  River  Thames,  which,  as  far  as  the  party  knew, 
was  nameless,  was  certainly  very  much  better  than  the  house  on  the 
top  of  the  hill  at  Casalunga.  And  now,  at  last,  the  ^^dfe  would  sleep 
once  more  under  the  same  roof  with  her  husband,  and  the  separation 


TREVELYAX  BACK  IX  ENGLAND.  355 

would  lio  over.  "  I  suppose  that  is  the  Thames,"  said  Trcvelyau  ; 
and  they  were  nearly  the  only  "words  he  spoke  in  Nora's  hearing  that 
evening.  Before  she  started  on  her  return  journey,  the  two  sisters 
were  together  for  a  few  minutes,  and  each  told  her  own  budget  of 
news  in  short,  broken  fragments.  There  was  not  much  to  tell.  '•  He 
is  so  weak,"  said  Mrs.  Trcvelyan,  '•  that  he  can  do  literally  nothing. 
He  can  hardly  speak.  "When  we  give  him  wine,  he  will  say  a  few 
words,  and  his  mind  seems  then  to  be  less  astray  than  it  was.  I  have 
told  him  just  simply  that  it  was  all  my  doing, — that  I  have  been  in 
fault  all  through,  and  every  now  and  then  he  Mill  say  a  word,  to  shew 
me  that  he  remembers  that  I  have  confessed." 

"My  poor  Emily!" 

"  It  was  better  so.  What  does  it  all  matter  ?  He  had  suffered  so, 
that  I  would  have  said  worse  than  that  to  give  him  relief.  The  pride 
has  gone  out  of  me  so,  that  I  do  not  regard  what  anybody  may 
say.  Of  course,  it  will  be  said  that  I — went  astray,  and  that  ho 
forgave  me." 

"  Nobody  will  say  that,  dearest ;  nobody.  Lady  Milborough  i?; 
quite  aware  how  it  all  was." 

"  What  does  it  signify?  There  are  things  iu  life  worse  even  tnan 
a  bad  name." 

•'  But  he  does  not  think  it  ?  " 

"  Nora,  his  mind  is  a  mystery  to  me.  I  do  not  know  what  is  in  it. 
Sometimes  I  fancy  that  all  facts  havo  been  forgotten,  and  that  he 
merely  wants  the  childish  gratification  cf  being  assured  that  he  is  the 
master.  Then,  again,  there  come  moments,  in  wliich  I  feel  sure  that 
suspicion  is  Im-king  within  him,  that  he  is  remembering  the  past,  and 
guarding  against  the  future.  When  he  came  into  this  house,  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  ago,  he  was  fearful  lest  there  Avas  a  mad  doctor 
lurking  about  to  pounce  on  him.  I  can  see  in  his  eye  that  he  had 
some  such  idea.  He  hardly  notices  Louey, — though  there  was  a 
time,  even  at  Casalunga,  when  he  would  not  let  the  child  out  of  his 
sight." 

"  What  will  you  do  now  ?  ' 

"  I  v.iU  try  to  do  my  duty ;— that  is  all." 

"  But  you  will  have  a  doctor  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  He  was  content  to  see  one  in  Paris,  though  he  would 
not  let  me  be  present.  Hugh  saw  the  gentleman  afterwards,  and  he 
seemed  to  think  that  the  body  was  worse  than  the  mind."  Then 
Noni  told  her  the  name  of  a  doctor  whom  Lady  Milborough  had 
suggested,  and  took  her  departure  along  with  Hugh  in  the  carriage. 


35G  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

In  spite  of  all  the   sorrow  that  they  Lad  witnessed  and  just  left, 
their  journey  up  to  London  was  very  pleasant.     Perhaps  there  is  no 
period  so  pleasant  among  all  the  pleasant  periods  of  love-making  as 
that  in  which  the  intimacy  between  the  lovers  is   so  assured,  and 
the  coming  event  so  near,  as  to  produce  and  to  endure  conversa- 
tion  about  the  ordinary  little  matters  of  life ; — what  can  be   done 
with  the  limited  means  at  their  mutual  disposal  ;  how  that  life  shall 
be  begun  which  they  are  to  lead  together  ;  what  idea  each  has  of  the 
other's   duties  ;    what  each  can  do   for  the  other  ;    Avhat  each  will 
renounce  for  the  other.     There   was  a  true  sense  of  the  delight  of 
intimacy  in  the  girl  who  declared  that  she  had  never  loved  her  lover 
so  well  as  when  she  told   him  how  many  pairs  of  stockings  she  had 
got.     It  is  verj'  sweet  to  gaze  at  the  stars  together ;  and  it  is  sweet 
to  sit  out  among  the  haycocks.     The  reading  of  poetry  together,  out 
of  the  same  book,  with  brows  all  close,  and  arms  all  mingled,  is  very 
sweet.     The  pouring  out  of  the  Avhole  heart  in  written  words,  which 
the  writer  knows  would  be  held  to  be  ridiculous  by  any  eyes,  and  any 
ears,  and  any  sense,  but  the  eyes  and  ears  and  sense  of  the  dear  one 
to  whom  they  are  sent,  is  very  sweet ; — but   for  the   girl  who  has 
made  a  shirt  for  the  man  that  she  loves,  there  has  come  a  moment  in 
the  last   stitch  of  it,   sweeter  than  any  that  stars,  haycocks,  poetry, 
or  superlative  epithets  have  produced.     Nora  Rowle)-  had  never  as 
yet  been  thus  useful  on  behalf  of  Hugh  Stanbur}-.     Had  she  done  so, 
she  might  perhaps  have  been  happier  even  than  she  vras  during  this 
journey  ; — but,  without  the  shirt,  it  was  one  of  the  happiest  moments 
of  her  life.     There  was  nothing  now  to  separate  them  but  their  omu 
prudential  scruples  ; — and   of   them   it  must    be  acknowledged  that 
Hugh  Stanbury  had  very  few.     According  to  his  shewing,  he  was  as 
well  provided  for  matrimony  as  the  gentleman  in  the  song,  who  came 
out  to  woo  his  bride  on  a  rainy  night.     In  live  stock  he  was  not  so 
well  provided  as   the   Irish  gentleman  to  whom  we  allude  ;  but  in 
regard  to  all  other  provisions  for  comfortable  married  life,  he  had,  or 
at  a  moment's  notice  could  have,   all   that  was  needed.     Nora  could 
live  just  where   she  pleased ; — not  exactly  in  Whitehall  Gardens  or 
Belgrave  Square  ;  but  the  New  Road,  Lupus  Street,  Montague  Place, 
the  North  Bank,  or  Kennington  Oval,  with  all  their  surrounding  cres- 
cents, terraces,  and  rows,  ofiered,  according  to  him,  a  choice  so  wide, 
either  for  lodgings  or  small  houses,  that  their  onl}^  embarrassment  was 
in   their  riches.     He   had  already  insured    his    life   for  a  thousand 
pounds,  and,  after  paying  yearly  for  that,  and  providing  a   certain 
surplus  for  saving,  five  hundred  a  year  was  the  income  on  which  they 


TRKVELYAN    HACK    IN    ENGLAND.  357 

were  to  commence  the  worUl.  "  01"  course,  I  wish  it  were  five  thou- 
sand for  your  sake,"  he  said  ;  "  and  I  wish  I  were  a  Cabinet  Minister, 
or  a  duke,  or  a  bnwer  ;  but,  even  in  heaven,  you  know  all  the 
anpels  can't  be  archangels."  Nora  assured  him  that  she  would  be 
quite  content  with  virtues  simply  angelic.  "  I  hope  you  like  mutton- 
chops  and  potatoes  ;  I  do,"  he  said.  Then  she  told  him  of  her 
jimbition  about  the  beef-steak,  acknowledging  that,  as  it  must  now  be 
shared  between  two,  the  glorious  idea  of  putting  a  part  of  it  away  in 
a  cupboard  must  be  abandoned.  "  I  don't  believe  in  beef-steaks,"  he 
said.  "A  beef-steak  may  mean  anything.  At  our  club,  a  beef-steak 
is  a  sumptuous  and  expensive  luxury.  Now,  a  mutton-chop  means 
something  definite,  and  must  be  economical." 

"Then  we  will  have  the  mutton-chops  at  home,"  said  Xora,  "and 
you  shall  go  to  j'our  club  for  the  beef-steak." 

"When  they  reached  Ecclcston  Square,  Nora  insisted  on  taking 
Hugh  Stanbury  up  to  Lady  Milborough.  It  was  in  vain  that  he 
pleaded  that  he  had  conio  all  the  way  from  Dover  on  a  very  dusty 
(lay, — all  the  way  from  Dover,  including  a  journey  in  a  Hansom  cab 
to  Twickenham  and  back,  without  washing  his  hands  and  face.  Nora 
insisted  that  Lady  Milborough  was  such  a  dear,  good,  considerate 
creature,  that  she  would  understand  all  that,  and  Hugh  was  taken 
into  her  presence.  "I  am  delighted  to  see  you,  Mr.  Stanbury,"  said 
the  old  lady,  "and  hope  you  will  think  that  Nora  is  in  good  keeping." 
"  She  has  been  telling  me  how  very  kind  you  have  been  to  her.  I 
do  not  know  where  she  could  have  bestowed  herself  if  you  had  not 
received  her." 

"There,  Nora; — I  told  you  he  would  say  so.  I  won't  tell  talcs, 
Mr.  Stanbury  ;  but  she  had  all  manner  of  wild  plans  which  I  knew 
you  wouldn't  approve.     But  she  is  very  amiable,  and  if  she  will  only 

submit  to  you  as  avcU  as  she  does  to  me " 

"I  don't  mean  to  submit  to  him  at  all.  Lady  Milborough ; — of 
cours-e  not.     I  am  going  to  marry  for  liberty." 

"My  dear,  what  you  say,  you  say  in  joke  ;  l)nt  a  great  many 
young  women  of  the  present  day  do,  I  really  believe,  go  up  to  the 
altar  and  pronounce  their  marriage  vows,  with  the  simple  idea  that 
as  soon  tis  they  have  done  so,  they  are  to  have  their  own  way  in 
cverj'thing.  And  then  people  complain  that  young  men  won't  marry ! 
Who  can  wonder  at  it  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  the  young  men  think  much  about  the  obedience,  " 
said  Nora.  "Some  marry  for  money,  and  some  for  love.  But  I 
don't  tbink  th<y  marry  to  got  a  slave." 


353  HE   KNEW   HE   ^VAS    KLGIIT. 

"What  do  you  say,  Mr.  Stanbury  ?"  asked  the  okl  huly. 

"  I  can  only  assure  you  that  I  sha'n't  marry  for  money,"  said  he. 

Two  or  three  days  after  this  Nora  k^ft  her  friend  in  Eccleston 
Square,  and  domesticated  herself  for  awhile  with  her  sister.  Mrs. 
'L'revclyan  declared  that  such  an  arrangement  M'ould  be  comfortable 
lor  her,  and  that  it  was  A'ery  desirable  now,  as  Nora  would  so  soon 
be  beyond  her  reach.  Then  Lady  Milborough  was  enabled  to  go  to 
Dorsetshire,  which  she  did  not  do,  however,  till  she  had  presented 
Nora  with  the  veil  which  she  was  to  wear  on  the  occasion  of  her 
Avedding.  "  Of  course  I  cannot  see  it,  my  dear,  as  it  is  to  take  place 
at  Monkhams  ;  but  you  must  write  and  tell  me  the  day ; — and  I  will 
think  of  you.  And  you,  when  you  put  on  the  veil,  must  think  of 
me."  So  they  parted,  and  Nora  knew  that  she  had  made  a  ftiend 
for  life. 

When  she  first  took  her  place  in  the  house  at  Twickenham  as  a 
resident,  Trevelyan  did  not  take  much  notice  of  her; — but,  after 
awhile,  he  would  say  a  few  words  to  her,  especially  when  it  might 
chance  that  she  was  with  him  in  her  sister's  absence.  He  would 
speak  of  dear  Emily,  and  poor  Emily,  and  shake  his  head  slowly, 
and  talk  of  the  pity  of  it.  '-The  pity  of  it,  lago  ;  oh,  the  pity  of 
it,"  he  said  once.  The  allusion  to  her  was  so  terrible  that  she  almost 
burst  out  in  anger,  as  she  would  have  done  formerly.  She  almost 
told  hiui  that  he  had  been  as  wrong  throughout  as  was  the  jealous 
husband  in  the  play  whose  words  he  quoted,  and  that  his  jealousy,  if 
continued,  was  likely  to  be  as  tragical.  But  she  restrained  herself, 
and  kept  close  to  her  needle, — making,  let  us  hope,  an  auspicious 
garment  for  Hugh  Stanbury.  "  She  has  seen  it  now,"  he  continued; 
"she  has  seen  it  now."  Still  she  went  on  with  her  hemming  in 
silence.  It  certainl}-  could  not  be  her  dut}-  to  upset  at  a  word  all 
that  her  sister  had  achieved.  "You  know  that  she  has  confessed?" 
he  asked. 

"  Pray,  pray  do  not  talk  about  it,  Louis." 

"I  think  you  ought  to  know,"  he  said.  Then  she  rose  from  her 
seat  and  left  the  room.  She  could  not  stand  it,  even  though  he  were 
mad, — even  though  he  were  dying  ! 

She  vrent  to  her  sister  and  repeated  what  had  been  said.  "  You 
had  better  not  notice  it,"  said  Emily.  "  It  is  only  a  proof  of  what 
I  told  you.  There  are  times  in  Avhich  his  mind  is  as  active  as  ever  it 
was,  but  it  is  active  in  so  terrible  a  direction  !" 

"  I  cannot  sit  and  hear  it.  And  what  am  I  to  say  when  he  asks 
me  a  question  as  he  did  just  noAv  ?    He  said  that  you  had  confessed," 


NOKA  S    VKIL. 


TKKVELYAN    BACK    IN    ]:NC;I,ANU.  350 

**  So  I  have.  Po  none  confess  but  tho  guilty  ?  ^Vll;lt  is  all  that 
■\vo  have  read  about  the  Inquisition  and  the  old  tortures  '?  I  have 
had  to  learn  that  torturing  has  not  gone  out  of  the  world ; — that  is 
all." 

"  I  must  go  UM-ay  if  he  says  the  same  thing  to  me  so  again." 

"That  is  nonsense.  Nora.  If  I  can  bear  it,  cannot  you  ?  Would 
you  have  mc  drive  him  into  violence  again  by  di^iputing  with  him 
upon  such  a  subject  ?" 

*'  But  he  may  recover; — and  then  he  "will  remember  -what  }ou  have 
said." 

"  If  he  recovers  altogether  he  will  suspect  nothing.  I  must  take 
my  chance  of  that.  You  cannot  suppose  that  I  have  not  thought 
about  it.  I  have  often  sworn  to  myself  that  though  the  world  should 
fall  around  me,  nothing  should  make  me  acknowledge  that  I  had  ever 
been  untrue  to  my  duty  as  a  married  woman,  either  in  deed,  or  word, 
or  thought.  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  poor  wretches  who  were 
tortured  in  their  cells  used  to  make  the  same  resolutions  as  to  their 
confessions.  But  yet,  when  theii*  nails  were  dragged  out  of  thcni, 
they  would  own  to  anything.  ]My  nails  have  been  dragged  out,  and 
I  have  been  willing  to  confess  anything.  AVhen  he  talks  of  the  pity 
of  it,  of  course  I  know  what  he  means.  There  has  been  something, 
some  remainder  of  a  feeling,  which  has  still  kept  him  from  asking 
mc  that  question.  IMay  God,  in  his  mercj',  continue  to  him  that 
feeling!" 

"  But  you  would  answer  truly  7  " 

"How  can  I  say  what  I  might  answer  Avhcn  the  torturer  is  at  my 
nails  ?  If  you  knew  how  great  was  the  difficulty  to  get  him^  away 
from  that  place  in  Italy  and  bring  him  here  ;  and  what  it  was  to  feel 
that  one  was  bound  to  stay  near  him,  and  that  yet  one  was  impotent,. 
— and  to  know  that  even  that  refuge  must  soon  cease  for  him,  and 
that  he  might  have  gone  out  and  died  on  the  road-side,  or  have  done 
anything  which  the  momentary  strength  of  madness  might  have 
dictated, — if  you  could  understand  all  this,  you  would  not  be  sur- 
prised at  my  submitting  to  any  degradation  which  Avould  help  to 
bring  him  here." 

Stanbury  was  often  down  at  the  cottage,  and  Nora  could  di.^cuss 
the  matter  better  a\  ith  him  than  with  her  sister.  And  Stanbury  could 
learn  more  thoroughly  from  the  physician  who  was  now  attending 
Trcvelyan  what  was  the  stale  of  the  sick  man,  than  Emily  could  do. 
According  to  the  doctor's  idea  there  was  more  of  ailment  in  the  body 
than   in  the  mind.       He  admitted   that   his    patient's  thoughts  had 


360  UK    KNEW    HE    AVAS    RIGHT. 

been  forced  to  dwell  on  one  sul)ject  till  they  had  become  di;-torted, 
untrue,  jaundiced,  and  perhaps  mono-maniacal  ;  but  he  seemed  to 
doubt  whether  there  had  ever  been  a  time  at  wliic-h  it  could  have 
been  decided  that  Trevclyan  was  so  mad  as  to  make  it  necessary 
that  the  law  should  interfere  to  take  care  of  him.  A  man, — so 
argued  the  doctor, — need  not  be  mad  because  he  is  jealous,  even 
though  his  jealousy  be  ever  so  absurd.  And  Trevelyan,  in  his 
jealousy,  had  done  nothing  cruel,  nothing  wasteful,  nothing  infamous. 
In  all  this  Nora  Avas  very  little  inclined  to  agree  with  the  doctor,  and 
thought  nothing  could  be  more  infamous  than  Trevelyan's  conduct  at 
the  present  moment, — unless,  indeed,  he  could  be  screened  from 
infamy  by  that  plea  of  madness.  But  then  there  was  more  behind. 
Trevelyan  had  been  so  wasted  by  the  kind  of  life  which  he  had  led, 
and  possessed  by  nature  stamina  so  insufficient  to  resist  such  debility, 
that  it  was  very  doubtful  whether  he  would  not  sink  altogether 
before  he  could  be  made  to  begin  to  rise.  But  one  thing  was  clear. 
He  should  be  contradicted  in  nothing.  If  he  chose  to  say  that  the 
moon  was  made  of  green  cheese,  let  it  be  conceded  to  him  that  the 
moon  was  made  of  green  cheese.  Should  he  make  any  other  assertion 
equally  removed  from  the  truth,  let  it  not  be  contradicted.  "Who  would 
oppose  a  man  with  one  foot  in  the  grave  ? 

"  Then,  Hugh,  the  sooner  I  am  at  Monldiams  the  better,"  said 
Nora,  who  had  again  been  subjected  to  inuendoes  which  had  been 
unendurable  to  her.  This  was  on  the  7th  of  August,  and  it  still 
wanted  three  days  to  that  on  which  the  journey  to  Monkhams  was  to 
be  made. 

"  He  never  says  anything  to  me  on  the  subject,"  said  Hugh. 

"  Because  you  have  made  him  afraid  of  you.  I  almost  think  that 
Emily  and  the  doctor  are  wrong  in  their  treatment,  and  that  it  would 
be  better  to  stand  up  to  him  and  tell  him  the  truth."  But  the  three 
days  passed  away,  and  Nora  was  not  driven  to  any  such  vindication 
of  her  sister's  character  towards  her  sister's  husband. 


CILU'TER  XCVI. 


MOXKILAMS. 


-_-^-=><^\   /C"V^N  the  lOtli  of  Aufjust  Nora  Rowley 

^^^^x^  left  the  cottage  by  the  river-side 
at  Twickenham,  and  went  down 
to  Monkhams.  The  reader  need 
hardly  be  told  that  Hugh  brought 
her  up  from  Twickenham  and  sent 
her  off  in  the  railway  carriage. 
They  agreed  that  no  day  could  bo 
fixed  for  their  marriage  till  some- 
thing further  should  be  known  of 
Trevelyan's  state.  While  he  was 
l^^  in  his  present  condition  such  a 
marriage  could  not  have  been  other 
than  very  sad.  Nora,  when  she 
left  the  cottage,  was  still  very 
bitter  against  her  brother-in-law, 
quoting  the  doctor's  opinion  as  to 
his  sanity,  and  expressing  her  own  as  to  his  conduct  under  that 
supposition.  She  also  believed  that  he  would  rally  in  health,  and  was 
therefore,  on  that  account,  less  inclined  to  pity  him  than  was  his  wife. 
Emily  Trevelyan  of  course  saw  more  of  him  than  did  her  sister,  and 
understood  better  how  possible  it  was  that  a  man  might  be  in  such  a 
condition  as  to  be  neither  mad  nor  sane ; — not  mad,  so  that  all  power 
over  his  own  actions  need  be  taken  from  him ;  nor  sane,  so  that  he 
must  be  held  to  be  accountable  for  his  words  and  thoughts.  Tre- 
velyan did  nothing,  and  attempted  to  do  nothing,  that  could  injure 
bis  wife  and  child.  He  submitted  himself  to  medical  advice.  He  did 
not  throw  away  his  money.  He  had  no  Bozzle  now  waiting  at  his 
heels.  He  was  generally  passive  in  his  wife's  hands  as  to  all  outward 
things.  He  was  not  violent  in  rebuke,  nor  did  he  often  allude  to 
their  past  unhappiness.  But  he  still  maintained,  by  a  word  spoken 
every  now  and  then,  that  he  had  been  right  throughout  in  his  contest 
with  his  wife, — and  that  his  wife  had  at  last  acknowledged  that  it 
was  so.      She  never  contradicted  him,  and  he   became  bolder  and 

VOL.   II.  R 


3G2  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

bolder  in  his  assertions,  endeavouring  on  various  occasions  to  obtain 
some  expression  of  an  assent  from  Nora.  But  Nora  would  not  assent, 
and  he  would  scowl  at  her,  saying  words,  both  in  her  presence  and 
behind  her  back,  which  implied  that  she  was  his  enemj'-.  "  Why  not 
yield  to  him?"  her  sister  said  the  day  before  she  went.  "I  have 
yielded,  and  your  doing  so  cannot  make  it  worse." 

"I  can't  do  it.  It  would  be  false.  It  is  better  that  I  should  go 
away.  I  cannot  pretend  to  agree  with  him,  when  I  know  that  his 
mind  is  working  altogether  under  a  delusion."  When  the  hour  for 
her  departure  came,  and  Hugh  was  waiting  for  her,  she  thought  that 
it  would  be  better  that  she  should  go,  without  seeing  Trevelyan. 
"  There  will  only  be  more  anger,"  she  pleaded.  But  her  sister  would 
not  be  contented  that  she  should  leave  the  house  in  this  fashion,  and 
urged  at  last,  with  tears  running  down  her  cheeks,  that  this  might 
possibly  be  the  last  interview  between  them. 

"  Say  a  word  to  him  in  kindness  before  you  leave  us,"  said  Mrs, 
Trevelyan.  Then  Nora  went  up  to  her  brother-in-law's  bed-side,  and 
told  him  that  she  was  going,  and  expressed  a  hope  that  he  might  be 
stronger  when  she  returned.  And  as  she  did  so  she  put  her  hand 
upon  the  bed-side,  intending  to  press  his  in  token  of  affection.  But 
his  face  was  turned  from  her,  and  he  seemed  to  take  no  notice  of  her. 
*'  Louis,"  said  his  wife,  '•'  Nora  is  going  to  Monkhams.  You  will  say 
good-bye  to  her  before  she  goes  ?  " 

"  If  she  be  not  my  enemy,  I  will,"  said  he. 

"I  have  never  been  your  enemy,  Louis,"  said  Nora,  "and  cer- 
tainly I  am  not  now." 

"  She  had  better  go,"  he  said.  "  It  is  very  little  more  that  I 
expect  of  any  one  in  this  world ; — but  I  will  recognise  no  one  as  my 
friend  who  will  not  acknowledge  that  I  have  been  sinned  against 
during  the  last  two  years; — sinned  against  cruelly  and  utterly." 
Emily,  who  was  standing  at  the  bed-head,  shuddered  as  she  heard 
this,  but  made  no  reply.  Nor  did  Nora  speak  again,  but  crept  silently 
out  of  the  room ; — and  in  half  a  minute  her  sister  followed  her. 

"  I  feared  how  it  would  be,"  said  Nora. 

"  We  can  only  do  our  best.     God  knows  that  I  try  to  do  mine." 

"  I  do  not  think  you  will  ever  see  him  again,"  said  Hugh  to  her  in 
the  train. 

"  Would  you  have  had  me  act  otherwise  ?  It  is  not  that  it  would 
have  been  a  lie.  I  would  not  have  minded  that  to  ease  the  shattered 
feelings  of  one  so  infirm  and  suffering  as  he.  In  dealing  with  mad 
people  I  suppose  one  must  be  false.   But  I  should  have  been  accusing 


SIONKIIAMS.  363 

lier ;  and  it  may  be  that  he  will  get  well,  and  it  might  be  that  he 
•would  then  remember  what  I  had  said." 

At  the  station  near  Monkhams  she  was  met  by  Lady  Peterborough 
in  the  carriage.  A  tall  footman  in  livery  came  on  to  the  platform  to 
shew  her  the  way  and  to  look  after  her  luggage,  and  she  could  not  fail 
to  remember  that  the  man  might  have  been  her  own  servant,  instead 
of  being  the  servant  of  her  who  now  sat  in  Lord  Peterborough's 
carriage.  And  when  she  saw  the  cnrriage,  and  her  ladyship's  great 
bay  horses,  and  the  glittering  harness,  and  the  respectably  responsible 
coachman,  and  the  arms  on  the  panel,  she  smiled  to  herself  at  the 
sight  of  these  first  outward  manifestations  of  the  rank  and  wealth  of 
the  man  who  had  once  been  her  lover.  There  arc  men  who  look  as 
though  they  were  the  o^\^lers  of  bay  horses  and  responsible  coach- 
men and  family  blazons, — from  whose  outward  personal  appearance, 
demeanour,  and  tone  of  voice,  one  would  expect  a  foUoAving  of  live- 
ries and  a  magnificence  of  belongings ;  but  Mr.  Glascock  had  by  no 
means  been  such  a  man.  It  had  suited  his  taste  to  keep  these  things 
in  abeyance,  and  to  place  his  pride  in  the  oaks  and  elms  of  his  park 
rather  than  in  any  of  those  appanages  of  grandeur  which  a  man  may 
cany  about  with  him.  He  could  talk  of  his  breed  of  sheep  on  an 
occasion,  but  he  never  talked  of  his  horses  ;  and  though  he  knew  his 
position  and  all  its  glories  as  well  as  any  nobleman  in  England,  he 
was  ever  inclined  to  hang  back  a  little  in  going  out  of  a  room,  and  to 
bear  himself  as  though  he  were  a  small  personage  in  the  world.  Some 
perception  of  all  this  came  across  Nora's  mind  as  she  saw  the  equi- 
page, and  tried  to  reflect,  at  a  moment's  notice,  whether  the  case 
might  have  been  difi'erent  with  her,  had  Mr.  Glascock  worn  a  little  of 
his  tinsel  outside  when  she  fii'st  met  him.  Of  course  she  told  herself 
that  had  he  worn  it  all  on  the  outside,  and  carried  it  ever  so  grace- 
fully, it  could  have  made  no  difierence. 

It  was  very  plain,  however,  that,  though  Mr.  Glascock  did  not  like 
bright  feathers  for  himself,  he  chose  that  his  wife  should  wear  them. 
Nothing  could  he  prettier  than  the  way  in  which  Caroline  Spalding, 
whom  we  first  saw  as  she  was  about  to  be  stuck  into  the  interior  of 
the  diligence,  at  St.  Michel,  now  filled  her  caiTiage  as  Lady  Peter-  •' 
borough.  The  greeting  between  them  was  very  aflectionate,  and 
there  was  a  kiss  in  the  carriage,  even  though  the  two  pretty  hats, 
perhaps,  suflered  something.  "  We  are  so  glad  to  have  you  at 
last,"  said  Lady  Peterborough.  "Of  course  we  are  very  quiet ;  but 
you  won't  mind  that."  Nora  declared  that  no  house  could  be  too 
quiet  for  her,  and  then  said  something  of  the  melancholy  scene  which 


361  HE    KNEW   HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

slic  had  jnst  left.  "And  no  time  is  fixed  for  your  own  marriage  ? 
But  of  course  it  has  not  been  possible.  And  why  should  you  be  in 
a  hurry  ?  We  quite  understand  that  this  is  to  be  your  home  till 
everything  has  arranged  itself."  There  was  a  drive  of  four  or  five 
miles  before  they  reached  the  park  gates,  and  nothing  could  be  kinder 
or  more  friendly  than  was  the  new  peeress  ;  but  Nora  told  herself 
that  there  was  no  forgetting  that  her  friend  was  a  peeress.  She 
Avould  not  be  so  ill-conditioned  aS  to  suggest  to  herself  that  her  friend 
patronised  her ; — and,  indeed,  had  she  done  so,  the  suggestion  would 
have  been  false  ; — but  she  could  not  rid  herself  of  a  certain  sensation 
of  external  inferiority,  and  of  a  feeling  that  the  superiority  ought  to 
be  on  her  side,  as  all  this  might  have  been  hers, — only  that  she  had 
not  thought  it  worth  her  while  to  accept  it.  As  these  ideas  came  into 
her  mind,  she  hated  herself  for  entertaining  them ;  and  yet,  come 
they  would.  While  she  was  talking  about  her  emblematic  beef-steak 
with  Hugh,  she  had  no  regret,  no  uneasiness,  no  conception  that  any 
state  of  life  could  be  better  for  her  than  that  state  in  which  an  em- 
blematic beef- steak  was  of  vital  importance ;  but  she  could  not  bring 
her  mind  to  the  same  condition  of  unalloyed  purity  w^hile  sitting  with 
Lady  Peterborough  in  Lord  Peterborough's  carriage.  And  for  her 
default  in  this  respect  she  hated  herself. 

"  This  is  the  beginning  of  the  park,"  said  her  friend. 

"  And  where  is  the  house  ?  " 

"  You  can't  see  the  house  for  ever  so  far  yet ;  it  is  two  miles  off. 
There  is  about  a  mile  before  you  come  to  the  gates,  and  over  a  mile 
afterwards.  One  has  a  sort  of  feeling  when  one  is  in  that  one  can't 
get  out, — it  is  so  big."  In  so  speaking,  it  was  Lady  Peterborough's 
special  endeavour  to  state  without  a  boast  facts  which  were  indif- 
ferent, but  which  must  be  stated. 

"  It  is  very  magnificent,"  said  Nora.  There  was  in  her  voice  the 
slightest  touch  of  sarcasm,  which  she  would  have  given  the  world  not 
to  have  uttered  ; — but  it  had  been  irrepressible. 

Lady  Peterborough  understood  it  instantly,  and  forgave  it,  not 
attributing  to  it  more  than  its  true  meaning,  acknowledging  to  herself 
that  it  was  natural.  "  Dear  Nora,"  she  said, — not  knowing  what  to 
say,  blushing  as  she  spoke, — "  the  magnificence  is  nothing ;  but  the 
man's  love  is  everything." 

Nora  shook  herself,  and  determined  that  she  would  behave  well. 
The  effort  should  be  made,  and  the  required  result  should  be  pro- 
duced by  it.  "  The  magnificence,  as  an  adjunct,  is  a  great  deal,"  she 
said  ;  "  and  for  his  sake,  I  hope  that  you  enjoy  it." 


MONKHAMS. 


365 


*'  Of  course  I  enjoy  it." 

"  Wallachia's  teacliings  and  preachings  have  all  been  thrown  to  the 

wind,  I  hope." 

"  Not  quite  all.  Poor  dear  Wally  !  I  got  a  letter  from  her  the 
other  day,  which  she  began  by  saying  that  she  would  attune  her 
correspondence  to  my  changed  condition  in  life.  I  understood  the 
reproach  so  thoroughly!  And,  when  she  told  me  little  details  of 
individual  men  and  women,  and  of  things  she  had  seen,  and  said  not 
a  word  about  the  rights  of  w-omen,  or  even  of  politics  generally,  I 
felt  that  I  was  a  degraded  creature  in  her  sight.  But,  though  you 
laugh  at  her,  she  did  me  good, — and  will  do  good  to  others.  Here 
we  are  inside  Monkhams,  and  now  you  must  look  at  the  avenue." 

Nora  was  now  rather  proud  of  herself.  She  had  made  the  effort, 
and  it  had  been  successful ;  and  she  felt  that  she  could  speak  natur- 
ally, and  express  her  thoughts  honestly.  "  I  remember  his  telling 
me  about  the  avenue  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  him  ; — and  here  it  is. 
I  did  not  think  then  that  I  should  ever  live  to  see  the  glories  of  Monk- 
hams.     Does  it  go  all  the  way  like  this  to  the  house  ?  " 

"  Not  quite  ; — where  you  see  the  light  at  the  end  the  road  turns  to 
the  right,  and  the  house  is  just  before  you.  There  are  great  iron 
gates,  and  terraces,  and  wondrous  pharaphernalia  before  you  get  up 
to  the  door.  I  can  tell  you  Monkhams  is  quite  a  wonder.  I  have  to 
shut  myself  up  every  Wednesday  morning,  and  hand  the  house  over 
to  Mrs.  Crutch,  the  housekeeper,  Avho  comes  out  in  a  miraculous 
brown  silk  gown,  to  shew  it  to  visitors.  On  other  days,  you'll  find 
Mrs.  Crutch  quite  civil  and  useful ; — but  on  Wednesdays,  she  is 
majestic.  Charles  always  goes  off  among  his  sheep  on  that  day,  and 
I  shut  myself  up  with  a  pile  of  books  in  a  little  room.  You  will  have 
to  be  imprisoned  with  me.     I  do  so  long  to  peep  at  the  visitors." 

"  And  I  dare  say  they  want  to  peep  at  you." 

"I  proposed  at  first  to  shew  them  round  myself; — but  Charles 
"u-ouldn't  let  me." 

"  It  would  have  broken  Mrs.  Crutch's  heart." 

'•  That's  what  Charles  said.  He  thinks  that  Mrs.  Crutch  tells  them 
that  I'm  locked  up  somewhere,  and  that  that  gives  a  zest  to  the 
-search.  Some  people  from  Nottingham  once  did  break  into  old  Lady 
Peterborough's  room,  and  the  shew  was  stopped  for  a  year.  There 
was  such  a  row  about  it !  It  prevented  Charles  coming  up  for  the 
county.  But  he  wouldn't  have  got  in  ;  and  therefore  it  was  lucky, 
and  saved  money." 

By  this  time  Nora  was  quite  at  her  case  ;  but  still  there  was  before 


S66  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

her  the  other  difBculty,  of  meeting  Lord  Peterborough.  They  "were 
driven  out  of  the  avenue,  and  round  to  the  right,  and  through  the 
iron  gate,  and  up  to  the  huge  front  door.  There,  upon  the  top  step, 
was  standing  Lord  Peterborough,  with  a  billycock  hat  and  a  very  old 
shooting  coat,  and  nankeen  trousers,  which  were  considerably  too 
short  for  him.  It  was  one  of  the  happinesses  of  his  life  to  dress  just 
as  he  pleased  as  he  went  about  his  own  place  ;  and  it  certainly  was 
his  pleasure  to  wear  older  clothes  than  any  one  else  in  his  establish- 
ment. "Miss  Rowley,"  he  said,  coming  forward  to  give  her  a  hand 
out  of  the  carriage,  "  I  am  delighted  that  you  should  see  Monkhams 
at  last." 

"  You  see  I  have  kept  you  to  your  promise.  Caroline  has  been 
telling  me  eveiything  about  it ;  but  she  is  not  quite  a  complete  guide 
as  yet.  She  does  not  know  where  the  seven  oaks  are.  Do  you 
remember  telling  me  of  the  seven  oaks  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do.  They  are  five  miles  ofl'; — at  Clatton  farm,  Cany. 
I  don't  think  you  have  been  near  Clatton  yet.  We  will  ride  there 
to-morrow."  And  thus  Nora  Kowley  was  made  at  home  at 
Monkhams. 

She  was  made  at  home,  and  after  a  week  or  two  she  was  very 
happy.  She  soon  perceived  that  her  host  was  a  perfect  gentleman, 
and  as  such,  a  man  to  be  much  loved.  She  had  probably  never  ques- . 
tioned  the  fact,  whether  Mr.  Glascock  was  a  gentleman  or  not,  and 
now  she  did  not  analyse  it.  It  probably  never  occarred  to  her,  even, 
at  the  present  time,  to  say  to  herself  that  he  was  certainly  that  thing, 
so  impossible  of  definition,  and  so  capable  of  recognition ;  but  she 
knew  that  she  had  to  do  with  one  whose  presence  was  always  pleasant 
to  her,  whose  words  and  acts  towards  her  extorted  her  approbation, 
whose  thoughts  seemed  to  her  to  be  always  good  and  manly.  Of 
course  she  had  not  loved  him,  because  she  had  previously  known 
Hugh  Stanbury.  There  could  be  no  comparison  between  the  two 
men.  There  was  a  brightness  about  Hugh  which  Lord  Peterborough 
could  not  rival.  Otherwise, — except  for  this  reason, — it  seemed  to 
her  to  be  impossible  that  any  young  woman  should  fail  to  love  Lord 
Peterborough  when  asked  to  do  so. 

About  the  middle  of  September  there  came  a  very  happy  time  for 
her,  when  Hugh  was  asked  down  to  shoot  partridges, — in  the  doing 
of  which,  however,  all  his  brightness  did  not  bring  him  near  in  excel- 
lence to  his  host.  Lord  Peterborough  had  been  shooting  partridges 
all  his  life,  and  shot  them  with  a  precision  which  excited  Hugh's 
envy.     To  own  the  truth,  Stanbury  did  not  shoot  well,   and  was 


JIUNKHAMS. 


MONKIIAMS,  ^G7 

treated  rather  with  scorn  by  the  gamekeeper ;  but  in  other  respects 
ho  spent  three  or  fonr  of  the  happiest  days  of  his  life.  He  had  his 
work  to  do,  and  after  the  second  day  over  the  stubbles,  declared  that 
the  exigencies  of  the  D.  R.  were  too  severe  to  enable  him  to  go  out 
with  his  gun  again ;  but  those  rambles  about  the  park  with  Nora,  for 
which,  among  the  exigencies  of  the  D.  R.,  he  did  find  opportunity, 
were  never  to  be  forgotten. 

"  Of  course  I  remember  that  it  might  have  been  mine,"  she  said, 
sitting  with  him  under  an  old,  hollow,  withered  sloping  stump  of  an 
oak,  which  still,  however,  had  sufficient  of  a  head  growing  from  one 
edge  of  the  trunk  to  give  them  the  shade  they  wanted;  "  and  if  you 
wish  me  to  own  to  regrets, — I  will." 

"  It  would  kill  me,  I  think,  if  you  did ;  and  yet  I  cannot  get  it  out 
of  my  head  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  me  your  rank  and  position  in 
life  might  have  been  so — so  suitable  to  you." 

"  No,  Hugh  ;  there  you're  wrong.  I  have  thought  about  it  a  good 
deal,  too ;  and  I  know  very  well  that  the  cold  beef-steak  in  the  cup- 
board is  the  thing  for  me.  Caroline  will  do  very  well  hero.  She 
looks  like  a  peeress,  and  bears  her  honours  grandly ;  but  they  will 
never  harden  her.  I,  too,  could  have  been  magnificent  with  fine 
feathers.  Most  birds  are  equal  to  so  much  as  that.  I  fancy  that  I 
could  have  looked  the  part  of  the  fine  English  lady,  and  could  have 
patronised  clergymen's  wives  in  the  country,  could  have  held  my  own 
among  my  peers  in  London,  and  could  have  kept  Mrs.  Crutch  in 
order ;  but  it  would  have  hardened  me,  and  I  should  have  learned  to 
think  that  to  be  a  lady  of  fashion  was  everything." 

"I  do  not  believe  a  bit  of  it." 

"  It  is  better  as  it  is,  Hugh  ; — for  me  at  least.  I  had  always  a  sort 
of  conviction  that  it  would  be  better,  though  I  had  a  longing  to  play 
the  other  part.  Then  you  came,  and  you  have  saved  me.  Never- 
theless, it  is  very  nice,  Hugh,  to  have  the  oaks  to  sit  under." 
Stanbury  declared  that  it  was  very  nice. 

But  still  nothing  was  settled  about  the  wedding.  Trevelyan's  con- 
dition was  so  uncertain  that  it  was  very  difficult  to  settle  anything. 
Though  nothing  was  said  on  the  subject  between  Stanbury  and  Mrs. 
Trcvelyan,  and  nothing  written  between  Nora  and  her  sister,  it  could 
not  but  be  remembered  that  should  Trcvelyan  die,  his  widow 
would  require  a  home  with  them.  They  were  deterred  from  choosing 
a  house  by  this  reflection,  and  were  deterred  from  naming  a  day  also 
by  the  consideration  that  were  they  to  do  so,  Trevelyan's  state  might 
still  probably  prevent  it.     But  this  was  arranged,  that  if  Trcvelyan 


3G8  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

lived  through  the  winter,  or  even  if  he  should  not  live,  their  marriage 
should  not  be  postponed  beyond  the  end  of  March.  Till  that  time 
Lord  Peterborough  would  remain  at  Monkhams,  and  it  was  under- 
stood that  Nora's  invitation  extended  to  that  period. 

"If  my  wife  does  not  get  tired  of  you,  I  shall  not,"  Lord  Peter- 
borough said  to  Nora.  "  The  thing  is  that  when  you  do  go  we  shall 
miss  you  so  terribly."  In  September,  too,  there  happened  another 
event  which  took  Stanbury  to  Exeter,  and  all  needful  particulars  as  to 
that  event  shall  be  narrated  in  the  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER   XCVII. 

MRS.  BROOKE  BURGESS. 


It  may  be  doubted  whether  there  was  a  happier  young  woman  in 
England  than  Dorothy  Stanbury  when  that  September  came  which 
was  to  make  her  the  wife  of  Mr.  Brooke  Burgess,  the  new  partner  in 
the  firm  of  Cropper  and  Burgess.  Her  early  aspirations  in  life  had 
been  so  low,  and  of  late  there  had  come  upon  her  such  a  succession 
of  soft  showers  of  success, — mingled  now  and  then  with  slight  threat- 
enings  of  storms  which  had  passed  away, — that  the  Close  at  Exeter 
seemed  to  her  to  have  become  a  very  Paradise.  Her  aunt's  temper 
had  sometimes  been  to  her  as  the  threat  of  a  storm,  and  there  had 
been  the  Gibson  marriage  treaty,  and  the  short-lived  opposition  to 
the  other  marriage  treaty  which  had  seemed  to  her  to  be  so  very 
preferable ;  but  everything  had  gone  at  last  as  though  she  had  been 
Fortune's  favourite, — and  now  had  come  this  beautiful  arrangement 
about  Cropper  and  Burgess,  which  would  save  her  from  being  carried 
away  to  live  among  strangers  in  London !  When  she  first  became 
known  to  us  on  her  coming  to  Exeter,  in  compliance  with  her  aunt's 
suggestion,  she  was  timid,  silent,  and  altogether  without  self-reliance. 
Even  they  who  knew  her  best  had  never  guessed  that  she  possessed 
a  keen  sense  of  humour,  a  nice  appreciation  of  character,  and  a  quiet 
reticent  wit  of  her  own,  under  that  staid  and  frightened  demeanour. 
Since  her  engagement  with  Brooke  Burgess  it  seemed  to  those  who 
watched  her  that  her  character  had  become  changed,  as  does  that  of 
a  flower  when  it  opens  itself  in  its  growth.  The  sweet  gifts  of  nature 
within  became  visible,  the  petals  sprang  to  view,  and  the  leaves 
spread  themselves,  and  the  sweet  scent  was  felt  upon  the  air.  Had 
she  remained  at  Nuncombe,  it  is  probable  that  none  would  ever  have 


MRS.  rsROOKE   BURGESS.  3G9 

kno-\vn  her  but  bcr  sister.  It  was  necessary  to  this  flower  that  it 
it  should  bo  warmed  by  the  sun  of  life,  and  strengthened  by  the 
breezes  of  opposition,  and  filled  by  the  showers  of  companionship, 
before  it  could  become  aware  of  its  own  loveliness.  Dorothy  was 
one  who,  had  she  remained  ever  nnseeu  in  the  retirement  of  her 
mother's  \'illage  cottage,  would  have  lived  and  died  ignorant  of  even 
her  own  capabilities  for  enjoyment.  She  had  not  dreamed  that  she 
could  win  a  man's  love, — had  hardly  dreamed  till  she  had  lived  at 
Exeter  that  she  had  love  of  her  own  to  give  back  in  return.  She  had 
not  known  that  she  could  be  firm  in  her  own  opinion,  that  she  could 
laugh  herself  and  cause  others  to  laugh,  that  she  could  be  a  lady  and 
know  that  other  women  were  not  so,  that  she  had  good  looks  of  her 
o^\•n  and  could  be  very  happy  when  told  of  them  by  lips  that  she 
loved.  The  flower  that  blows  the  quickest  is  never  the  sweetest. 
The  fruit  that  ripens  tardily  has  ever  the  finest  flavour.  .  It  is  often 
the  same  with  men  and  women.  The  lad  who  talks  at  twenty  as 
men  should  talk  at  thirty,  has  seldom  much  to  say  worth  the  hearing 
when  he  is  forty ;  and  the  girl  who  at  eighteen  can  shine  in  society 
with  composure,  has  generally  given  over  shining  before  she  is  a  full- 
gi'own  woman.  With  Dorothy  the  scent  and  beauty  of  the  flower, 
and  the  flavour  of  the  fruit,  had  come  late ;  but  the  fruit  will  keep, 
and  the  flower  will  not  fall  to  pieces  wdth  the  heat  of  an  evening. 

"How  marvellously  your  bride  has  changed  since  she  has  been 
here,"  said  IVIrs.  MacHugh  to  Miss  Stanbury.  "  We  thought  she 
couldn't  say  boo  to  a  goose  at  first ;  but  she  holds  her  own  now 
among  the  best  of  'em." 

"  Of  course  she  does ; — why  shouldn't  she  ?  I  never  knew  a  Stan- 
bury  yet  that  was  a  fool." 

"They  are  a  wonderful  family,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  MacHugh; 
"  but  I  think  that  of  all  of  them  she  is  the  most  wonderful.  Old  Barty 
said  something  to  her  at  my  house  yesterday  that  wasn't  intended  to 
be  kind." 

"  When  did  he  ever  intend  to  be  kind  ?  " 

"  But  he  got  no  change  out  of  her.  '  The  Burgesses  have  been  in 
Exeter  a  long  time,'  she  said,  'and  I  don't  see  why  we  should  not 
get  on  at  any  rate  as  well  as  those  before  us.'  Barty  grunted  and 
growled  and  slunk  away.  He  thought  she  would  shake  in  her  shoes 
when  he  spoke  to  her." 

"He  has  never  been  able  to  make  a  Stanbury  shake  in  her  shoes 
yet,"  said  the  old  lady. 

Early  in  September,  Dorothy  went  to  Nuncombe  Putney  to  spend 


370  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

a  week  with  her  mother  and  sister  at  tlie  cottage.  She  Lad  insisted 
on  this,  though  Priscilla  had  hinted,  somewhat  unnecessarily,  that 
Dorothy,  with  her  past  comforts  and  her  future  prospects,  would  find 
the  accommodation  at  the  cottage  very  limited.  "I  suppose  you  and 
I,  Pris,  can  sleep  in  the  same  bed,  as  we  always  did,"  she  said,  with 
a  tear  in  each  eye.  Then  Priscilla  had  felt  ashamed  of  herself,  and 
had  bade  her  come. 

"The  truth  is,  Dolly,"  said  the  elder  sister,  "that  we  feel  so 
unlike  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage  at  Nuncombe,  that  I'm  afraid 
you'll  lose  your  brightness  and  become  dowdy,  and  grim,  and  misan- 
thropic, as  we  are.  When  mamma  and  I  sit  down  to  what  we  call 
dinner,  I  always  feel  that  there  is  a  grace  hovering  in  the  air  different 
to  that  which  she  says.". 

"And  what  is  it,  Pris?" 

"Pray,  God,  don't  quite  stai^ve  ns,  and  let  everybody  else  have 
indigestion.  Wo  don't  say  it  out  loud,  but  there  it  is  ;  and  the  spirit 
of  it  might  damp  the  orange  blossoms." 

She  went  of  course,  and  the  orange  blossoms  were  not  damped. 
She  had  long  walks  with  her  sister  round  by  Niddon  and  Ridleigh, 
and  even  as  far  distant  as  Cockchaffington,  where  much  was  said 
about  that  wicked  Colonel  as  they  stood  looking  at  the  porch  of  the 
church.  "I  shall  be  so  happy,"  said  Dorothy,  "when  you  and 
mother  come  to  us.  It  will  be  such  a  joy  to  me  that  you  should  bo 
my  guests." 

"  But  we  shall  not  come." 

"Why  not,  Priscilla?" 

"  I  know  it  will  be  so.  Mamma  will  not  care  for  going,  if  I  do 
not  go." 

"  And  why  should  you  not  come  ?" 

"For  a  hundred  reasons,  all  of  which  you  know,  Dolly.  I  am 
stiff,  impracticable,  ill-conditioned,  and  very  bad  at  going  about 
visiting.  I  am  always  thinking  that  other  people  ought  to  have 
indigestion,  and  perhaps  I  might  come  to  have  some  such  feeling 
about  you  and  Brooke." 

"  I  should  not  be  at  all  afraid  of  that." 

"  I  know  that  my  place  in  the  world  is  here,  at  Nuncombe  Putney. 
I  have  a  pride  about  myself,  and  think  that  I  never  did  wrong  but 
once, — when  I  let  mamma  go  into  that  odious  Clock  House.  It  is  a 
bad  pride,  and  yet  I'm  proud  of  it.  I  hav'n't  got  a  gown  fit  to  go  and 
stay  with  you,  when  you  become  a  grand  lady  in  Exeter.  I  don't 
doubt  you'd  give  me  any  sort  of  gown  I  wanted." 


MRS.  BROOKE    BURGESS.  371 

"  Of  course  I  would.  Ain't  wo  sisters,  Pris  ?  " 
"I  sball  not  be  so  much  your  sister  as  Lo  will  be  your  busband. 
Besides,  I  bate  to  take  tbings.  Wben  Hugb  sends  money,  and  for 
mamma's  sake  it  is  accepted,  I  always  feel  uneasy  wbile  it  lasts,  and 
tbink  tbat  tbat  plague  of  an  indigestion  ougbt  to  come  upon  me  also. 
I>o  you  remember  tbc  lamb  tbat  came  wbcu  you  went  away  ?  It 
made  me  so  sick." 

"  But,  Priscilla  ; — isn't  tbat  morbid  ?  " 

"  Of  coui'se  it  is.  You  don't  suppose  I  really  tbink  it  grand.  I  am 
morbid.  But  I  am  strong  enougb  to  live  on,  and  not  get  killed  by  tbe 
morbidity.  Heaven  knows  bow  mucb  more  tbere  may  bo  of  it ; — 
forty  years,  perbaps,  and  probably  tbe  greater  portion  of  tbat  abso- 
lutely alone; " 

"  No ; — you'll  be  witb  us  tben, — if  it  sbould  come." 

"  I  tbink  not,  Dolly.  Not  to  have  a  bole  of  my  own  would  be 
intolerable  to  me.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  I  sball  not  be  unbappy.  To 
enjoy  life,  as  you  do,  is  I  suppose  out  of  tbe  question  for  me.  But  I 
have  a  satisfaction  wben  I  get  to  tbe  end  of  tbe  quarter  and  find  tbat 
tbere  is  not  balf-a-crown  due  to  any  one.  Tbings  get  dearer  and 
dearer,  but  I  have  a  comfort  even  in  tbat.  I  have  a  feeling  tbat  I 
sbould  like  to  bring  myself  to  tbe  straw  a  day."  Of  course  tbere 
were  oflcrs  made  of  aid, — offers  wbicb  were  rather  prayers, — and 
plans  suggested  of  what  might  be  done  between  Brooke  and  Hugb ; 
but  Priscilla  declared  that  all  such  plans  were  odious  to  her.  "  "Why 
should  you  be  unhappy  about  us  ?  "  she  continued.  "  Wc  will  come 
and  see  you, — at  least  I  will, — perbaps  once  in  six  months,  r.nd  you 
shall  pay  for  the  railway  ticket ;  only  I  won't  stay,  because  of  tbe 
gown." 

"  Is  not  that  nonsense,  Pris  ?  " 

"  Just  at  present  it  is,  because  mamma  and  I  have  both  got  new 
go^uTis  for  the  wedding.  Hugb  sent  them,  and  ever  so  much  money 
to  buy  bonnets  and  gloves." 

"  He  is  to  be  married  himself  soon, — down  at  a  place  called  Monk- 
hams.     Nora  is  staying  there." 

"Yes; — witb  a  lord,"  said  Priscilla.  "  Wc  sba'n't  have  to  go 
there,  at  any  rate." 

"  You  liked  Nora  when  she  was  here  ?" 

**  Very  mucb; — though  I  thought  her  self-willed.  But  she  is  not 
worldly,  and  she  is  conscientious.  She  might  have  married  that  lord 
herself  if  she  would.  I  do  like  her.  When  she  comes  to  you  at 
Exeter,  if  the  wedding  gown  isn't  quite  worn  out,  I  sball  come  and 


072  HE   KNEW    HE   WAS   RIGHT. 

see  lior.     I  knew  slic  liked  him  wbeu  she  was  here,  but  slie  never 
said  so." 

"  She  is  very  pretty,  is  she  not  ?     He  sent  me  her  photograph."' 

"  She  is  handsome  rather  than  pretty.  I  wonder  why  it  is  that 
you  two  should  be  married,  and  so  grandly  married,  and  that  I  shall 
never,  never  have  anyone  to  love." 

"  Oh,  Priscilla,  do  not  say  that.  If  I  have  a  child  will  you  not 
love  it  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  your  child; — not  mine.  Do  not  suppose  that  I  com- 
plain. I  know  that  it  is  right.  I  know  that  you  ought  to  be  married 
and  I  ought  not.  I  know  that  there  is  not  a  man  in  Devonshire  who 
would  take  me,  or  a  man  in  Devonshire  whom  I  would  accept.  I 
know  that  I  am  quite  unfit  for  any  other  kind  of  life  than  this.  I 
should  make  any  man  wretched,  and  any  man  would  make  me 
wretched.  But  why  is  it  so  ?  I  believe  that  you  Avould  make  any 
man  happy." 

"  I  hope  to  make  Brooke  happy." 

"  Of  course  you  will,  and  therefore  you  deserve  it.  AYe'U  go  home 
now,  dear,  and  get  mamma's  things  ready  for  the  great  day." 

On  the  afternoon  before  the  great  day  all  the  visitors  were  to  come, 
and  during  the  forenoon  old  Miss  Stanbury  was  in  a  great  fidget. 
Luckily  for  Dorothy,  her  own  preparations  were  already  made,  so 
that  she  could  give  her  time  to  her  aunt  without  injury  to  herself. 
Miss  Stanbury  had  come  to  think  of  herself  as  though  all  the  reality 
of  her  life  had  passed  away  from  her.  Every  resolution  that  she  had 
formed  had  been  broken.  She  had  had  the  great  enemy  of  her  Hfe, 
Barty  Burgess,  in  the  house  with  her  upon  terms  that  were  intended 
to  be  amicable,  and  had  arranged  with  him  a  plan  for  the  division  of 
the  family  property.  Her  sister-in-law,  whom  in  the  heyday  of  her 
strength  she  had  chosen  to  regard  as  her  enemy,  and  with  whom  even 
as  yet  there  had  been  no  reconciliation,  was  about  to  become  her 
guest,  as  was  also  Priscilla, — whom  she  had  ever  disliked  almost  as 
much  as  she  had  respected.  She  had  quarrelled  utterly  with  Hugh, — 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  leave  no  possible  chance  of  a  reconciliation, — 
-and  he  also  was  about  to  be  her  guest.  And  then,  as  to  her  chosen 
heir,  she  was  now  assisting  him  in  doing  the  only  thing,  as  to  which 
she  had  declared  that  if  he  did  do  it,  he  should  not  be  her  heir.  As 
she  went  about  the  house,  under  an  idea  that  such  a  multiplicity  of 
persons  could  not  be  housed  and  fed  without  superhuman  exertion, 
she  thought  of  all  this,  and  could  not  help  confessing  to  herself  that 
Jier  life  had  been  very  vain.     It  was  only  when  her  eyes  rested  on 


MRS.  BROOKE    BURGESS.  373 

Porothy,  and  slio  saw  how  supremely  happy  was  the  one  person 
whom  she  had  taken  most  closely  to  her  heart,  that  she  could  feel 
that  she  had  done  anything  that  should  not  have  been  left  undone. 
"  I  think  I'll  sit  down  now,  Dorothy,"  she  said,  "  or  I  sha'n't  be  able 
to  be  with  you  to-morrow." 

"  Do,  aunt.  Everything  is  all  ready,  and  nobody  will  be  here  for 
an  hour  yet.  Nothing  can  be  nicer  than  the  rooms,  and  nothing  ever 
was  done  so  well  before.  I'm  only  thinking  how  lonely  you'll  be 
when  we're  gone." 

"  It'll  be  only  for  six  weeks.'" 

"  But  six  weeks  is  such  a  long  time." 

"  What  would  it  have  been  if  he  had  taken  you  up  to  London,  my 
pet  ?  Ai-e  you  sure  your  mother  wouldn't  like  a  fire  in  her  room, 
Dorothy?" 

"A  tire  in  September,  aunt  ?" 

"People  live  so  differently.     One  never  knows." 

"  They  never  have  but  one  lu-c  at  Nuncombe,  aunt,  summer  or 
winter." 

"  That's  no  reason  they  shouldn't  be  comfortable  here."  However, 
she  did  not  insist  on  having  the  fire  lighted. 

Mrs.  Staubury  and  Priscilla  came  fii'st,  and  the  meeting  was  cer- 
tainly very  uncomfortable.  Poor  Mrs.  Staubury  was  shy,  and  could 
hardly  speak  a  word.  Miss  Stanbury  thought  that  her  visitor  was 
haughty,  and,  though  she  endeavoured  to  be  gracious,  did  it  with  a 
struggle.  They  called  each  other  ma'am,  which  made  Dorothy  un- 
easy. Each  of  them  was  so  dear  to  her,  that  it  was  a  pity  that  they 
should  glower  at  each  other  like  enemies.  Priscilla  was  not  at  all 
shy ;  but  she  was  combative,  and,  as  her  aunt  said  of  her  afterwards, 
Avould  not  keep  her  prickles  in.  "I  hope,  Priscilla,  you  like  wed- 
dings," said  Miss  Stanbury  to  her,  not  knowing  where  to  find  a 
subject  for  conversation. 

"  In  the  abstract  I  like  them,"  said  Priscilla.  Miss  Stanbury  did 
not  know  what  her  niece  meant  by  liking  weddings  in  the  abstract, 
and  was  angry. 

"I  suppose  you  do  have  weddings  at  Nuncombe  Putney  some- 
times," she  said. 

"  I  hope  they  do,"  said  Priscilla,  "  but  I  never  saw  one.  To-morrow 
will  be  my  fu-st  experience." 

"Your  own  will  come  next,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Stanbury. 

"I  think  not,"  said  Priscilla.  "  It  is  quite  as  likely  to  be  yours, 
aunt."  This,  Miss  Stanbury  thought,  was  almost  an  insult,  and  she 
said  nothing  more  on  the  occasion. 


374  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS    KIGIIT. 

Then  came  Hugh  and  the  bridegroom.  The  bridegroom,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  was  not  accommodated  in  the  house,  but  he  was 
allowed  to  come  there  for  his  tea.  He  and  Hugh  had  come  together ; 
and  for  Hugh  a  bed-room  had  been  provided.  His  aunt  had  not  seen 
Mm  since  he  had  been  turned  out  of  the  house,  because  of  his  bad 
practices,  and  Dorothy  had  anticipated  the  meeting  between  them 
with  alarm.  It  was,  however,  much  more  pleasant  than  had  been 
that  between  the  ladies.  "  Hugh,"  she  said  stiffly,  "lam  glad  to 
see  you  on  such  an  occasion  as  this." 

"  Aunt,"  he  said,  "  I  am  glad  of  any  occasion  that  can  get  me  an 
entrance  once  more  into  the  dear  old  house.  I  am  so  pleased  to  see 
you."  She  allowed  her  hand  to  remain  in  his  a  few  moments,  and 
murmured  something  which  was  intended  to  signify  her  satisfaction. 
"  I  must  tell  you  that  I  am  going  to  be  married  myself,  to  one  of  the 
dearest,  sweetest,  and  loveliest  girls  that  ever  were  seen,  and  you 
must  congratulate  me." 

"  I  do,  I  do  ;  and  I  hope  you  may  be  happy." 

"  We  mean  to  try  to  be ;  and  some  day  you  must  let  me  bring  her 
to  j-ou,  and  shew  her.  I  shall  not  be  satisfied,  if  you  do  not  know 
my  wife."  She  told  Martha  afterwards  that  she  hoped  that  Mr.  Hugh 
bad  sown  his  wild  oats,  and  that  matrimony  would  sober  him. 
When,  however,  Martha  remarked  that  she  believed  Mr.  Hucrh  to  be 
as  hardworking  a  young  man  as  any  in  London,  Miss  Stanbury  shook 
her  head  sorrowfully.  Things  were  being  very  m.uch  changed  with 
her ;  but  not  even  yet  was  she  to  be  brought  to  approve  of  work 
done  on  behalf  of  a  penny  newspaper. 

On  the  following  morning,  at  ten  o'clock,  there  was  a  procession 
from  Miss  Stanbury's  house  into  the  Cathedral,  which  was  made 
entirely  on  foot ; — indeed,  no  assistance  could  have  been  given  by  any 
carriage,  for  there  is  a  back  entrance  to  the  Cathedral,  near  to  the 
Lady  Chapel,  exactly  opposite  Miss  Stanbury's  house.  There  were 
many  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  Close  there,  to  see  the  procession, 
and  the  cathedral  bells  rang  out  then'  peals  very  merrily.  Brooke, 
the  bridegroom,  gave  his  arm  to  Miss  Stanbury,  which  was,  no  doubt, ! 
very  improper, — as  he  should  have  appeared  in  the  church  as  coming 
from  quite  some  different  part  of  the  world.  Then  came  the  bride, 
hanging  on  her  brother,  then  two  bridesmaids, — friends  of  Dorothy's, 
living  in  the  town  ;  and,  lastly,  Priscilla  with  her  mother,  for  nothing 
w^ould  induce  Priscilla  to  take  the  part  of  a  bridesmaid.  "  You  might 
as  well  ask  an  owl  to  sing  to  you,"  she  said.  "  And  then  all  the 
frippery  would  be  thrown  away  upon  me."     But  she  stood  close  to 


ACQUITTED.  375 

Dorothy,  and  wlicu  the  ccremouy  had  been  performed,  was  the  first, 
after  Brooke,  to  kiss  her. 

Everybody  acknowledged  that  the  bride  was  a  winsome  bride. 
Mrs.  MacHugh  was  at  the  breakfast,  and  declared  afterwards  that 
Dorothy  Burgess, — as  she  then  was  pleased  to  call  her, — was  a  girl 
very  hard  to  be  understood.  **  She  came  here,"  said  Mrs,  MacHugh, 
"  two  years  ago,  a  plain,  silent,  shy,  dowdy  young  woman,  and  we 
all  said  that  Miss  Stanbury  would  be  tired  of  her  in  a  week.  There 
has  never  come  a  time  in  which  there  was  any  visible  difference  in 
her,  and  now  she  is  one  of  our  city  beauties,  with  plenty  to  say  to 
everj'body,  with  a  fortune  in  one  pocket  and  her  aunt  in  the  other, 
and  everybody  is  saying  what  a  fortunate  fellow  Brooke  Burgess  is  to 
get  her.  In  a  year  or  two  she'll  be  at  the  top  of  everything  in  the 
city,  and  will  make  her  way  in  the  county  too." 

The  compiler  of  this  history  begs  to  add  his  opinion  to  that  of 
"everybody,"  as  quoted  above  by  Mrs.  MacHugh.  He  thinks  that 
Brooke  Bui-gess  was  a  very  fortunate  fellow  to  get  his  wife. 


CHAPTER  XCMII. 
ACQUITTED. 


During  this  time,  while  Hugh  was  sitting  with  his  love  under  the 
oak  trees  at  Monkhams,  and  Dorothy  was  being  converted  into  Mrs. 
Brooke  Burgess  in  Exeter  Cathedral,  Mrs.  Trevelyan  was  living 
with  her  husband  in  the  cottage  at  Twickenham.  Her  life  was  dreary 
enough,  and  there  was  but  very  little  of  hope  in  it  to  make  its  dreari- 
ness supportable.  As  often  happens  in  periods  of  sickness,  the 
single  friend  who  could  now  be  of  service  to  the  one  or  to  the  other 
was  the  doctor.  He  came  daily  to  them,  and  with  that  quick  growth 
of  confidence  which  medical  kindness  always  inspires,  Trevel3'an  told 
to  this  gentleman  all  the  history  of  his  married  life, — and  all  that  Tre- 
velyan told  to  him  he  repeated  to  Trevelyan's  wife.  It  may  therefore 
be  understood  that  Trevelyan,  between  them,  was  treated  like  a  child. 

Dr.  Nevill  had  soon  been  able  to  tell  Mrs.  Trevelyan  that  her  hus- 
band's health  had  been  so  shattered  as  to  make  it  improbable  that  ho 
should  ever  again  bo  strong  cither  in  body  or  in  mind.  He  would 
not  admit,  even  when  treating  his  patient  like  a  child,  that  he  had 
ever  been  mad,  and  spoke  of  Sir  Marmaduke's  threat  as  unfortunate. 
"  But  what  could  papa  have  done  ?  "  asked  the  wife. 

"  It  is  often,  no  doubt,  difficult  to  know  what  to  do ;  but  threats  ara 


37G  HE    KNEW   HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

seldom  of  avail  to  bring  a  man  back  to  reason.  Your  father  wa<5 
angry  with  him,  and  yet  declared  that  he  was  mad.  That  in  itself 
was  hardly  rational.     One  does  not  become  angry  with  a  madman," 

One  does  not  become  angry  with  a  madman  ;  but  while  a  man  has 
power  in  his  hands  over  others,  and  when  he  misuses  that  power 
grossly  and  cruelly,  who  is  there  th'at  will  not  be  angiy  ?     The  misery 
of  the  insane  more  thoroughly  excites  our  pity  than  any  other  suffer- 
ing to  which  humanity  is  subject ;  but  it  is  necessary  that  the  mad- 
ness should  be  acknowledged  to  be  madness  before  the  pity  can  be 
felt.     One  can  forgive,  or,  at  any  rate,  make  excuses  for  any  injury 
when  it  is  done  ;  but  it  is  almost  beyond  human  nature  to  forgive  an 
injury  when  it  is  a-doing,  let  the  condition  of  the  doer  be  what  it  may, 
Emily  Trevelyan  at  this  time  suffered  infinitely.     She  was  still  willing 
to  yield  in  all  things  possible,  because  her  husband  was  ill, — because 
perhaps  he  was  dj-ing ;  but  she  could  no  longer  satisfy  herself  with 
thinking  that  all  that  she  admitted, — all  that  she  was  still  ready  to 
admit, — had  been  conceded  in  order  that  her  concessions  might  tend 
to  soften  the  afflictions  of  one  whose  reason  was  gone.     Dr.  Nevill 
said  that  her  husband  was  not  mad ; — and  indeed  Trevelyan  seemed 
now  to  be  so  clear  in  his  mind  that  she  could  not  doubt  what  the 
doctor  said  to  her      She  could  not  think  that  he  was  mad, — and  yet 
he  spoke  of  the  last  two  years  as  though  he  had  suffered  from  her 
almost  all  that  a  husband  could  suffer  from  a  wife's  misconduct.     She 
was  in  doubt  about  his  health.     "  He  maj'  recover,"  the  doctor  said  ; 
"but  he  is  so  weak' that  the  slightest  additional  ailment  Avould  take 
him  off."     At  this  time  Trevelyan  could  not  raise  himself  from  his 
bed,  and  was  carried,  like  a  child,  from  one  room  to  another.    He  could 
eat  nothing  solid,  and  believed  himself  to  be  dying.     In  spite  of  his 
weakness, — and  of  his  savage  memories  in  regard  to  the  past, — he 
treated  his  wife   on  all    ordinary  subjects  with  consideration.      He 
spoke  much  of  his  money,  telling  her  that  he  had  not  altered,  and  would 
not  alter,  the  will  that  he  had  made  immediately  on  his  marriage. 
Under  that  will  all  his  property  would  be  hers  for  her  life,  and  would 
go  to  their  child  when  she  was  dead.     To  her  this  will  was  more  than 
just, — it  was  generous  in  the  confidence  which  it  placed  in  her ;  and 
he  told  his  lawj^er,  in  her  presence,  that,  to  the  best  of  his  judgment, 
he  need  not  change  it.      But  still  there   passed   hardly  a   day  in 
which  he  did  not  make  some  allusion  to  the  great  wrong  which  he  had 
endured,  throwing  in  her  teeth  the  confessions  which  she  had  made, — 
and  almost  accusing  her  of  that  which  she  certainly  never  had  con- 
fessed, even  when,  in  the  extremity  of  her  misery  at  Casalunga,  she 
had  thought  that  it  little  mattered  what  she   said,  so  that  for  the 


ACQUin'Ki).  377 

moment  he  might  be  appeased.  If  he  died,  was  he  to  die  in  this 
belief?  If  he  lived,  was  he  to  live  in  this  belief?  And  if  he  did  so 
believe,  was  it  possible  that  he  should  still  trust  her  with  his  money 
and  with  his  child  ? 

"  Emily,"  he  said  one  day,  "  it  has  been  a  terrible  tragedy,  has  it 
not?"  She  did  not  answer  his  question,  sitting  silent  as  it  was  her 
custom  to  do  when  he  addressed  her  after  such  fashion  as  this.  At 
such  times  she  would  not  a.nswer  him  ;  but  she  knew  that  he  would 
press  her  for  an  answer.  "  I  blame  him  more  than  I  do  you,"  con- 
tinued Trevelyan, — "  infinitely  more.  He  was  a  serpent  intendin,^ 
to  sting  me  from  the  first, — not  knowing  perhaps  how  deep  the  sting 
would  go."  There  was  no  question  in  this,  and  the  assertion  was 
one  which  had  been  made  so  often  that  she  could  let  it  pass.  "  You 
are  young,  Emily,  and  it  may  be  that  you  will  marry  again." 

"Never,"  she  said,  with  a  shudder.  It  seemed  to  her  then  that 
marriage  was  so  fearful  a  thing  that  certainly  she  could  never  .venture 
upon  it  again. 

"All  I  ask  of  you  is,  that  should  you  do  so,  you  will  be  more 
careful  of  j'our  husband's  honour." 

"  Louis,"  she  said,  getting  up  and  standing  close  to  him,  "  tell  me 
what  it  is  that  you  mean."  It  was  now  his  turn  to  remain  silent, 
and  hers  to  demand  an  answer.  "  I  have  borne  much,"  she  con- 
tinued, "because  I  would  not  vex  you  in  your  illness." 

"  You  have  borne  much  ?" 

"  Indeed  and  indeed,  yes.     What  woman  has  ever  borne  more  !  " 

"And  I?"  said  he. 

"Dear  Louis,  let  us  understand  each  other  at  last.  Of  what  do 
you  accuse  me  ?  Let  us,  at  any  rate,  know  each  other's  thoughts  on 
this  matter,  of  which  each  of  us  is  ever  thinking." 

"I  make  no  new  accusation." 

"  I  must  protest  then  against  your  using  words  which  seem  to 
convey  accusation.  Since  marriages  were  fii-st  known  upon  earth, 
no  woman  has  ever  been  truer  to  her  husband  than  I  have  been  to 
you." 

"  "Were  you  hing  to  me  then  at  Casalunga  when  you  acknowledged 
that  you  had  been  false  to  your  duties  ?  " 

"  If  I  acknowledged  that,  I  did  lie.  I  never  said  that ;  but  yet  I 
did  lie, — believing  it  to  be  best  for  you  that  I  should  do  so.  For 
your  honour's  sake,  for  the  child's  sake,  weak  as  you  arc,  Louis,  I 
must  protest  that  it  was  so.  I  have  never  injured  you  by  deed  or 
thought." 

VOr,.    IT.  H* 


378  HE   KNEW    HE    WAS   RIGHT. 

"  Alul  yet  you  have  lied  to  me  !  Is  a  lie  no  injury; — and  such  a- 
lie !  Emily,  why  did  you  lie  to  me  ?  You  will  tell  mo  to-morrow 
that  you  never  lied,  and  never  owned  that  you  had  lied." 

Though  it  should  kill  him,  she  must  tell  him  the  truth  now.  "  You 
were  very  ill  at  Casalunga,"  she  said,  after  a  pause. 

"  But  not  so  ill  as  I  am  now.  I  could  breathe  that  air.  I  could 
live  there.  Had  I  remained  I  should  have  been  well  now, — but  what 
of  that  ?  " 

"Louis,  you  were  dying  there.  Pray,  pray  listen  to  me.  "We 
thought  that  you  were  dying ;  and  we  knew  also  that  you  would  be 
taken  from  that  house." 

"  That  was  my  affair.  Do  you  mean  that  I  could  not  keep  a  house- 
over  my  head  ?  "  At  this  moment  he  was  half  Ipng,  half  sitting,  in 
a  large  easy  chair  in  the  little  drawing-room  of  their  cottage,  to  which 
he  had  been  carried  from  the  adjoining  bed-room.  ■\^Tien  not  excited, 
he  would  sit  for  hours  without  moving,  gazing  through  the  open 
•window,  sometimes  with  some  pretext  of  a  book  lying  within  the 
reach  of  his  hand ;  but  almost  without  strength  to  lift  it,  and  certainly 
without  power  to  read  it.  But  now  he  had  worked  himself  up  to  so 
much  energy  that  he  almost  raised  himself  up  in  his  chair,  as  he 
turned  towards  his  wife.  "  Had  I  not  the  world  before  me,  to  choose 
a  house  in  ?  " 

"  They  would  have  put  you  somewhere,  and  I  could  not  have, 
reached  you." 

"  In  a  madhouse,  you  mean.     Yes ; — if  you  had  told  them." 

"  AYill  you  listen,  dear  Louis  ?  We  knew  that  it  was  our  duty  to 
bring  you  home ;  and  as  you  would  not  let  me  come  to  you,  and 
serve  you,  and  assist  you  to  come  here  where  you  are  safe, — unless  I 
owned  that  you  had  been  right,  I  said  that  you  had  been  right." 

"  And  it  was  a  lie, — you  say  now  ?  " 

"All  that  is  nothing.     I  can  not  go  through  it;  nor  should  you.. 

There  is  the  only  question.    You  do  not  think  that  I  have  been ? 

I  need  not  say  the  thing.  You  do  not  think  that?"  As  she  asked 
the  question,  she  knelt  beside  him,  and  took  his  hand  in  hers,  and 
kissed  it.  "  Say  that  you  do  not  think  that,  and  I  will  never  trouble 
you  further  about  the  past." 

"  Yes ; — that  is  it.  You  will  never  trouble  me  I "  She  glanced  up 
into  his  face  and  saw  there  the  old  look  which  he  used  to  wear  when 
he  was  at  Willesden  and  at  Casalunga ;  and  there  had  come  again  the 
old  tone  in  which  he  had  spoken  to  her  in  the  bitterness  of  his  wi-ath: 
— the  look  and  the  tone,  which  had  made  her  sure  that  he  was  a 
madman.     "The  craft  and  subtlety  of  women  passes  everything!" 


ACQuriTKD.  379 

be  said.  "  And  so  at  last  I  am  to  tell  you  that  from  the  beginning  it 
has  been  my  doing.  I  Avill  never  say  so,  though  I  should  die  in 
refusing  to  do  it." 

After  that  there  was  no  possibility  of  farther  conversation,  for  thero 
came  upon  him  a  fit  of  coughing,  and  then  ho  swooned ;  and  in  half- 
an-hoitr  he  was  in  bed,  and  Dr.  Nevill  was  by  his  side.  "  You  must 
not  speak  to  him  at  all  on  this  matter,"  said  the  doctor.  "  But  if  he 
speaks  to  me'?"  she  asked.  "Let  it  pass,"  said  the  doctor.  "Let 
the  subject  bo  got  rid  of  with  as  much  ease  as  you  can.  He  is  very 
ill  now,  and  even  this  might  have  killed  him."  Nevertheless,  though 
this  seemed  to  be  stern.  Dr.  Nevill  was  very  kind  to  her,  declaring 
that  the  hallucination  in  her  husband's  mind  did  not  really  consist  of 
a  belief  in  her  infidelity,  but  arose  from  an  obstinate  determination  to 
vield  nothini:r.  "  He  does  not  believe  it ;  but  he  feels  that  were  he  to 
say  as  much,  his  hands  would  be  weakened  and  yours  strengthened." 

"  Can  he  then  be  in  his  sane  mind  ?  " 

"  In  one  sense  all  misconduct  is  proof  of  insanity,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  In  his  case  the  weakness  of  the  mind  has  been  consequent  upon  the 
weakness  of  the  body." 

Three  days  after  that  Nora  visited  Twickenham  from  Monkhams  in 
obedience  to  a  telegram  from  her  sister.  "Louis,"  she  said,  "had 
become  so  much  weaker,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  be  alone  with  him. 
Would  Nora  come  to  her?"  Nora  came  of  course,  and  Hugh  met 
her  at  the  station,  and  brought  her  with  him  to  the  cottage.  He 
asked  whether  he  might  see  Trevelyan,  but  was  told  that  it  would  be 
better  that  he  should  not.  He  had  been  almost  continually  silent 
since  the  last  dispute  which  he  had  with  his  wife ;  but  he  had  given 
little  signs  that  he  was  always  thinking  of  the  manner  in  which  he 
had  been  brought  home  by  her  from  Italy,  and  of  the  story  she  had 
told  him  of  her  mode  of  inducing  him  to  come.  Hugh  Stanbury  had 
been  her  partner  in  that  struggle,  and  would  probably  be  received,  if 
not  with  sullen  silence,  then  with  some  attempt  at  rebuke.  But  Hugh 
did  see  Dr.  Nevill,  and  learned  from  him  that  it  was  hardly  possible 
that  Trevelyan  should  live  many  hours.  "  He  has  worn  himself  out," 
said  the  doctor,  "  and  there  is  nothing  left  in  him  by  which  he  can 
lay  hold  of  life  again."  Of  Nora  her  brother-in-law  took  but  little 
notice,  and  never  again  referred  in  her  hearing  to  the  great  trouble  of 
his  life.  Ho  said  to  her  a  word  or  two  about  Monkhams,  and  asked 
a  question  now  and  again  as  to  Lord  Peterborough, — whom,  however, 
he  always  called  Mr.  Glascock;  but  Hugh  Stanbury's  name  was  never 
mentioned  by  him.  There  was  a  feeling  in  bis  mind  that  at  the  very 
last  he  bad  been  duped  in  being  brought  to  England,  and  that  Stan- 


380  HE   KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

bury  liad  assisted  in  the  deception.  To  liis  wife  be  -would  whisper 
little  petulant  regrets  for  the  loss  of  the  comforts  of  Casalunga,  and 
would  speak  of  the  air  of  Italy  and  of  Italian  skies  and  of  the  Italian 
sun,  as  though  he  had  enjoyed  at  his  Sienese  villa  all  the  luxuries 
which  climate  can  give,  and  would  have  enjoyed  them  still  had  he 
been  allowed  to  remain  there.  To  all  this  she  would  say  nothing. 
She  knew  now  that  he  was  failing  quickly,  and  there  was  only  one 
subject  on  which  she  either  feared  or  hoped  to  hear  him  speak. 
Before  he  left  her  for  ever  and  ever  would  he  tell  her  that  he  had  not 
doubted  her  faith  ? 

She  had  long  discussions  with  Nora  on  the  matter,  as  though  all 
the  future  of  her  life  depended  on  it.  It  Avas  in  vain  that  Nora  tried 
to  make  her  understand  that  if  hereafter  the  spirit  of  her  husband 
could  know  anything  of  the  troubles  of  his  mortal  life,  could  ever  look 
back  to  the  things  which  he  had  done  in  the  flesh,  then  would  he 
certainly  know  the  truth,  and  all  suspicion  would  be  at  an  end.  And 
if  not,  if  there  was  to  be  no  such  retrospect,  what  did  it  matter  now, 
for  these  few  last  hours  before  the  coil  should  be  shaken  off,  and  all 
doubt  and  all  sorrow  should  be  at  an  end  ?  But  the  wife,  Avho  was 
soon  to  be  a  wddow,  yearned  to  be  acquitted  in  this  world  by  him  to 
whom  her  guilt  or  her  innocence  had  been  matter  of  such  vital 
importance.     "  He  has  never  thought  it,"  said  Nora. 

"  But  if  he  would  say  so  !  If  he  would  only  look  it !  It  will  be 
all  in  all  to  me  as  long  as  I  live  in  this  w^orld."  And  then,  though 
they  had  determined  between  themselves  in  spoken  words  never  to 
regard  him  again  as  one  who  had  been  mad,  in  all  their  thoughts  and 
actions  towards  him  they  treated  him  as  though  he  were  less  respon- 
sible than  an  infant.  And  he  was  mad ; — mad  though  every  doctor 
in  England  had  called  him  sane.  Had  he  not  been  mad  he  must  have 
been  a  fiend, — or  he  could  not  have  tortured,  as  he  had  done,  the 
woman  to  whom  he  owed  the  closest  protection  which  one  human 
being  can  give  to  another. 

During  these  last  days  and  nights  she  never  left  him.  She  had 
done  her  duty  to  him  well,  at  any  rate  since  the  time  when  she  had 
been  enabled  to  come  near  him  in  Italy.  It  may  be  that  in  the  first 
days  of  their  quarrel,  she  had  not  been  regardful,  as  she  should  have 
been,  of  a  husband's  will, — that  she  might  have  escaped  this  tragedy 
by  submitting  herself  to  the  man's  wishes,  as  she  had  always  been 
ready  to  submit  herself  to  his  words.  Had  she  been  able  always  to 
keep  her  neck  in  the  dust  under  his  foot,  their  married  life  might  have 
been  passed  without  outward  calamity,  and  it  is  possible  that  he 
might  still  have  lived.    But  if  she  erred,  surely  she  had  been  scourged 


ACQunTF.n.  381 

for  bcr  error  with  scorpions.  As  sbo  But  at  his  bedsitle  watching  him, 
she  thought  of  her  wasted  youth,  of  her  faded  beauty,  of  her  shattered 
bajipiness,  of  her  fallen  hopes.  She  bad  still  her  child, — but  she  felt 
towards  him  that  she  herself  was  so  sad  a  creature,  so  sombre,  so 
dark,  so  necessarily  wretched  from  this  time  forth  till  the  day  of  her 
death,  that  it  Avould  be  better  for  the  bo)^  that  she  should  never  be 
with  him.  There  could  be  nothing  left  for  her  but  garments  dark 
with  woe,  eyes  red  with  weeping,  hours  sad  from  solitude,  thoughts 
weaiy  with  memory.  And  even  yet, — if  he  would  only  now  say 
that  he  did  not  believe  her  to  have  been  guilty,  how  great  would  be 
the  change  in  her  future  life  ! 

Then  came  an  evening  in  which  he  seemed  to  be  somewhat  stronger 
than  he  had  been.  He  had  taken  some  refreshment  that  had  been  pre- 
pared for  him,  and,  stimulated  by  its  strength,  had  spoken  a  word  or 
two  both  to  Nora  and  to  his  wife.  His  words  had  been  of  no  especial 
interest, — alluding  to  some  small  detail  of  his  own  condition,  such  as 
are  generally  the  chosen  topics  of  conversation  with  invalids.  But  be 
had  been  pronounced  to  be  better,  and  Nora  spoke  to  him  cheerfully, 
when  he  was  taken  into  the  next  room  by  the  man  who  was  always 
at  hand  to  move  him.  His  wife  followed  him,  and  soon  afterwards 
retm-ned,  and  bade  Nora  good  night.  She  would  sit  by  her  husband, 
and  Nora  was  to  go  to  the  room  below,  that  she  might  receive  her 
lover  there.  He  was  expected  out  that  evening,  but  Mrs.  Trevclyan 
said  that  she  would  not  see  him.  Hugh  came  and  went,  and  Nora 
took  herself  to  her  chamber.  The  hours  of  the  night  went  on,  and 
Mrs.  Trevelyan  was  still  sitting  by  her  husband's  bed.  It  was  still 
September,  and  the  weather  was  very  warm.  But  the  windows  had 
been  all  closed  since  an  hour  before  sunset.  She  was  sitting  there 
thinking,  thinking,  thinking.  Dr.  Nevill  had  told  her  that  the  time 
now  was  very  near.  She  was  not  thinking  now  how  very  near  it 
might  be,  but  whether  there  might  yet  be  time  for  him  to  say  that 
one  "word  to  her. 

"  Emily,"  he  said,  in  the  lowest  whisper. 

"Darling!"  she  answered,  turning  round  and  touching  him  with 
her  band. 

"  My  feet  are  cold.     There  are  no  clothes  on  them." 

She  took  a  thick  shawl  and  spread  it  double  across  the  bottom  of 
the  bed,  and  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  Though  it  was  clammy 
with  perspiration,  it  was  chill,  and  she  brought  the  warm  clothes  up 
close  round  his  shoulders.  "  I  can't  sleep,"  he  said.  "  If  I  could 
sleep,  I  shouldn't  mind."  Then  he  was  silent  again,  and  her  thoughts 
went  hai*ping  on,  still  on  the  same  subject.     She  tdd  herself  that  if 


382  HE    KNEW    HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

ever  that  act  of  justice  were  to  bo  done  for  her,  it  must  be  done  that 
Light.  After  a  while  she  turned  round  over  him  ever  so  gently,  and 
saw  that  his  large  eyes  were  open  and  fixed  upon  the  wall. 

She  was  kneeling  now  on  the  chair  close  by  the  bed  head,  and  her 
hand  was  on  the  rail  of  the  bedstead  supporting  her.     "Louis,"  she 
said,  ever  so  softly. 
"Well." 

"  Can  you  say  one  word  for  your  wife,  dear,  dear,  dearest 
husband?" 

"What  word?" 

"  I  have  not  been  a  harlot  to  you ; — have  I  ?  " 
"What  name  is  that?" 

"  But  what  a  thing,  Louis  !  Kiss  my  hand,  Louis,  if  you  believe 
me."  And  very  gently  she  laid  the  tips  of  her  fingers  on  his  lips.  For 
a  moment  or  two  she  waited,  and  the  kiss  did  not  come.  Would  he 
spare  her  in  this  the  last  moment  left  to  him  either  for  justice  or  for 
mercy  ?  For  a  moment  or  two  the  bitterness  of  her  despair  was 
almost  unendurable.  She  had  time  to  think  that  were  she  once  to 
■^vathdraw  her  hand,  she  would  be  condemned  for  ever; — and  that 
it  must  be  withdrawn.  But  at  length  the  lips  moved,  and  with 
struggling  ear  she  could  hear  the  sound  of  the  tongue  within,  and  the 
verdict  of  the  dying  man  had  been  given  in  her  favour.  He  never 
spoke  a  word  more  either  to  annul  it  or  to  enforce  it. 

Some  time  after  that  she  crept  into  Nora's  room.  "Nora,"  she 
said,  waking  the  sleeping  girl,  "  it  is  all  over." 

"Is  he dead?" 

"It  is  all  over.  Mrs.  Eichards  is  there.  It  is  better  than  an  hour 
since  now.  Let  me  come  in."  She  got  into  her  sister's  bed,  and 
there  she  told  the  tale  of  her  tardy  triumph.  "  He  declared  to  me  at 
last  that  he  trusted  me,"  she  said, — almost  believing  that  real  words 
had  come  from  his  lips  to  that  eflect.  Then  she  fell  into  a  flood  of 
tears,  and  after  a  while  she  also  slept.  , 


CHAPTER  XCIX. 
CONCLUSION. 

At  last  the  maniac  was  dead,  and  in  his  last  moments  he  had  made 
such  reparation  as  was  in  his  power  for  the  evil  that  he  had  done. 
With  that  slight  touch  of  his  dry  fevered  lips  he  had  made  the  asser- 
tion on  which  was  to  depend  the  future  peace  and  comfort  of  the 
woman  whom  he  had  so  cruelly  misused.     To  her  mind  the  acquittal. 


co>'CLusiox.  383- 

was  pcrfi'ct ;  but  sLc  never  explained  to  human  ears, — not  even  to 
those  of  her  sister, — the  manner  in  which  it  had  been  given.  Hor 
life,  as  far  as  -we  are  concerned  with  it,  has  been  tokl.  For  the  rest, 
it  cannot  be  but  that  it  shoukl  bo  better  than  that  ■which  was  passed. 
If  there  be  any  retribution  for  such  suflerings  in  money,  liberty,  and 
outward  comfort,  such  retribution  she  possessed; — for  all  that  had 
been  his,  was  now  hers.  He  had  once  suggested  what  she  should 
do,  were  she  even  to  be  married  again ;  and  she  had  felt  that  of 
such  a  career  there  could  be  no  possibility.  Anything  but  that ! 
We  all  know  that  widow's  practices  in  this  matter  do  not  always  tally 
with  wives'  vows ;  but,  as  regards  Mrs.  Trevelyan,  we  are  disposed 
to  think  that  the  promise  will  be  kept.  She  has  her  child,  and  he 
will  give  her  sufficient  interest  to  make  life  worth  having. 

Early  in  the  following  spring  Hugh  Stanbury  was  married  to  Nora 
Rowley  in  the  parish  church  of  Monkhams, — at  which  place  by  that 
time  Nora  found  herself  to  be  almost  as  much  at  home  as  she  might 
have  been  under  other  circumstances.  They  had  prayed  that  the 
marriage  might  be  very  private  ; — but  w^hen  the  day  arrived  there  was 
no  very  close  privacy.  The  parish  church  was  quite  full,  there  were 
half-a-dozen  bridesmaids,  there  was  a  great  breakfast,  Mrs.  Crutch 
had  a  new  brown  silk  gown  given  to  her,  there  was  a  long  article  in 
the  county  gazette,  and  there  were  short  paragraphs  in  various  metro- 
politan newspapers.  It  was  generally  thought  among  his  compeers 
that  Hugh  Stanbury  had  married  into  the  aristocracy,  and  that  the 
fact  was  a  triumph  for  the  profession  to  which  he  belonged.  It 
shewed  what  a  Bohemian  could  do,  and  that  men  of  the  press  in 
England  might  gradually  hope  to  force  their  way  almost  anywhere. 
So  great  was  the  name  of  Monkhams !  He  and  his  wife  took  for 
themselves  a  very  small  house  near  the  Regent's  Park,  at  which  they 
intend  to  remain  until  Hugh  shall  have  enabled  himself  to  earn  an 
additional  two  hundred  a-year.  Mrs.  Trevelyan  did  not  come  to  live 
with  them,  but  kept  the  cottage  near  the  river  at  Twickenham.  Huc^h 
Stanbury  was  very  averse  to  any  protracted  connection  with  comforts 
to  be  obtained  from  poor  Trevelyan's  income,  and  told  Nora  that  he 
must  hold  her  to  her  promise  about  the  beefsteak  in  the  cupboard.  It 
is  our  opinion  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hugh  Stanbury  will  never  want  for 
a  beefsteak  and  all  comfortable  additions  until  the  inhabitants  of 
London  shall  cease  to  require  newspapers  on  their  breakfast  tables. 

Brooke  and  Mrs.  Brooke  established  themselves  in  the  house  in  the 
Close  on  their  retura  from  their  wedding  tour,  and  Brooke  at  once 
put  himself  into  intimate  relations  with  the  ]\[essrs.  Croppers,  taking  • 
his  fair  share  of  the  bank  work.     Dorothy  was  absolutely  installed  as. 


384  HE   KNEW   HE    WAS    RIGHT. 

mistress  in  her  aunt's  house  with  many  wonderful  ceremonies,  with 
the  unlocking  of  cuphoards,  the  outpouring  of  stores,  the  giving  up  of 
keys,  and  Avith  many  speeches  made  to  Martha.  This  was  all  very 
painful  to  Dorothy,  who  could  not  bring  herself  to  suppose  it  possible 
that  she  should  be  the  mistress  of  that  house,  during  her  aunt's  life. 
Miss  Stanbury,  however,  of  course  persevered,  speaking  of  herself  as 
a  worn-out  old  woman,  with  one  foot  in  the  grave,  who  would  soon 
be  carried  away  and  put  out  of  sight.  But  in  a  very  few  days  things 
got  back  into  their  places,  and  Aunt  Stanbury  had  the  keys  again. 
"I  knew  how  it  would  be,  miss,"  said  Martha  to  her  j'Oung  mistress, 
"  and  I  didn't  say  nothing,  'cause  you  understand  her  so  well." 

Mrs.  Stanbury  and  Priscilla  still  live  at  the  cottage,  which,  how- 
ever, to  Priscilla's  great  disgust,  has  been  considerably  improved  and 
prettily  furnished.  This  was  done  under  the  auspices  of  Hugh,  but 
with  funds  chiefly  supplied  from  the  house  of  Brooke,  Dorothy,  and 
Co.  Priscilla  comes  into  Exeter  to  see  her  sister,  perhaps,  every  other 
week ;  but  will  never  sleep  away  from  home,  and  very  rarely  will  eat 
or  drink  at  her  sister's  table.  "  I  don't  know  why,  I  don't,"  she  said 
to  Dorothy,  "  but  somehow  it  puts  me  out.  It  delays  me  in  my 
efforts  to  come  to  the  straw  a  day."  Nevertheless,  the  sisters  are 
dear  friends. 

I  fear  that  in  some  previous  number  a  half  promise  was  made  that 
a  husband  should  be  found  for  Camilla  French.  That  half-promise 
cannot  be  treated  in  the  manner  in  which  any  whole  promise  certainly 
would  have  been  handled.  There  is  no  husband  ready  for  Cammy 
French.  The  reader,  however,  will  be  dehghted  to  know  that  she  made 
up  her  quarrel  with  her  sister  and  Mr.  Gibson,  and  is  now  rather  fond 
of  being  a  guest  at  Mr.  Gibson's  house.  On  her  first  return  to  Exeter 
after  the  Gibsons  had  come  back  from  their  little  Cornish  rustication, 
Camilla  declared  that  she  could  not  and  would  not  bring  herself  to 
endure  a  certain  dress  of  which  Bella  was  very  fond ; — and  as  this 
dress  had  been  bought  for  Camilla  with  special  reference  to  the  glories 
of  her  anticipated  married  life,  this  objection  was  almost  natural.  But 
Bella  treated  it  as  absurd,  and  Camilla  at  last  gave  way. 

It  need  only  further  be  said  that  though  Giles  Hickbody  and 
Martha  are  not  actually  married  as  yet,— men  and  women  in  their 
class  of  life  always  moving  towards  marriage  with  great  precaution,— 
it  is  quite  understood  that  the  young  people  are  engaged,  and  are  to 
be  made  happy  together  at  some  future  time. 


PUISTED  BY  VIEXVE  A>'D  CO.,  CITT  EOAD,  LO'DO". 


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PR  Trollope,  Anthony 

5684.  He  knew  he  was  ripht 

H5 

V.2 


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