Transcriber's note:

 This novel was first published in serial form in 1868-1869, followed by a two-volume book version in 1869. Both were illustrated by Marcus Stone, and those illustrations can be seen in the HTML version of this e-text. See (http://www. Gutenberg. Org/files/5140/5140-h/5140-h. Htm) or (http://www. Gutenberg. Org/files/5140/5140-h. Zip)

HE KNEW HE WAS RIGHT

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

With Illustrations by Marcus Stone

CONTENTS

 I. SHEWING HOW WRATH BEGAN. II. COLONEL OSBORNE. III. LADY MILBOROUGH'S DINNER PARTY. IV. HUGH STANBURY. V. SHEWING HOW THE QUARREL PROGRESSED. VI. SHEWING HOW RECONCILIATION WAS MADE. VII. MISS JEMIMA STANBURY, OF EXETER. VIII. "I KNOW IT WILL DO. " IX. SHEWING HOW THE QUARREL PROGRESSED AGAIN. X. HARD WORDS. XI. LADY MILBOROUGH AS AMBASSADOR. XII. MISS STANBURY'S GENEROSITY. XIII. THE HONOURABLE MR. GLASCOCK. XIV. THE CLOCK HOUSE AT NUNCOMBE PUTNEY. XV. WHAT THEY SAID ABOUT IT IN THE CLOSE. XVI. DARTMOOR. XVII. A GENTLEMAN COMES TO NUNCOMBE PUTNEY. XVIII. THE STANBURY CORRESPONDENCE. XIX. BOZZLE, THE EX-POLICEMAN. XX. SHEWING HOW COLONEL OSBORNE WENT TO COCKCHAFFINGTON. XXI. SHEWING HOW COLONEL OSBORNE WENT TO NUNCOMBE PUTNEY. XXII. SHEWING HOW MISS STANBURY BEHAVED TO HER TWO NIECES. XXIII. COLONEL OSBORNE AND MR. BOZZLE RETURN TO LONDON. XXIV. NIDDON PARK. XXV. HUGH STANBURY SMOKES HIS PIPE. XXVI. A THIRD PARTY IS SO OBJECTIONABLE. XXVII. MR. TREVELYAN'S LETTER TO HIS WIFE. XXVIII. GREAT TRIBULATION. XXIX. MR. AND MRS. OUTHOUSE. XXX. DOROTHY MAKES UP HER MIND. XXXI. MR. BROOKE BURGESS. XXXII. THE "FULL MOON" AT ST. DIDDULPH'S. XXXIII. HUGH STANBURY SMOKES ANOTHER PIPE. XXXIV. PRISCILLA'S WISDOM. XXXV. MR. GIBSON'S GOOD FORTUNE. XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. XXXVII. MONT CENIS. XXXVIII. VERDICT OF THE JURY--"MAD, MY LORD. " XXXIX. MISS NORA ROWLEY IS MALTREATED. XL. "C. G. " XLI. SHEWING WHAT TOOK PLACE AT ST. DIDDULPH'S. XLII. MISS STANBURY AND MR. GIBSON BECOME TWO. XLIII. LABURNUM COTTAGE. XLIV. BROOKE BURGESS TAKES LEAVE OF EXETER. XLV. TREVELYAN AT VENICE. XLVI. THE AMERICAN MINISTER. XLVII. ABOUT FISHING, AND NAVIGATION, AND HEAD-DRESSES. XLVIII. MR. GIBSON IS PUNISHED. XLIX. MR. BROOKE BURGESS AFTER SUPPER. L. CAMILLA TRIUMPHANT. LI. SHEWING WHAT HAPPENED DURING MISS STANBURY'S ILLNESS. LII. MR. OUTHOUSE COMPLAINS THAT IT'S HARD. LIII. HUGH STANBURY IS SHEWN TO BE NO CONJUROR. LIV. MR. GIBSON'S THREAT. LV. THE REPUBLICAN BROWNING. LVI. WITHERED GRASS. LVII. DOROTHY'S FATE. LVIII. DOROTHY AT HOME. LIX. MR. BOZZLE AT HOME. LX. ANOTHER STRUGGLE. LXI. PARKER'S HOTEL, MOWBRAY STREET. LXII. LADY ROWLEY MAKES AN ATTEMPT. LXIII. SIR MARMADUKE AT HOME. LXIV. SIR MARMADUKE AT HIS CLUB. LXV. MYSTERIOUS AGENCIES. LXVI. OF A QUARTER OF LAMB. LXVII. RIVER'S COTTAGE. LXVIII. MAJOR MAGRUDER'S COMMITTEE. LXIX. SIR MARMADUKE AT WILLESDEN. LXX. SHEWING WHAT NORA ROWLEY THOUGHT ABOUT CARRIAGES. LXXI. SHEWING WHAT HUGH STANBURY THOUGHT ABOUT THE DUTY OF MAN. LXXII. THE DELIVERY OF THE LAMB. LXXIII. DOROTHY RETURNS TO EXETER. LXXIV. THE LIONESS AROUSED. LXXV. THE ROWLEYS GO OVER THE ALPS. LXXVI. "WE SHALL BE SO POOR. " LXXVII. THE FUTURE LADY PETERBOROUGH. LXXVIII. CASALUNGA. LXXIX. "I CAN SLEEP ON THE BOARDS. " LXXX. "WILL THEY DESPISE HIM?" LXXXI. MR. GLASCOCK IS MASTER. LXXXII. MRS. FRENCH'S CARVING KNIFE. LXXXIII. BELLA VICTRIX. LXXXIV. SELF-SACRIFICE. LXXXV. THE BATHS OF LUCCA. LXXXVI. MR. GLASCOCK AS NURSE. LXXXVII. MR. GLASCOCK'S MARRIAGE COMPLETED. LXXXVIII. CROPPER AND BURGESS. LXXXIX. "I WOULDN'T DO IT, IF I WAS YOU. " XC. LADY ROWLEY CONQUERED. XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. XCII. TREVELYAN DISCOURSES ON LIFE. XCIII. "SAY THAT YOU FORGIVE ME. " XCIV. A REAL CHRISTIAN. XCV. TREVELYAN BACK IN ENGLAND. XCVI. MONKHAMS. XCVII. MRS. BROOKE BURGESS. XCVIII. ACQUITTED. XCIX. CONCLUSION. 

ILLUSTRATIONS

 SHEWING HOW WRATH BEGAN. Chapter I SHEWING HOW RECONCILIATION WAS MADE. Chapter VI "I ONLY COME AS A MESSENGER. " Chapter IX AUNT STANBURY AT DINNER WILL NOT SPEAK. Chapter XII TO HAVE BEEN THE MOTHER OF A FUTURE PEER! Chapter XIII NORA TRIES TO MAKE HERSELF BELIEVE. Chapter XVI THE WOODEN-LEGGED POSTMAN OF NUNCOMBE PUTNEY. Chapter XXI NIDDON PARK. Chapter XXIV THAT THIRD PERSON WAS MR. BOZZLE. Chapter XXVI DOROTHY MAKES UP HER MIND. Chapter XXX THE "FULL MOON" AT ST. DIDDULPH'S. Chapter XXXII "I WONDER WHY PEOPLE MAKE THESE REPORTS. " Chapter XXXV "AM I TO GO?" Chapter XXXIX AT ST. DIDDULPH'S. Chapter XLI BROOKE BURGESS TAKES HIS LEAVE. Chapter XLIV MISS STANBURY VISITS THE FRENCHES. Chapter XLVIII THE WORLD WAS GOING ROUND WITH DOROTHY. Chapter LI NORA'S LETTER. Chapter LIII "BROOKE WANTS ME TO BE HIS WIFE. " Chapter LVII "PUT IT ON THE FIRE-BACK, BOZZLE. " Chapter LIX "AND WHY DOES HE COME HERE?" Chapter LXIII "YOU HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN MAMMA?" Chapter LXVII "BUT YOU MUST GIVE IT UP, " SAID SIR MARMADUKE. Chapter LXX "ONLY THE VAGARIES OF AN OLD WOMAN. " Chapter LXXIII THE RIVALS. Chapter LXXVI "IT IS HARD TO SPEAK SOMETIMES. " Chapter LXXIX CAMILLA'S WRATH. Chapter LXXXII TREVELYAN AT CASALUNGA. Chapter LXXXIV BARTY BURGESS. Chapter LXXXVIII "I MUST ALWAYS REMEMBER THAT I MET YOU THERE. " Chapter XC NORA'S VEIL. Chapter XCV MONKHAMS. Chapter XCVI

CHAPTER I. 

SHEWING HOW WRATH BEGAN. 

 [Illustration]

When Louis Trevelyan was twenty-four years old, he had all the worldbefore him where to choose; and, among other things, he chose to goto the Mandarin Islands, and there fell in love with Emily Rowley, the daughter of Sir Marmaduke, the governor. Sir Marmaduke Rowley, at this period of his life, was a respectable middle-aged publicservant, in good repute, who had, however, as yet achieved forhimself neither an exalted position nor a large fortune. He had beengovernor of many islands, and had never lacked employment; and now, at the age of fifty, found himself at the Mandarins, with a salaryof £3, 000 a year, living in a temperature at which 80° in the shadeis considered to be cool, with eight daughters, and not a shillingsaved. A governor at the Mandarins who is social by nature andhospitable on principle, cannot save money in the islands even on£3, 000 a year when he has eight daughters. And at the Mandarins, though hospitality is a duty, the gentlemen who ate Sir Rowley'sdinners were not exactly the men whom he or Lady Rowley desired towelcome to their bosoms as sons-in-law. Nor when Mr. Trevelyan camethat way, desirous of seeing everything in the somewhat indefinitecourse of his travels, had Emily Rowley, the eldest of the flock, then twenty years of age, seen as yet any Mandariner who exactly cameup to her fancy. And, as Louis Trevelyan was a remarkably handsomeyoung man, who was well connected, who had been ninth wrangler atCambridge, who had already published a volume of poems, and whopossessed £3, 000 a year of his own, arising from various perfectlysecure investments, he was not forced to sigh long in vain. Indeed, the Rowleys, one and all, felt that providence had been very good tothem in sending young Trevelyan on his travels in that direction, forhe seemed to be a very pearl among men. Both Sir Marmaduke and LadyRowley felt that there might be objections to such a marriage as thatproposed to them, raised by the Trevelyan family. Lady Rowley wouldnot have liked her daughter to go to England, to be received withcold looks by strangers. But it soon appeared that there was no oneto make objections. Louis, the lover, had no living relative nearerthan cousins. His father, a barrister of repute, had died a widower, and had left the money which he had made to an only child. The headof the family was a first cousin who lived in Cornwall on a moderateproperty, --a very good sort of stupid fellow, as Louis said, whowould be quite indifferent as to any marriage that his cousin mightmake. No man could be more independent or more clearly justified inpleasing himself than was this lover. And then he himself proposedthat the second daughter, Nora, should come and live with them inLondon. What a lover to fall suddenly from the heavens into such adovecote!

"I haven't a penny-piece to give to either of them, " said Sir Rowley. 

"It is my idea that girls should not have fortunes, " said Trevelyan. "At any rate, I am quite sure that men should never look for money. A man must be more comfortable, and, I think, is likely to be moreaffectionate, when the money has belonged to himself. "

Sir Rowley was a high-minded gentleman, who would have liked to havehanded over a few thousand pounds on giving up his daughters; but, having no thousands of pounds to hand over, he could not but admirethe principles of his proposed son-in-law. As it was about time forhim to have his leave of absence, he and sundry of the girls went toEngland with Mr. Trevelyan, and the wedding was celebrated in Londonby the Rev. Oliphant Outhouse, of Saint Diddulph-in-the-East, whohad married Sir Rowley's sister. Then a small house was taken andfurnished in Curzon Street, Mayfair, and the Rowleys went back to theseat of their government, leaving Nora, the second girl, in charge ofher elder sister. 

The Rowleys had found, on reaching London, that they had lighted upona pearl indeed. Louis Trevelyan was a man of whom all people saidall good things. He might have been a fellow of his college had henot been a man of fortune. He might already, --so Sir Rowley wastold, --have been in Parliament, had he not thought it to be wiser towait awhile. Indeed, he was very wise in many things. He had goneout on his travels thus young, --not in search of excitement, to killbeasts, or to encounter he knew not what novelty and amusement, --butthat he might see men and know the world. He had been on his travelsfor more than a year when the winds blew him to the Mandarins. Oh, how blessed were the winds! And, moreover, Sir Rowley found that hisson-in-law was well spoken of at the clubs by those who had known himduring his university career, as a man popular as well as wise, nota book-worm, or a dry philosopher, or a prig. He could talk on allsubjects, was very generous, a man sure to be honoured and respected;and then such a handsome, manly fellow, with short brown hair, a nosedivinely chiselled, an Apollo's mouth, six feet high, with shouldersand legs and arms in proportion, --a pearl of pearls! Only, as LadyRowley was the first to find out, he liked to have his own way. 

"But his way is such a good way, " said Sir Marmaduke. "He will besuch a good guide for the girls!"

"But Emily likes her way too, " said Lady Rowley. 

Sir Marmaduke argued the matter no further, but thought, no doubt, that such a husband as Louis Trevelyan was entitled to have his ownway. He probably had not observed his daughter's temper so accuratelyas his wife had done. With eight of them coming up around him, howshould he have observed their tempers? At any rate, if there wereanything amiss with Emily's temper, it would be well that she shouldfind her master in such a husband as Louis Trevelyan. 

For nearly two years the little household in Curzon Street went onwell, or if anything was the matter no one outside of the littlehousehold was aware of it. And there was a baby, a boy, a youngLouis, and a baby in such a household is apt to make things gosweetly. 

The marriage had taken place in July, and after the wedding tourthere had been a winter and a spring in London; and then they passeda month or two at the sea-side, after which the baby had been born. And then there came another winter and another spring. Nora Rowleywas with them in London, and by this time Mr. Trevelyan had begun tothink that he should like to have his own way completely. His babywas very nice, and his wife was clever, pretty, and attractive. Norawas all that an unmarried sister should be. But, --but there had cometo be trouble and bitter words. Lady Rowley had been right when shesaid that her daughter Emily also liked to have her own way. 

"If I am suspected, " said Mrs. Trevelyan to her sister one morning, as they sat together in the little back drawing-room, "life will notbe worth having. "

"How can you talk of being suspected, Emily?"

"What does he mean then by saying that he would rather not haveColonel Osborne here? A man older than my own father, who has knownme since I was a baby!"

"He didn't mean anything of that kind, Emily. You know he did not, and you should not say so. It would be too horrible to think of. "

"It was a great deal too horrible to be spoken, I know. If he doesnot beg my pardon, I shall, --I shall continue to live with him, ofcourse, as a sort of upper servant, because of baby. But he shallknow what I think and feel. "

"If I were you I would forget it. "

"How can I forget it? Nothing that I can do pleases him. He is civiland kind to you because he is not your master; but you don't knowwhat things he says to me. Am I to tell Colonel Osborne not to come?Heavens and earth! How should I ever hold up my head again if I weredriven to do that? He will be here to-day I have no doubt; and Louiswill sit there below in the library, and hear his step, and will notcome up. "

"Tell Richard to say you are not at home. "

"Yes; and everybody will understand why. And for what am I to denymyself in that way to the best and oldest friend I have? If any suchorders are to be given, let him give them and then see what will comeof it. "

Mrs. Trevelyan had described Colonel Osborne truly as far as wordswent, in saying that he had known her since she was a baby, and thathe was an older man than her father. Colonel Osborne's age exceededher father's by about a month, and as he was now past fifty, he mightbe considered perhaps, in that respect, to be a safe friend for ayoung married woman. But he was in every respect a man very differentfrom Sir Marmaduke. Sir Marmaduke, blessed and at the same timeburdened as he was with a wife and eight daughters, and condemned ashe had been to pass a large portion of his life within the tropics, had become at fifty what many people call quite a middle-aged man. That is to say, he was one from whom the effervescence and elasticityand salt of youth had altogether passed away. He was fat and slow, thinking much of his wife and eight daughters, thinking much also ofhis dinner. Now Colonel Osborne was a bachelor, with no burdens butthose imposed upon him by his position as a member of Parliament, --aman of fortune to whom the world had been very easy. It was nottherefore said so decidedly of him as of Sir Marmaduke, that hewas a middle-aged man, although he had probably already lived morethan two-thirds of his life. And he was a good-looking man of hisage, bald indeed at the top of his head, and with a considerablesprinkling of grey hair through his bushy beard; but upright in hiscarriage, active, and quick in his step, who dressed well, and wasclearly determined to make the most he could of what remained to himof the advantages of youth. Colonel Osborne was always so dressedthat no one ever observed the nature of his garments, being no doubtwell aware that no man after twenty-five can afford to call specialattention to his coat, his hat, his cravat, or his trousers; butnevertheless the matter was one to which he paid much attention, andhe was by no means lax in ascertaining what his tailor did for him. He always rode a pretty horse, and mounted his groom on one at anyrate as pretty. He was known to have an excellent stud down in theshires, and had the reputation of going well with hounds. Poor SirMarmaduke could not have ridden a hunt to save either his governmentor his credit. When, therefore, Mrs. Trevelyan declared to her sisterthat Colonel Osborne was a man whom she was entitled to regard withsemi-parental feelings of veneration because he was older than herfather, she made a comparison which was more true in the letter thanin the spirit. And when she asserted that Colonel Osborne had knownher since she was a baby, she fell again into the same mistake. Colonel Osborne had indeed known her when she was a baby, and had inold days been the very intimate friend of her father; but of herselfhe had seen little or nothing since those baby days, till he had mether just as she was about to become Mrs. Trevelyan; and though it wasnatural that so old a friend should come to her and congratulate herand renew his friendship, nevertheless it was not true that he madehis appearance in her husband's house in the guise of the useful oldfamily friend, who gives silver cups to the children and kisses thelittle girls for the sake of the old affection which he has borne forthe parents. We all know the appearance of that old gentleman, howpleasant and dear a fellow he is, how welcome is his face within thegate, how free he makes with our wine, generally abusing it, how hetells our eldest daughter to light his candle for him, how he gavesilver cups when the girls were born, and now bestows tea-services asthey get married, --a most useful, safe, and charming fellow, not ayear younger-looking or more nimble than ourselves, without whom lifewould be very blank. We all know that man; but such a man was notColonel Osborne in the house of Mr. Trevelyan's young bride. 

Emily Rowley, when she was brought home from the Mandarin Islandsto be the wife of Louis Trevelyan, was a very handsome young woman, tall, with a bust rather full for her age, with dark eyes--eyes thatlooked to be dark because her eye-brows and eye-lashes were nearlyblack, but which were in truth so varying in colour, that you couldnot tell their hue. Her brown hair was very dark and very soft; andthe tint of her complexion was brown also, though the colour of hercheeks was often so bright as to induce her enemies to say falsely ofher that she painted them. And she was very strong, as are some girlswho come from the tropics, and whom a tropical climate has suited. She could sit on her horse the whole day long, and would never beweary with dancing at the Government House balls. When ColonelOsborne was introduced to her as the baby whom he had known, hethought it would be very pleasant to be intimate with so pleasant afriend, --meaning no harm indeed, as but few men do mean harm on suchoccasions, --but still, not regarding the beautiful young woman whomhe had seen as one of a generation succeeding to that of his own, towhom it would be his duty to make himself useful on account of theold friendship which he bore to her father. 

It was, moreover, well known in London, --though not known at allto Mrs. Trevelyan, --that this ancient Lothario had before thismade himself troublesome in more than one family. He was fond ofintimacies with married ladies, and perhaps was not averse to theexcitement of marital hostility. It must be remembered, however, thatthe hostility to which allusion is here made was not the hostilityof the pistol or the horsewhip, --nor, indeed, was it generally thehostility of a word of spoken anger. A young husband may dislikethe too-friendly bearing of a friend, and may yet abstain from thatoutrage on his own dignity and on his wife, which is conveyed by aword of suspicion. Louis Trevelyan having taken a strong dislike toColonel Osborne, and having failed to make his wife understand thatthis dislike should have induced her to throw cold water upon theColonel's friendship, had allowed himself to speak a word whichprobably he would have willingly recalled as soon as spoken. Butwords spoken cannot be recalled, and many a man and many a woman whohas spoken a word at once regretted, are far too proud to expressthat regret. So it was with Louis Trevelyan when he told his wifethat he did not wish Colonel Osborne to come so often to his house. He had said it with a flashing eye and an angry tone; and though shehad seen the eye flash before, and was familiar with the angry tone, she had never before felt herself to be insulted by her husband. Assoon as the word had been spoken Trevelyan had left the room, and hadgone down among his books. But when he was alone, he knew that hehad insulted his wife. He was quite aware that he should have spokento her gently, and have explained to her, with his arm round herwaist, that it would be better for both of them that this friend'sfriendship should be limited. There is so much in a turn of the eyeand in the tone given to a word when such things have to be said, --somuch more of importance than in the words themselves. As Trevelyanthought of this, and remembered what his manner had been, how muchanger he had expressed, how far he had been from having his arm roundhis wife's waist as he spoke to her, he almost made up his mind togo up-stairs and to apologise. But he was one to whose nature thegiving of any apology was repulsive. He could not bear to have to ownhimself to have been wrong. And then his wife had been most provokingin her manner to him. When he had endeavoured to make her understandhis wishes by certain disparaging hints which he had thrown out as toColonel Osborne, saying that he was a dangerous man, one who did notshow his true character, a snake in the grass, a man without settledprinciples, and such like, his wife had taken up the cudgels for herfriend, and had openly declared that she did not believe a word ofthe things that were alleged against him. "But still, for all that, it is true, " the husband had said. "I have no doubt that you thinkso, " the wife had replied. "Men do believe evil of one another, veryoften. But you must excuse me if I say that I think you are mistaken. I have known Colonel Osborne much longer than you have done, Louis, and papa has always had the highest opinion of him. " Then Mr. Trevelyan had become very angry, and had spoken those words whichhe could not recall. As he walked to and fro among his booksdown-stairs, he almost felt that he ought to beg his wife's pardon. He knew his wife well enough to be sure that she would not forgivehim unless he did so. He would do so, he thought, but not exactlynow. A moment would come in which it might be easier than at present. He would be able to assure her when he went up to dress for dinner, that he had meant no harm. They were going out to dine at the houseof a lady of rank, the Countess Dowager of Milborough, a ladystanding high in the world's esteem, of whom his wife stood a littlein awe; and he calculated that this feeling, if it did not make histask easy would yet take from it some of its difficulty. Emily wouldbe, not exactly cowed, by the prospect of Lady Milborough's dinner, but perhaps a little reduced from her usual self-assertion. He wouldsay a word to her when he was dressing, assuring her that he had notintended to animadvert in the slightest degree upon her own conduct. 

 [Illustration: Shewing how wrath began. ]

Luncheon was served, and the two ladies went down into thedining-room. Mr. Trevelyan did not appear. There was nothing initself singular in that, as he was accustomed to declare thatluncheon was a meal too much in the day, and that a man should eatnothing beyond a biscuit between breakfast and dinner. But he wouldsometimes come in and eat his biscuit standing on the hearth-rug, and drink what he would call half a quarter of a glass of sherry. Itwould probably have been well that he should have done so now; buthe remained in his library behind the dining-room, and when his wifeand his sister-in-law had gone up-stairs, he became anxious to learnwhether Colonel Osborne would come on that day, and, if so, whetherhe would be admitted. He had been told that Nora Rowley was to becalled for by another lady, a Mrs. Fairfax, to go out and look atpictures. His wife had declined to join Mrs. Fairfax's party, havingdeclared that, as she was going to dine out, she would not leaveher baby all the afternoon. Louis Trevelyan, though he strove toapply his mind to an article which he was writing for a scientificquarterly review, could not keep himself from anxiety as to thisexpected visit from Colonel Osborne. He was not in the least jealous. He swore to himself fifty times over that any such feeling on hispart would be a monstrous injury to his wife. Nevertheless he knewthat he would be gratified if on that special day Colonel Osborneshould be informed that his wife was not at home. Whether the manwere admitted or not, he would beg his wife's pardon; but he could, he thought, do so with more thorough efficacy and affection if sheshould have shown a disposition to comply with his wishes on thisday. 

"Do say a word to Richard, " said Nora to her sister in a whisper asthey were going up-stairs after luncheon. 

"I will not, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"May I do it?"

"Certainly not, Nora. I should feel that I were demeaning myself wereI to allow what was said to me in such a manner to have any effectupon me. "

"I think you are so wrong, Emily. I do indeed. "

"You must allow me to be the best judge what to do in my own house, and with my own husband. "

"Oh, yes; certainly. "

"If he gives me any command I will obey it. Or if he had expressedhis wish in any other words I would have complied. But to be toldthat he would rather not have Colonel Osborne here! If you had seenhis manner and heard his words, you would not have been surprisedthat I should feel it as I do. It was a gross insult, --and it was notthe first. "

As she spoke the fire flashed from her eye, and the bright red colourof her cheek told a tale of her anger which her sister well knew howto read. Then there was a knock at the door, and they both knew thatColonel Osborne was there. Louis Trevelyan, sitting in his library, also knew of whose coming that knock gave notice. 

CHAPTER II. 

COLONEL OSBORNE. 

It has been already said that Colonel Osborne was a bachelor, a manof fortune, a member of Parliament, and one who carried his halfcentury of years lightly on his shoulders. It will only be necessaryto say further of him that he was a man popular with those amongwhom he lived, as a politician, as a sportsman, and as a memberof society. He could speak well in the House, though he spoke butseldom, and it was generally thought of him that he might have beensomething considerable, had it not suited him better to be nothing atall. He was supposed to be a Conservative, and generally voted withthe Conservative party; but he could boast that he was altogetherindependent, and on an occasion would take the trouble of provinghimself to be so. He was in possession of excellent health; had allthat the world could give; was fond of books, pictures, architecture, and china; had various tastes, and the means of indulging them, andwas one of those few men on whom it seems that every pleasant thinghas been lavished. There was that little slur on his good name towhich allusion has been made; but those who knew Colonel Osborne bestwere generally willing to declare that no harm was intended, andthat the evils which arose were always to be attributed to mistakenjealousy. He had, his friends said, a free and pleasant way withwomen which women like, --a pleasant way of free friendship; thatthere was no more, and that the harm which had come had alwayscome from false suspicion. But there were certain ladies about thetown, --good, motherly, discreet women, --who hated the name of ColonelOsborne, who would not admit him within their doors, who would notbow to him in other people's houses, who would always speak of him asa serpent, a hyena, a kite, or a shark. Old Lady Milborough was oneof these, a daughter of a friend of hers having once admitted theserpent to her intimacy. 

"Augustus Poole was wise enough to take his wife abroad, " said oldLady Milborough, discussing about this time with a gossip of hersthe danger of Mrs. Trevelyan's position, "or there would have been abreak-up there; and yet there never was a better girl in the worldthan Jane Marriott. "

The reader may be quite certain that Colonel Osborne had nopremeditated evil intention when he allowed himself to become theintimate friend of his old friend's daughter. There was nothingfiendish in his nature. He was not a man who boasted of hisconquests. He was not a ravening wolf going about seeking whom hemight devour, and determined to devour whatever might come in hisway; but he liked that which was pleasant; and of all pleasant thingsthe company of a pretty clever woman was to him the pleasantest. Atthis exact period of his life no woman was so pleasantly pretty tohim, and so agreeably clever, as Mrs. Trevelyan. 

When Louis Trevelyan heard on the stairs the step of the dangerousman, he got up from his chair as though he too would have gone intothe drawing-room, and it would perhaps have been well had he done so. Could he have done this, and kept his temper with the man, he wouldhave paved the way for an easy reconciliation with his wife. But whenhe reached the door of his room, and had placed his hand upon thelock, he withdrew again. He told himself he withdrew because he wouldnot allow himself to be jealous; but in truth he did so because heknew he could not have brought himself to be civil to the man hehated. So he sat down, and took up his pen, and began to cudgelhis brain about the scientific article. He was intent on raising adispute with some learned pundit about the waves of sound, --but hecould think of no other sound than that of the light steps of ColonelOsborne as he had gone up-stairs. He put down his pen, and clenchedhis fist, and allowed a black frown to settle upon his brow. Whatright had the man to come there, unasked by him, and disturb hishappiness? And then this poor wife of his, who knew so little ofEnglish life, who had lived in the Mandarin Islands almost since shehad been a child, who had lived in one colony or another almost sinceshe had been born, who had had so few of those advantages for whichhe should have looked in marrying a wife, how was the poor girl toconduct herself properly when subjected to the arts and practisedvillanies of this viper? And yet the poor girl was so stiff in hertemper, had picked up such a trick of obstinacy in those tropicalregions, that Louis Trevelyan felt that he did not know how to manageher. He too had heard how Jane Marriott had been carried off toNaples after she had become Mrs. Poole. Must he too carry off hiswife to Naples in order to place her out of the reach of this hyena?It was terrible to him to think that he must pack up everything andrun away from such a one as Colonel Osborne. And even were he toconsent to do this, how could he explain it all to that very wife forwhose sake he would do it? If she got a hint of the reason she would, he did not doubt, refuse to go. As he thought of it, and as thatvisit up-stairs prolonged itself, he almost thought it would be bestfor him to be round with her! We all know what a husband means whenhe resolves to be round with his wife. He began to think that hewould not apologise at all for the words he had spoken, --but wouldspeak them again somewhat more sharply than before. She would bevery wrathful with him; there would be a silent enduring indignation, which, as he understood well, would be infinitely worse than anytorrent of words. But was he, a man, to abstain from doing that whichhe believed to be his duty because he was afraid of his wife's anger?Should he be deterred from saying that which he conceived it wouldbe right that he should say, because she was stiff-necked? No. Hewould not apologise, but would tell her again that it was necessary, both for his happiness and for hers, that all intimacy with ColonelOsborne should be discontinued. 

He was brought to this strongly marital resolution by the length ofthe man's present visit; by that and by the fact that, during thelatter portion of it, his wife was alone with Colonel Osborne. Norahad been there when the man came, but Mrs. Fairfax had called, notgetting out of her carriage, and Nora had been constrained to go downto her. She had hesitated a moment, and Colonel Osborne had observedand partly understood the hesitation. When he saw it, had he beenperfectly well-minded in the matter, he would have gone too. But heprobably told himself that Nora Rowley was a fool, and that in suchmatters it was quite enough for a man to know that he did not intendany harm. 

"You had better go down, Nora, " said Mrs. Trevelyan; "Mrs. Fairfaxwill be ever so angry if you keep her waiting. "

Then Nora had gone and the two were alone together. Nora had gone, and Trevelyan had heard her as she was going and knew that ColonelOsborne was alone with his wife. 

"If you can manage that it will be so nice, " said Mrs. Trevelyan, continuing the conversation. 

"My dear Emily, " he said, "you must not talk of my managing it, oryou will spoil it all. "

He had called them both Emily and Nora when Sir Marmaduke and LadyRowley were with them before the marriage, and, taking the liberty ofa very old family friend, had continued the practice. Mrs. Trevelyanwas quite aware that she had been so called by him in the presence ofher husband, --and that her husband had not objected. But that was nowsome months ago, before baby was born; and she was aware also thathe had not called her so latterly in presence of her husband. Shethoroughly wished that she knew how to ask him not to do so again;but the matter was very difficult, as she could not make such arequest without betraying some fear on her husband's part. Thesubject which they were now discussing was too important to herto allow her to dwell upon this trouble at the moment, and so shepermitted him to go on with his speech. 

"If I were to manage it, as you call it, --which I can't do atall, --it would be a gross job. "

"That's all nonsense to us, Colonel Osborne. Ladies always likepolitical jobs, and think that they, --and they only, --make politicsbearable. But this would not be a job at all. Papa could do it betterthan anybody else. Think how long he has been at it!"

The matter in discussion was the chance of an order being sent out toSir Marmaduke to come home from his islands at the public expense, to give evidence, respecting colonial government in general, to acommittee of the House of Commons which was about to sit on thesubject. The committee had been voted, and two governors were to bebrought home for the purpose of giving evidence. What arrangementcould be so pleasant to a governor living in the Mandarin Islands, who had had a holiday lately, and who could but ill afford totake any holidays at his own expense? Colonel Osborne was on thiscommittee, and, moreover, was on good terms at the Colonial Office. There were men in office who would be glad to do Colonel Osborne aservice, and then if this were a job, it would be so very little ofa job! Perhaps Sir Marmaduke might not be the very best man for thepurpose. Perhaps the government of the Mandarins did not afford thebest specimen of that colonial lore which it was the business of thecommittee to master. But then two governors were to come, and itmight be as well to have one of the best sort, and one of the secondbest. No one supposed that excellent old Sir Marmaduke was a paragonof a governor, but then he had an infinity of experience! For overtwenty years he had been from island to island, and had at leaststeered clear of great scrapes. 

"We'll try it, at any rate, " said the Colonel. 

"Do, Colonel Osborne. Mamma would come with him, of course?"

"We should leave him to manage all that. It's not very likely that hewould leave Lady Rowley behind. "

"He never has. I know he thinks more of mamma than he ever does ofhimself. Fancy having them here in the autumn! I suppose if he camefor the end of the session, they wouldn't send him back quite atonce?"

"I rather fancy that our foreign and colonial servants know how tostretch a point when they find themselves in England. "

"Of course they do, Colonel Osborne; and why shouldn't they? Think ofall that they have to endure out in those horrible places. How wouldyou like to live in the Mandarins?"

"I should prefer London, certainly. "

"Of course you would; and you mustn't begrudge papa a month or twowhen he comes. I never cared about your being in Parliament before, but I shall think so much of you now if you can manage to get papahome. "

There could be nothing more innocent than this, --nothing moreinnocent at any rate as regarded any offence against Mr. Trevelyan. But just then there came a word which a little startled Mrs. Trevelyan, and made her feel afraid that she was doing wrong. 

"I must make one stipulation with you, Emily, " said the Colonel. 

"What is that?"

"You must not tell your husband. "

"Oh, dear! and why not?"

"I am sure you are sharp enough to see why you should not. A word ofthis repeated at any club would put an end at once to your project, and would be very damaging to me. And, beyond that, I wouldn't wishhim to know that I had meddled with it at all. I am very chary ofhaving my name connected with anything of the kind; and, upon myword, I wouldn't do it for any living human being but yourself. You'll promise me, Emily?"

She gave the promise, but there were two things in the matter, as itstood at present, which she did not at all like. She was very averseto having any secret from her husband with Colonel Osborne; and shewas not at all pleased at being told that he was doing for her afavour that he would not have done for any other living human being. Had he said so to her yesterday, before those offensive words hadbeen spoken by her husband, she would not have thought much about it. She would have connected the man's friendship for herself with hisvery old friendship for her father, and she would have regarded theassurance as made to the Rowleys in general, and not to herself inparticular. But now, after what had occurred, it pained her to betold by Colonel Osborne that he would make, specially on her behalf, a sacrifice of his political pride which he would make for no otherperson living. And then, as he had called her by her Christian name, as he had exacted the promise, there had been a tone of affection inhis voice that she had almost felt to be too warm. But she gave thepromise; and when he pressed her hand at parting, she pressed hisagain, in token of gratitude for the kindness to be done to herfather and mother. 

Immediately afterwards Colonel Osborne went away, and Mrs. Trevelyanwas left alone in her drawing-room. She knew that her husband wasstill down-stairs, and listened for a moment to hear whether he wouldnow come up to her. And he, too, had heard the Colonel's step as hewent, and for a few moments had doubted whether or no he would atonce go to his wife. Though he believed himself to be a man very firmof purpose, his mind had oscillated backwards and forwards within thelast quarter of an hour between those two purposes of being roundwith his wife, and of begging her pardon for the words which hehad already spoken. He believed that he would best do his duty bythat plan of being round with her; but then it would be so muchpleasanter--at any rate, so much easier, to beg her pardon. But ofone thing he was quite certain, he must by some means exclude ColonelOsborne from his house. He could not live and continue to endure thefeelings which he had suffered while sitting down-stairs at his desk, with the knowledge that Colonel Osborne was closeted with his wifeup-stairs. It might be that there was nothing in it. That his wifewas innocent he was quite sure. But nevertheless, he was himself somuch affected by some feeling which pervaded him in reference to thisman, that all his energy was destroyed, and his powers of mind andbody were paralysed. He could not, and would not, stand it. Ratherthan that he would follow Mr. Poole, and take his wife to Naples. Soresolving, he put his hat on his head and walked out of the house. Hewould have the advantage of the afternoon's consideration before hetook either the one step or the other. 

As soon as he was gone Emily Trevelyan went up-stairs to her baby. She would not stir as long as there had been a chance of his comingto her. She very much wished that he would come, and had made up hermind, in spite of the fierceness of her assertion to her sister, toaccept any slightest hint at an apology which her husband might offerto her. To this state of mind she was brought by the consciousness ofhaving a secret from him, and by a sense not of impropriety on herown part, but of conduct which some people might have called improperin her mode of parting from the man against whom her husband hadwarned her. The warmth of that hand-pressing, and the affectionatetone in which her name had been pronounced, and the promise made toher, softened her heart towards her husband. Had he gone to her nowand said a word to her in gentleness all might have been made right. But he did not go to her. 

"If he chooses to be cross and sulky, he may be cross and sulky, "said Mrs. Trevelyan to herself as she went up to her baby. 

"Has Louis been with you?" Nora asked, as soon as Mrs. Fairfax hadbrought her home. 

"I have not seen him since you left me, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"I suppose he went out before Colonel Osborne?"

"No, indeed. He waited till Colonel Osborne had gone, and then hewent himself; but he did not come near me. It is for him to judge ofhis own conduct, but I must say that I think he is very foolish. "

This the young wife said in a tone which clearly indicated that shehad judged her husband's conduct, and had found it to be very foolishindeed. 

"Do you think that papa and mamma will really come?" said Nora, changing the subject of conversation. 

"How can I tell? How am I to know? After all that has passed I amafraid to say a word lest I should be accused of doing wrong. Butremember this, Nora, you are not to speak of it to any one. "

"You will tell Louis?"

"No; I will tell no one. "

"Dear, dear Emily; pray do not keep anything secret from him. "

"What do you mean by secret? There isn't any secret. Only in suchmatters as that, --about politics, --no gentleman likes to have hisname talked about!"

A look of great distress came upon Nora's face as she heard this. Toher it seemed to be very bad that there should be a secret betweenher sister and Colonel Osborne to be kept from her brother-in-law. 

"I suppose you will suspect me next?" said Mrs. Trevelyan, angrily. 

"Emily, how can you say anything so cruel?"

"You look as if you did. "

"I only mean that I think it would be wiser to tell all this toLouis. "

"How can I tell him Colonel Osborne's private business, when ColonelOsborne has desired me not to do so. For whose sake is ColonelOsborne doing this? For papa's and mamma's! I suppose Louis won'tbe--jealous, because I want to have papa and mamma home. It would notbe a bit less unreasonable than the other. "

CHAPTER III. 

LADY MILBOROUGH'S DINNER PARTY. 

Louis Trevelyan went down to his club in Pall Mall, the Acrobats, andthere heard a rumour that added to his anger against Colonel Osborne. The Acrobats was a very distinguished club, into which it was nowdifficult for a young man to find his way, and almost impossiblefor a man who was no longer young, and therefore known to many. Ithad been founded some twenty years since with the idea of promotingmuscular exercise and gymnastic amusements; but the promoters hadbecome fat and lethargic, and the Acrobats spent their time mostly inplaying whist, and in ordering and eating their dinners. There weresupposed to be, in some out-of-the-way part of the building, certainpoles and sticks and parallel bars with which feats of activity mightbe practised, but no one ever asked for them now-a-days, and a man, when he became an Acrobat, did so with a view either to the whist orthe cook, or possibly to the social excellences of the club. LouisTrevelyan was an Acrobat;--as was also Colonel Osborne. 

"So old Rowley is coming home, " said one distinguished Acrobat toanother in Trevelyan's hearing. 

"How the deuce is he managing that? He was here a year ago?"

"Osborne is getting it done. He is to come as a witness for thiscommittee. It must be no end of a lounge for him. It doesn't count asleave, and he has every shilling paid for him, down to his cab-fareswhen he goes out to dinner. There's nothing like having a friend atCourt. "

Such was the secrecy of Colonel Osborne's secret! He had been sochary of having his name mentioned in connection with a politicaljob, that he had found it necessary to impose on his young friendthe burden of a secret from her husband, and yet the husband heardthe whole story told openly at his club on the same day! There wasnothing in the story to anger Trevelyan had he not immediately feltthat there must be some plan in the matter between his wife andColonel Osborne, of which he had been kept ignorant. Hitherto, indeed, his wife, as the reader knows, could not have told him. Hehad not seen her since the matter had been discussed between her andher friend. But he was angry because he first learned at his clubthat which he thought he ought to have learned at home. 

As soon as he reached his house he went at once to his wife's room, but her maid was with her, and nothing could be said at that moment. He then dressed himself, intending to go to Emily as soon as the girlhad left her; but the girl remained, --was, as he believed, kept inthe room purposely by his wife, so that he should have no moment ofprivate conversation. He went down-stairs, therefore, and found Norastanding by the drawing-room fire. 

"So you are dressed first to-day?" he said. "I thought your turnalways came last. "

"Emily sent Jenny to me first to-day because she thought you would behome, and she didn't go up to dress till the last minute. "

This was intended well by Nora, but it did not have the desiredeffect. Trevelyan, who had no command over his own features, frowned, and showed that he was displeased. He hesitated a moment, thinkingwhether he would ask Nora any question as to this report about herfather and mother; but, before he had spoken, his wife was in theroom. 

"We are all late, I fear, " said Emily. 

"You, at any rate, are the last, " said her husband. 

"About half a minute, " said the wife. 

Then they got into the hired brougham which was standing at the door. 

Trevelyan, in the sweet days of his early confidence with his wife, had offered to keep a carriage for her, explaining to her that theluxury, though costly, would not be beyond his reach. But she hadpersuaded him against the carriage, and there had come to be anagreement that instead of the carriage there should always be anautumn tour. "One learns something from going about; but one learnsnothing from keeping a carriage, " Emily had said. Those had beenhappy days, in which it had been intended that everything shouldalways be rose-coloured. Now he was meditating whether, in lieu ofthat autumn tour, it would not be necessary to take his wife away toNaples altogether, so that she might be removed from the influenceof--of--of--; no, not even to himself would he think of ColonelOsborne as his wife's lover. The idea was too horrible! And yet, howdreadful was it that he should have, for any reason, to withdraw herfrom the influence of any man!

Lady Milborough lived ever so far away, in Eccleston Square, butTrevelyan did not say a single word to either of his companionsduring the journey. He was cross and vexed, and was conscious thatthey knew that he was cross and vexed. Mrs. Trevelyan and her sistertalked to each other the whole way, but they did so in that tonewhich clearly indicates that the conversation is made up, not for anyinterest attached to the questions asked or the answers given, butbecause it is expedient that there should not be silence. Nora saidsomething about Marshall and Snellgrove, and tried to make believethat she was very anxious for her sister's answer. And Emily saidsomething about the opera at Covent Garden, which was intendedto show that her mind was quite at ease. But both of them failedaltogether, and knew that they failed. Once or twice Trevelyanthought that he would say a word in token, as it were, of repentance. Like the naughty child who knew that he was naughty, he was trying tobe good. But he could not do it. The fiend was too strong within him. She must have known that there was a proposition for her father'sreturn through Colonel Osborne's influence. As that man at the clubhad heard it, how could she not have known it? When they got out atLady Milborough's door he had spoken to neither of them. 

There was a large dull party, made up mostly of old people. LadyMilborough and Trevelyan's mother had been bosom friends, andLady Milborough had on this account taken upon herself to be muchinterested in Trevelyan's wife. But Louis Trevelyan himself, indiscussing Lady Milborough with Emily, had rather turned his mother'sold friend into ridicule, and Emily had, of course, followed herhusband's mode of thinking. Lady Milborough had once or twice givenher some advice on small matters, telling her that this or that airwould be good for her baby, and explaining that a mother during acertain interesting portion of her life, should refresh herselfwith a certain kind of malt liquor. Of all counsel on such domesticsubjects Mrs. Trevelyan was impatient, --as indeed it was her natureto be in all matters, and consequently, authorized as she had beenby her husband's manner of speaking of his mother's friend, shehad taken a habit of quizzing Lady Milborough behind her back, and almost of continuing the practice before the old lady's face. Lady Milborough, who was the most affectionate old soul alive, and good-tempered with her friends to a fault, had never resentedthis, but had come to fear that Mrs. Trevelyan was perhaps a littleflighty. She had never as yet allowed herself to say anything worseof her young friend's wife than that. And she would always add thatthat kind of thing would cure itself as the nursery became full. Itmust be understood therefore that Mrs. Trevelyan was not anticipatingmuch pleasure from Lady Milborough's party, and that she had acceptedthe invitation as a matter of duty. 

There was present among the guests a certain Honourable CharlesGlascock, the eldest son of Lord Peterborough, who made theaffair more interesting to Nora than it was to her sister. It hadbeen whispered into Nora's ears, by more than one person, --andamong others by Lady Milborough, whose own daughters were allmarried, --that she might, if she thought fit, become the HonourableMrs. Charles Glascock. Now, whether she might think fit, orwhether she might not, the presence of the gentleman under suchcircumstances, as far as she was concerned, gave an interest to theevening. And as Lady Milborough took care that Mr. Glascock shouldtake Nora down to dinner, the interest was very great. Mr. Glascockwas a good-looking man, just under forty, in Parliament, heir toa peerage, and known to be well off in respect to income. LadyMilborough and Mrs. Trevelyan had told Nora Rowley that shouldencouragement in that direction come in her way, she ought to allowherself to fall in love with Mr. Glascock. A certain amount ofencouragement had come in her way, but she had not as yet allowedherself to fall in love with Mr. Glascock. It seemed to her that Mr. Glascock was quite conscious of the advantages of his own position, and that his powers of talking about other matters than those withwhich he was immediately connected were limited. She did believe thathe had in truth paid her the compliment of falling in love with her, and this is a compliment to which few girls are indifferent. Noramight perhaps have tried to fall in love with Mr. Glascock, had shenot been forced to make comparisons between him and another. Thisother one had not fallen in love with her, as she well knew; and shecertainly had not fallen in love with him. But still, the comparisonwas forced upon her, and it did not result in favour of Mr. Glascock. On the present occasion Mr. Glascock as he sat next to her almostproposed to her. 

"You have never seen Monkhams?" he said. Monkhams was his father'sseat, a very grand place in Worcestershire. Of course he knew verywell that she had never seen Monkhams. How should she have seen it?

"I have never been in that part of England at all, " she replied. 

"I should so like to show you Monkhams. The oaks there are the finestin the kingdom. Do you like oaks?"

"Who does not like oaks? But we have none in the islands, and nobodyhas ever seen so few as I have. "

"I'll show you Monkhams some day. Shall I? Indeed, I hope that someday I may really show you Monkhams. "

Now when an unmarried man talks to a young lady of really showing herthe house in which it will be his destiny to live, he can hardly meanother than to invite her to live there with him. It must at least behis purpose to signify that, if duly encouraged, he will so inviteher. But Nora Rowley did not give Mr. Glascock much encouragement onthis occasion. 

"I'm afraid it is not likely that anything will ever take me intothat part of the country, " she said. There was something perhaps inher tone which checked Mr. Glascock, so that he did not then pressthe invitation. 

When the ladies were up-stairs in the drawing-room, Lady Milboroughcontrived to seat herself on a couch intended for two persons only, close to Mrs. Trevelyan. Emily, thinking that she might perhaps hearsome advice about Guinness's stout, prepared herself to be saucy. Butthe matter in hand was graver than that. Lady Milborough's mind wasuneasy about Colonel Osborne. 

"My dear, " said she, "was not your father very intimate with thatColonel Osborne?"

"He is very intimate with him, Lady Milborough. "

"Ah, yes; I thought I had heard so. That makes it of course naturalthat you should know him. "

"We have known him all our lives, " said Emily, forgetting probablythat out of the twenty-three years and some months which she hadhitherto lived, there had been a consecutive period of more thantwenty years in which she had never seen this man whom she had knownall her life. 

"That makes a difference, of course; and I don't mean to say anythingagainst him. "

"I hope not, Lady Milborough, because we are all especially fond ofhim. " This was said with so much of purpose, that poor, dear old LadyMilborough was stopped in her good work. She knew well the terriblestrait to which Augustus Poole had been brought with his wife, although nobody supposed that Poole's wife had ever entertained awrong thought in her pretty little heart. Nevertheless he had beencompelled to break up his establishment, and take his wife to Naples, because this horrid Colonel would make himself at home in Mrs. Poole's drawing-room in Knightsbridge. Augustus Poole, with courageenough to take any man by the beard, had taking by the beard beenpossible, had found it impossible to dislodge the Colonel. He couldnot do so without making a row which would have been disgraceful tohimself and injurious to his wife; and therefore he had taken Mrs. Poole to Naples. Lady Milborough knew the whole story, and thoughtthat she foresaw that the same thing was about to happen in thedrawing-room in Curzon Street. When she attempted to say a word tothe wife, she found herself stopped. She could not go on in thatquarter after the reception with which the beginning of her word hadbeen met. But perhaps she might succeed better with the husband. After all, her friendship was with the Trevelyan side, and not withthe Rowleys. 

"My dear Louis, " she said, "I want to speak a word to you. Comehere. " And then she led him into a distant corner, Mrs. Trevelyanwatching her all the while, and guessing why her husband was thuscarried away. "I just want to give you a little hint, which I am sureI believe is quite unnecessary, " continued Lady Milborough. Then shepaused, but Trevelyan would not speak. She looked into his face, andsaw that it was black. But the man was the only child of her dearestfriend, and she persevered. "Do you know I don't quite like thatColonel Osborne coming so much to your house. " The face before herbecame still blacker, but still the man said nothing. "I dare say itis a prejudice on my part, but I have always disliked him. I think heis a dangerous friend;--what I call a snake in the grass. And thoughEmily's high good sense, and love for you, and general feelings onsuch a subject, are just what a husband must desire--Indeed, I amquite sure that the possibility of anything wrong has never enteredinto her head. But it is the very purity of her innocence which makesthe danger. He is a bad man, and I would just say a word to her, if Iwere you, to make her understand that his coming to her of a morningis not desirable. Upon my word, I believe there is nothing he likesso much as going about and making mischief between men and theirwives. "

Thus she delivered herself; and Louis Trevelyan, though he was soreand angry, could not but feel that she had taken the part of afriend. All that she had said had been true; all that she had saidto him he had said to himself more than once. He too hated the man. He believed him to be a snake in the grass. But it was intolerablybitter to him that he should be warned about his wife's conduct byany living human being; that he, to whom the world had been so fullof good fortune, --that he, who had in truth taught himself to thinkthat he deserved so much good fortune, should be made the subject ofcare on behalf of his friend, because of danger between himself andhis wife! On the spur of the moment he did not know what answer tomake. "He is not a man whom I like myself, " he said. 

"Just be careful, Louis, that is all, " said Lady Milborough, and thenshe was gone. 

To be cautioned about his wife's conduct cannot be pleasant to anyman, and it was very unpleasant to Louis Trevelyan. He, too, had beenasked a question about Sir Marmaduke's expected visit to Englandafter the ladies had left the room. All the town had heard of itexcept himself. He hardly spoke another word that evening till thebrougham was announced; and his wife had observed his silence. Whenthey were seated in the carriage, he together with his wife and NoraRowley, he immediately asked a question about Sir Marmaduke. "Emily, "he said, "is there any truth in a report I hear that your father iscoming home?" No answer was made, and for a moment or two there wassilence. "You must have heard of it, then, " he said. "Perhaps you cantell me, Nora, as Emily will not reply. Have you heard anything ofyour father's coming?"

"Yes; I have heard of it, " said Nora slowly. 

"And why have I not been told?"

"It was to be kept a secret, " said Mrs. Trevelyan boldly. 

"A secret from me; and everybody else knows it! And why was it to bea secret?"

"Colonel Osborne did not wish that it should be known, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"And what has Colonel Osborne to do between you and your father inany matter with which I may not be made acquainted? I will havenothing more between you and Colonel Osborne. You shall not seeColonel Osborne. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, I hear you, Louis. "

"And do you mean to obey me? By G----, you shall obey me. Rememberthis, that I lay my positive order upon you, that you shall not seeColonel Osborne again. You do not know it, perhaps, but you arealready forfeiting your reputation as an honest woman, and bringingdisgrace upon me by your familiarity with Colonel Osborne. "

"Oh, Louis, do not say that!" said Nora. 

"You had better let him speak it all at once, " said Emily. 

"I have said what I have got to say. It is now only necessary thatyou should give me your solemn assurance that you will obey me. "

"If you have said all that you have to say, perhaps you will listento me, " said his wife. 

"I will listen to nothing till you have given me your promise. "

"Then I certainly shall not give it you. "

"Dear Emily, pray, pray do what he tells you, " said Nora. 

"She has yet to learn that it is her duty to do as I tell her, " saidTrevelyan. "And because she is obstinate, and will not learn fromthose who know better than herself what a woman may do, and what shemay not, she will ruin herself, and destroy my happiness. "

"I know that you have destroyed my happiness by your unreasonablejealousy, " said the wife. "Have you considered what I must feel inhaving such words addressed to me by my husband? If I am fit to betold that I must promise not to see any man living, I cannot be fitto be any man's wife. " Then she burst out into an hysterical fit oftears, and in this condition she got out of the carriage, entered herhouse, and hurried up to her own room. 

"Indeed, she has not been to blame, " said Nora to Trevelyan on thestaircase. 

"Why has there been a secret kept from me between her and this man;and that too, after I had cautioned her against being intimate withhim? I am sorry that she should suffer; but it is better that sheshould suffer a little now, than that we should both suffer muchby-and-by. "

Nora endeavoured to explain to him the truth about the committee, andColonel Osborne's promised influence, and the reason why there was tobe a secret. But she was too much in a hurry to get to her sister tomake the matter plain, and he was too much angered to listen to her. He shook his head when she spoke of Colonel Osborne's dislike to havehis name mentioned in connection with the matter. "All the worldknows it, " he said with scornful laughter. 

It was in vain that Nora endeavoured to explain to him that thoughall the world might know it, Emily herself had only heard of theproposition as a thing quite unsettled, as to which nothing atpresent should be spoken openly. It was in vain to endeavour to makepeace on that night. Nora hurried up to her sister, and found thatthe hysterical tears had again given place to anger. She would notsee her husband, unless he would beg her pardon; and he would not seeher unless she would give the promise he demanded. And the husbandand wife did not see each other again on that night. 

CHAPTER IV. 

HUGH STANBURY. 

 [Illustration]

It has been already stated that Nora Rowley was not quite so welldisposed as perhaps she ought to have been, to fall in love with theHonourable Charles Glascock, there having come upon her the habit ofcomparing him with another gentleman whenever this duty of falling inlove with Mr. Glascock was exacted from her. That other gentleman wasone with whom she knew that it was quite out of the question that sheshould fall in love, because he had not a shilling in the world; andthe other gentleman was equally aware that it was not open to him tofall in love with Nora Rowley--for the same reason. In regard to suchmatters Nora Rowley had been properly brought up, having been madeto understand by the best and most cautious of mothers, that in thatmatter of falling in love it was absolutely necessary that bread andcheese should be considered. "Romance is a very pretty thing, " LadyRowley had been wont to say to her daughters, "and I don't think lifewould be worth having without a little of it. I should be very sorryto think that either of my girls would marry a man only because hehad money. But you can't even be romantic without something to eatand drink. " Nora thoroughly understood all this, and being well awarethat her fortune in the world, if it ever was to be made at all, could only be made by marriage, had laid down for herself certainhard lines, --lines intended to be as fast as they were hard. Letwhat might come to her in the way of likings and dislikings, let thetemptation to her be ever so strong, she would never allow her heartto rest on a man who, if he should ask her to be his wife, would nothave the means of supporting her. There were many, she knew, whowould condemn such a resolution as cold, selfish, and heartless. Sheheard people saying so daily. She read in books that it ought to beso regarded. But she declared to herself that she would respect thejudgment neither of the people nor of the books. To be poor alone, tohave to live without a husband, to look forward to a life in whichthere would be nothing of a career, almost nothing to do, to awaitthe vacuity of an existence in which she would be useful to no one, was a destiny which she could teach herself to endure, because itmight probably be forced upon her by necessity. Were her father todie there would hardly be bread for that female flock to eat. As itwas, she was eating the bread of a man in whose house she was no morethan a visitor. The lot of a woman, as she often told herself, waswretched, unfortunate, almost degrading. For a woman such as herselfthere was no path open to her energy, other than that of getting ahusband. Nora Rowley thought of all this till she was almost sick ofthe prospect of her life, --especially sick of it when she was toldwith much authority by the Lady Milboroughs of her acquaintance thatit was her bounden duty to fall in love with Mr. Glascock. As tofalling in love with Mr. Glascock, she had not as yet quite made upher mind. There was so much to be said on that side of the question, if such falling in love could only be made possible. But she hadquite made up her mind that she would never fall in love with a poorman. In spite, however, of all that, she felt herself compelled tomake comparisons between Mr. Glascock and one Mr. Hugh Stanbury, agentleman who had not a shilling. 

Mr. Hugh Stanbury had been at college the most intimate friend ofLouis Trevelyan, and at Oxford had been, in spite of Trevelyan'ssuccesses, a bigger man than his friend. Stanbury had not taken sohigh a degree as Trevelyan, --indeed had not gone out in honours atall. He had done little for the credit of his college, and had neverput himself in the way of wrapping himself up for life in the scantylambswool of a fellowship. But he had won for himself reputation asa clever speaker, as a man who had learned much that college tutorsdo not profess to teach, as a hard-headed, ready-witted fellow, who, having the world as an oyster before him, which it was necessary thathe should open, would certainly find either a knife or a sword withwhich to open it. 

Immediately on leaving college he had come to town, and had enteredhimself at Lincoln's Inn. Now, at the time of our story, he was abarrister of four years' standing, but had never yet made a guinea. He had never made a guinea by his work as a barrister, and wasbeginning to doubt of himself whether he ever would do so. Not, as heknew well, that guineas are generally made with ease by barristersof four years' standing, but because, as he said to his friends, hedid not see his way to the knack of it. He did not know an attorneyin the world, and could not conceive how any attorney should everbe induced to apply to him for legal aid. He had done his work oflearning his trade about as well as other young men, but had had nomeans of distinguishing himself within his reach. He went the WesternCircuit because his aunt, old Miss Stanbury, lived at Exeter, but, ashe declared of himself, had he had another aunt living at York, hewould have had nothing whatsoever to guide him in his choice. He satidle in the courts, and hated himself for so sitting. So it had beenwith him for two years without any consolation or additional burdenfrom other employment than that of his profession. After that, bysome chance, he had become acquainted with the editor of the DailyRecord, and by degrees had taken to the writing of articles. He hadbeen told by all his friends, and especially by Trevelyan, that ifhe did this, he might as well sell his gown and wig. He declared, in reply, that he had no objection to sell his gown and wig. He didnot see how he should ever make more money out of them than he woulddo by such sale. But for the articles which he wrote, he receivedinstant payment, a process which he found to be most consolatory, most comfortable, and, as he said to Trevelyan, as warm to him as ablanket in winter. 

Trevelyan, who was a year younger than Stanbury, had taken uponhimself to be very angry. He professed that he did not think much ofthe trade of a journalist, and told Stanbury that he was sinking fromthe highest to almost the lowest business by which an educated manand a gentleman could earn his bread. Stanbury had simply repliedthat he saw some bread on the one side, but none on the other; andthat bread from some side was indispensable to him. Then there hadcome to be that famous war between Great Britain and the republicof Patagonia, and Hugh Stanbury had been sent out as a specialcorrespondent by the editor and proprietor of the Daily Record. His letters had been much read, and had called up a great deal ofnewspaper pugnacity. He had made important statements which had beenflatly denied, and found to be utterly false; which again had beenwarmly reasserted and proved to be most remarkably true to theletter. In this way the correspondence, and he as its author, becameso much talked about that, on his return to England, he did actuallysell his gown and wig and declare to his friends, --and to Trevelyanamong the number, --that he intended to look to journalism for hisfuture career. 

He had been often at the house in Curzon Street in the earliesthappy days of his friend's marriage, and had thus becomeacquainted, --intimately acquainted, --with Nora Rowley. And now again, since his return from Patagonia, that acquaintance had been renewed. Quite lately, since the actual sale of that wig and gown had beeneffected, he had not been there so frequently as before, becauseTrevelyan had expressed his indignation almost too openly. 

"That such a man as you should be so faint-hearted, " Trevelyan hadsaid, "is a thing that I can not understand. "

"Is a man faint-hearted when he finds it improbable that he shall beable to leap his horse over a house?"

"What you had to do had been done by hundreds before you. "

"What I had to do has never yet been done by any man, " repliedStanbury. "I had to live upon nothing till the lucky hour shouldstrike. "

"I think you have been cowardly, " said Trevelyan. 

Even this had made no quarrel between the two men; but Stanbury hadexpressed himself annoyed by his friend's language, and partly onthat account, and partly perhaps on another, had stayed away fromCurzon Street. As Nora Rowley had made comparisons about him, so hadhe made comparisons about her. He had owned to himself that had itbeen possible that he should marry, he would willingly entrust hishappiness to Miss Rowley. And he had thought once or twice thatTrevelyan had wished that such an arrangement might be made at somefuture day. Trevelyan had always been much more sanguine in expectingsuccess for his friend at the Bar, than Stanbury had been forhimself. It might well be that such a man as Trevelyan might thinkthat a clever rising barrister would be an excellent husband for hissister-in-law, but that a man earning a precarious living as a writerfor a penny paper would be by no means so desirable a connection. Stanbury, as he thought of this, declared to himself that he wouldnot care two straws for Trevelyan in the matter, if he could see hisway without other impediments. But the other impediments were therein such strength and numbers as to make him feel that it could nothave been intended by Fate that he should take to himself a wife. Although those letters of his to the Daily Record had been sopre-eminently successful, he had never yet been able to earn bywriting above twenty-five or thirty pounds a month. If that might becontinued to him he could live upon it himself; but, even with hismoderate views, it would not suffice for himself and family. 

He had told Trevelyan that while living as an expectant barrister hehad no means of subsistence. In this, as Trevelyan knew, he was notstrictly correct. There was an allowance of £100 a year coming to himfrom the aunt whose residence at Exeter had induced him to devotehimself to the Western Circuit. His father had been a clergyman witha small living in Devonshire, and had now been dead some fifteenyears. His mother and two sisters were still living in a smallcottage in his late father's parish, on the interest of the moneyarising from a life insurance. Some pittance from sixty to seventypounds a year was all they had among them. But there was a rich aunt, Miss Stanbury, to whom had come considerable wealth in a manner mostromantic, --the little tale shall be told before this larger taleis completed, --and this aunt had undertaken to educate and placeout in the world her nephew Hugh. So Hugh had been sent to Harrow, and then to Oxford, --where he had much displeased his aunt by notaccomplishing great things, --and then had been set down to make hisfortune as a barrister in London, with an allowance of £100 a year, his aunt having paid, moreover, certain fees for entrance, tuition, and the like. The very hour in which Miss Stanbury learned that hernephew was writing for a penny newspaper she sent off a dispatch totell him that he must give up her or the penny paper. He replied bysaying that he felt himself called upon to earn his bread in the onlyline from which, as it seemed to him, bread would be forthcoming. Byreturn of post he got another letter to say that he might draw forthe quarter then becoming due, but that that would be the last. Andit was the last. 

Stanbury made an ineffectual effort to induce his aunt to make overthe allowance, --or at least a part of it, --to his mother and sisters, but the old lady paid no attention whatever to the request. She neverhad given, and at that moment did not intend to give, a shillingto the widow and daughters of her brother. Nor did she intend, orhad she ever intended, to leave a shilling of her money to HughStanbury, --as she had very often told him. The money was, at herdeath, to go back to the people from whom it had come to her. 

When Nora Rowley made those comparisons between Mr. Hugh Stanbury andMr. Charles Glascock, they were always wound up very much in favourof the briefless barrister. It was not that he was the handsomer man, for he was by no means handsome, nor was he the bigger man, for Mr. Glascock was six feet tall; nor was he better dressed, for Stanburywas untidy rather than otherwise in his outward person. Nor hadhe any air of fashion or special grace to recommend him, for hewas undoubtedly an awkward-mannered man. But there was a glance ofsunshine in his eye, and a sweetness in the curl of his mouth when hesmiled, which made Nora feel that it would have been all up with herhad she not made so very strong a law for her own guidance. Stanburywas a man about five feet ten, with shoulders more than broad inproportion, stout limbed, rather awkward of his gait, with large feetand hands, with soft wavy light hair, with light grey eyes, with abroad, but by no means ugly, nose. His mouth and lips were large, andhe rarely showed his teeth. He wore no other beard than whiskers, which he was apt to cut away through heaviness of his hand inshaving, till Nora longed to bid him be more careful. "He doesn'tcare what sort of a guy he makes of himself, " she once said to hersister, almost angrily. "He is a plain man, and he knows it, " Emilyhad replied. Mr. Trevelyan was doubtless a handsome man, and it wasalmost on Nora's tongue to say something ill-natured on the subject. Hugh Stanbury was reputed to be somewhat hot in spirit and manner. Hewould be very sage in argument, pounding down his ideas on politics, religion, or social life with his fist as well as his voice. He wasquick, perhaps, at making antipathies, and quick, too, in makingfriendships; impressionable, demonstrative, eager, rapid in hismovements, --sometimes to the great detriment of his shins andknuckles; and he possessed the sweetest temper that was ever givento a man for the blessing of a woman. This was the man between whomand Mr. Glascock Nora Rowley found it to be impossible not to makecomparisons. 

On the very day after Lady Milborough's dinner party Stanburyovertook Trevelyan in the street, and asked his friend where he wasgoing eastward. Trevelyan was on his way to call upon his lawyer, andsaid so. But he did not say why he was going to his lawyer. He hadsent to his wife by Nora that morning to know whether she would maketo him the promise he required. The only answer which Nora could drawfrom her sister was a counter question, demanding whether he wouldask her pardon for the injury he had done her. Nora had been mosteager, most anxious, most conciliatory as a messenger; but no goodhad come of these messages, and Trevelyan had gone forth to tell allhis trouble to his family lawyer. Old Mr. Bideawhile had been hisfather's ancient and esteemed friend, and he could tell things toMr. Bideawhile which he could not bring himself to tell to anyother living man; and he could generally condescend to accept Mr. Bideawhile's advice, knowing that his father before him had beenguided by the same. 

"But you are out of your way for Lincoln's Inn Fields, " saidStanbury. 

"I have to call at Twining's. And where are you going?"

"I have been three times round St. James's Park to collect mythoughts, " said Stanbury, "and now I am on my way to the Daily R. , 250, Fleet Street. It is my custom of an afternoon. I am preparedto instruct the British public of to-morrow on any subject, as perorder, from the downfall of a European compact to the price of aLondon mutton chop. "

"I suppose there is nothing more to be said about it, " saidTrevelyan, after a pause. 

"Not another word. How should there be? Aunt Jemima has already drawntight the purse strings, and it would soon be the casual ward inearnest if it were not for the Daily R. God bless the Daily R. Onlythink what a thing it is to have all subjects open to one, from thedestinies of France to the profit proper to a butcher. "

"If you like it!"

"I do like it. It may not be altogether honest. I don't know whatis. But it's a deal honester than defending thieves and bamboozlingjuries. How is your wife?"

"She's pretty well, thank you. "

Stanbury knew at once from the tone of his friend's voice that therewas something wrong. 

"And Louis the less?" he said, asking after Trevelyan's child. 

"He's all right. "

"And Miss Rowley? When one begins one's inquiries one is bound to gothrough the whole family. "

"Miss Rowley is pretty well, " said Trevelyan. 

Previously to this, Trevelyan when speaking of his sister-in-law toStanbury, had always called her Nora, and had been wont to speakof her as though she were almost as much the friend of one of themas of the other. The change of tone on this occasion was in truthoccasioned by the sadness of the man's thoughts in reference to hiswife, but Stanbury attributed it to another cause. "He need not beafraid of me, " he said to himself, "and at least he should not showme that he is. " Then they parted, Trevelyan going into Twining'sbank, and Stanbury passing on towards the office of the Daily R. 

Stanbury had in truth been altogether mistaken as to the state of hisfriend's mind on that morning. Trevelyan, although he had, accordingto his custom, put in a word in condemnation of the newspaper line oflife, was at the moment thinking whether he would not tell all histrouble to Hugh Stanbury. He knew that he should not find anywhere, not even in Mr. Bideawhile, a more friendly or more trustworthylistener. When Nora Rowley's name had been mentioned, he had notthought of her. He had simply repeated the name with the usualanswer. He was at the moment cautioning himself against a confidencewhich after all might not be necessary, and which on this occasionwas not made. When one is in trouble it is a great ease to tell one'strouble to a friend; but then one should always wash one's dirtylinen at home. The latter consideration prevailed, and Trevelyanallowed his friend to go on without burdening him with the story ofthat domestic quarrel. Nor did he on that occasion tell it to Mr. Bideawhile; for Mr. Bideawhile was not found at his chambers. 

CHAPTER V. 

SHEWING HOW THE QUARREL PROGRESSED. 

Trevelyan got back to his own house at about three, and on going intothe library, found on his table a letter to him addressed in hiswife's handwriting. He opened it quickly, hoping to find that promisewhich he had demanded, and resolving that if it were made he would atonce become affectionate, yielding, and gentle to his wife. But therewas not a word written by his wife within the envelope. It containedsimply another letter, already opened, addressed to her. This letterhad been brought up to her during her husband's absence from thehouse, and was as follows:--

 Acrobats, Thursday. 

 DEAR EMILY, I have just come from the Colonial Office. It is all settled, and Sir M. Has been sent for. Of course, you will tell T. Now. 

 Yours, F. O. 

The letter was, of course, from Colonel Osborne, and Mrs. Trevelyan, when she received it, had had great doubts whether she would encloseit to her husband opened or unopened. She had hitherto refused tomake the promise which her husband exacted, but nevertheless, she wasminded to obey him. Had he included in his demand any requirementthat she should receive no letter from Colonel Osborne, she would nothave opened this one. But nothing had been said about letters, andshe would not shew herself to be afraid. So she read the note, andthen sent it down to be put on Mr. Trevelyan's table in an envelopeaddressed to him. 

"If he is not altogether blinded, it will show him how cruelly he haswronged me, " said she to her sister. She was sitting at the time withher boy in her lap, telling herself that the child's features were inall respects the very same as his father's, and that, come what comemight, the child should always be taught by her to love and respecthis father. And then there came a horrible thought. What if the childshould be taken away from her? If this quarrel, out of which she sawno present mode of escape, were to lead to a separation between herand her husband, would not the law, and the judges, and the courts, and all the Lady Milboroughs of their joint acquaintance into thebargain, say that the child should go with his father? The judges, and the courts, and the Lady Milboroughs would, of course, say thatshe was the sinner. And what could she do without her boy? Would notany humility, any grovelling in the dust be better for her than that?"It is a very poor thing to be a woman, " she said to her sister. 

"It is perhaps better than being a dog, " said Nora; "but, of course, we can't compare ourselves to men. "

"It would be better to be a dog. One wouldn't be made to suffer somuch. When a puppy is taken away from its mother, she is bad enoughfor a few days, but she gets over it in a week. " There was a pausethen for a few moments. Nora knew well which way ran the current ofher sister's thoughts, and had nothing at the present moment whichshe could say on that subject. "It is very hard for a woman to knowwhat to do, " continued Emily, "but if she is to marry, I think shehad better marry a fool. After all, a fool generally knows that he isa fool, and will trust some one, though he may not trust his wife. "

"I will never wittingly marry a fool, " said Nora. 

"You will marry Mr. Glascock, of course. I don't say that he is afool; but I do not think he has that kind of strength which showsitself in perversity. "

"If he asked me, I should not have him;--and he will never ask me. "

"He will ask you, and, of course, you'll take him. Why not? You can'tbe otherwise than a woman. And you must marry. And this man is agentleman, and will be a peer. There is nothing on earth against him, except that he does not set the Thames on fire. Louis intends to setthe Thames on fire some day, and see what comes of it. "

"All the same, I shall not marry Mr. Glascock. A woman can die, atany rate, " said Nora. 

"No, she can't. A woman must be decent; and to die of want is veryindecent. She can't die, and she mustn't be in want, and she oughtn'tto be a burden. I suppose it was thought necessary that every manshould have two to choose from; and therefore there are so many moreof us than the world wants. I wonder whether you'd mind taking thatdown-stairs to his table? I don't like to send it by the servant; andI don't want to go myself. "

Then Nora had taken the letter down, and left it where LouisTrevelyan would be sure to find it. 

He did find it, and was sorely disappointed when he perceived thatit contained no word from his wife to himself. He opened ColonelOsborne's note, and read it, and became, as he did so, almost moreangry than before. Who was this man that he should dare to addressanother man's wife as "Dear Emily?" At the moment Trevelyanremembered well enough that he had heard the man so call his wife, that it had been done openly in his presence, and had not given hima thought. But Lady Rowley and Sir Marmaduke had then been presentalso; and that man on that occasion had been the old friend of theold father, and not the would-be young friend of the young daughter. Trevelyan could hardly reason about it, but felt that whereas the onewas not improper, the other was grossly impertinent, and even wicked. And then, again, his wife, his Emily, was to show to him, to herhusband, or was not to show to him, the letter which she receivedfrom this man, the letter in which she was addressed as "Dear Emily, "according to this man's judgment and wish, and not according to hisjudgment and wish, --not according to the judgment and wish of him whowas her husband, her lord, and her master! "Of course you will tellT. Now. " This was intolerable to him. It made him feel that he wasto be regarded as second, and this man to be regarded as first. Andthen he began to recapitulate all the good things he had done for hiswife, and all the causes which he had given her for gratitude. Hadhe not taken her to his bosom, and bestowed upon her the half of allthat he had simply for herself, asking for nothing more than herlove? He had possessed money, position, a name, --all that makes lifeworth having. He had found her in a remote corner of the world, withno fortune, with no advantages of family or social standing, --socircumstanced that any friend would have warned him against sucha marriage; but he had given her his heart, and his hand, and hishouse, and had asked for nothing in return but that he should be allin all to her, --that he should be her one god upon earth. And he haddone more even than this. "Bring your sister, " he had said. "Thehouse shall be big enough for her also, and she shall be my sister aswell as yours. " Who had ever done more for a woman, or shown a moreabsolute confidence? And now what was the return he received? She wasnot contented with her one god upon earth, but must make to herselfother gods, --another god, and that too out of a lump of the basestclay to be found around her. He thought that he could remember tohave heard it said in early days, long before he himself had hadan idea of marrying, that no man should look for a wife from amongthe tropics, that women educated amidst the languors of those sunnyclimes rarely came to possess those high ideas of conjugal duty andfeminine truth which a man should regard as the first requisites of agood wife. As he thought of all this, he almost regretted that he hadever visited the Mandarins, or ever heard the name of Sir MarmadukeRowley. 

He should have nourished no such thoughts in his heart. He had, indeed, been generous to his wife and to his wife's family; but wemay almost say that the man who is really generous in such matters, is unconscious of his own generosity. The giver who gives the most, gives, and does not know that he gives. And had not she given too?In that matter of giving between a man and his wife, if each givesall, the two are equal, let the things given be what they may! KingCophetua did nothing for his beggar maid, unless she were to him, after he had married her, as royal a queen as though he had taken herfrom the oldest stock of reigning families then extant. Trevelyanknew all this himself, --had said so to himself a score of times, though not probably in spoken words or formed sentences. But, thatall was equal between himself and the wife of his bosom, had beena thing ascertained by him as a certainty. There was no debt ofgratitude from her to him which he did not acknowledge to exist alsoas from him to her. But yet, in his anger, he could not keep himselffrom thinking of the gifts he had showered upon her. And he had been, was, would ever be, if she would only allow it, so true to her! Hehad selected no other friend to take her place in his councils! Therewas no "dear Mary, " or "dear Augusta, " with whom he had secrets tobe kept from his wife. When there arose with him any question ofinterest, --question of interest such as was this of the return of SirMarmaduke to her, --he would show it in all its bearings to his wife. He had his secrets too, but his secrets had all been made secrets forher also. There was not a woman in the world in whose company he tookspecial delight in her absence. 

And if there had been, how much less would have been her ground ofcomplaint? Let a man have any such friendships, --what friendships hemay, --he does not disgrace his wife. He felt himself to be so true ofheart that he desired no such friendships; but for a man indulging insuch friendships there might be excuse. Even though a man be false, a woman is not shamed and brought unto the dust before all the world. But the slightest rumour on a woman's name is a load of infamy onher husband's shoulders. It was not enough for Cæsar that his wifeshould be true; it was necessary to Cæsar that she should not even besuspected. Trevelyan told himself that he suspected his wife of nosin. God forbid that it should ever come to that, both for his sakeand for hers; and, above all, for the sake of that boy who was sodear to them both! But there would be the vile whispers, and dirtyslanders would be dropped from envious tongues into envious ears, andminds prone to evil would think evil of him and of his. Had not LadyMilborough already cautioned him? Oh, that he should have lived tohave been cautioned about his wife;--that he should be told that eyesoutside had looked into the sacred shrine of his heart and seen thatthings there were fatally amiss! And yet Lady Milborough was quiteright. Had he not in his hand at this moment a document that provedher to be right? "Dear Emily!" He took this note and crushed it inhis fist, and then pulled it into fragments. 

But what should he do? There was, first of all considerations, theduty which he owed to his wife, and the love which he bore her. That she was ignorant and innocent he was sure; but then she was socontumacious that he hardly knew how to take a step in the directionof guarding her from the effects of her ignorance, and maintainingfor her the advantages of her innocence. He was her master, and shemust know that he was her master. But how was he to proceed when sherefused to obey the plainest and most necessary command which he laidupon her? Let a man be ever so much his wife's master, he cannotmaintain his masterdom by any power which the law places in hishands. He had asked his wife for a promise of obedience, and shewould not give it to him! What was he to do next? He could, nodoubt, --at least he thought so, --keep the man from her presence. Hecould order the servant not to admit the man, and the servant woulddoubtless obey him. But to what a condition would he then have beenbrought! Would not the world then be over for him, --over for him asthe husband of a wife whom he could not love unless he respected her?Better that there should be no such world, than call in the aid of aservant to guard the conduct of his wife!

As he thought of it all it seemed to him that if she would not obeyhim, and give him this promise, they must be separated. He would notlive with her, he would not give her the privileges of his wife, ifshe refused to render to him the obedience which was his privilege. The more he thought of it, the more convinced he was that he oughtnot to yield to her. Let her once yield to him, and then histenderness should begin, and there should be no limit to it. But hewould not see her till she had yielded. He would not see her; and ifhe should find that she did see Colonel Osborne, then he would tellher that she could no longer dwell under the same roof with him. 

His resolution on these points was very strong, and yet there cameover him a feeling that it was his duty to be gentle. There was afeeling also that that privilege of receiving obedience, which wasso indubitably his own, could only be maintained by certain wisepractices on his part, in which gentleness must predominate. Wives are bound to obey their husbands, but obedience cannot beexacted from wives, as it may from servants, by aid of law andwith penalties, or as from a horse, by punishments and mangercurtailments. A man should be master in his own house, but he shouldmake his mastery palatable, equitable, smooth, soft to the touch, a thing almost unfelt. How was he to do all this now, when he hadalready given an order to which obedience had been refused unlessunder certain stipulations, --an agreement with which would bedegradation to him? He had pointed out to his wife her duty, and shehad said she would do her duty as pointed out, on condition that hewould beg her pardon for having pointed it out! This he could not andwould not do. Let the heavens fall, --and the falling of the heavensin this case was a separation between him and his wife, --but he wouldnot consent to such injustice as that!

But what was he to do at this moment, --especially with reference tothat note which he had destroyed. At last he resolved to write to hiswife, and he consequently did write and send to her the followingletter:--

 May 4. 

 DEAREST EMILY, If Colonel Osborne should write to you again, it will be better that you should not open his letter. As you know his handwriting, you will have no difficulty in so arranging. Should any further letter come from Colonel Osborne addressed to you, you had better put it under cover to me, and take no notice of it yourself. 

 I shall dine at the club to-day. We were to have gone to Mrs. Peacock's in the evening. You had better write a line to say that we shall not be there. I am very sorry that Nora should lose her evening. Pray think very carefully over what I have asked of you. My request to you is, that you shall give me a promise that you will not willingly see Colonel Osborne again. Of course you will understand that this is not supposed to extend to accidental meetings, as to which, should they occur, --and they would be sure to occur, --you would find that they would be wholly unnoticed by me. 

 But I must request that you will comply with my wish in this matter. If you will send for me, I will go to you instantly, and after one word from you to the desired effect, you will find that there will be no recurrence by me to a subject so hateful. As I have done, and am doing what I think to be right, I cannot stultify myself by saying that I think I have been wrong. 

 Yours always, dearest Emily, With the most thorough love, LOUIS TREVELYAN. 

This letter he himself put on his wife's dressing-room table, andthen he went out to his club. 

CHAPTER VI. 

SHEWING HOW RECONCILIATION WAS MADE. 

"Look at that, " said Mrs. Trevelyan, when her sister came into herroom about an hour before dinner-time. Nora read the letter, andthen asked her sister what she meant to do. "I have written to Mrs. Peacock. I don't know what else I can do. It is very hard uponyou, --that you should have been kept at home. But I don't suppose Mr. Glascock would have been at Mrs. Peacock's. "

"And what else will you do, Emily?"

"Nothing;--simply live deserted and forlorn till he shall choose tofind his wits again. There is nothing else that a woman can do. If hechooses to dine at his club every day, I can't help it. We must putoff all the engagements, and that will be hard upon you. "

"Don't talk about me. It is too terrible to think that there shouldbe such a quarrel. "

"What can I do? Have I been wrong?"

"Simply do what he tells you, whether it is wrong or right. If it'sright, it ought to be done, and if it's wrong, it will not be yourfault. "

"That's very easily said, and it sounds logical; but you must knowit's unreasonable. "

"I don't care about reason. He is your husband, and if he wishes ityou should do it. And what will be the harm? You don't mean to seeColonel Osborne any more. You have already said that he's not to beadmitted. "

"I have said that nobody is to be admitted. Louis has driven meto that. How can I look the servant in the face and tell him thatany special gentleman is not to be admitted to see me? Oh dear! ohdear! have I done anything to deserve it? Was ever so monstrous anaccusation made against any woman! If it were not for my boy, I woulddefy him to do his worst. "

On the day following, Nora again became a messenger between thehusband and wife, and before dinner-time a reconciliation had beeneffected. Of course the wife gave way at last; and of course she gaveway so cunningly that the husband received none of the gratificationwhich he had expected in her surrender. "Tell him to come, " Nora hadurged. "Of course he can come if he pleases, " Emily had replied. Then Nora had told Louis to come, and Louis had demanded whether, if he did so, the promise which he had exacted would be given. Itis to be feared that Nora perverted the truth a little; but if eversuch perversion may be forgiven, forgiveness was due to her. Ifthey could only be brought together, she was sure that there wouldbe a reconciliation. They were brought together, and there was areconciliation. 

"Dearest Emily, I am so glad to come to you, " said the husband, walking up to his wife in their bed-room, and taking her in his arms. 

 [Illustration: Shewing how reconciliation was made. ]

"I have been very unhappy, Louis, for the last two days, " said she, very gravely, --returning his kiss, but returning it somewhat coldly. 

"We have both been unhappy, I am sure, " said he. Then he paused thatthe promise might be made to him. He had certainly understood thatit was to be made without reserve, --as an act on her part which shehad fully consented to perform. But she stood silent, with one handon the dressing-table, looking away from him, very beautiful, anddignified too, in her manner; but not, as far as he could judge, either repentant or submissive. "Nora said that you would make me thepromise which I ask from you. "

"I cannot think, Louis, how you can want such a promise from me. "

"I think it right to ask it; I do indeed. "

"Can you imagine that I shall ever willingly see this gentleman againafter what has occurred? It will be for you to tell the servant. Ido not know how I can do that. But, as a matter of course, I willencourage no person to come to your house of whom you disapprove. Itwould be exactly the same of any man or of any woman. "

"That is all that I ask. "

"I am surprised that you should have thought it necessary to make anyformal request in the matter. Your word was quite sufficient. Thatyou should find cause of complaint in Colonel Osborne's coming hereis of course a different thing. "

"Quite a different thing, " said he. 

"I cannot pretend to understand either your motives or your fears. I do not understand them. My own self-respect prevents me fromsupposing it to be possible that you have attributed an evil thoughtto me. "

"Indeed, indeed, I never have, " said the husband. 

"That I can assure you I regard as a matter of course, " said thewife. 

"But you know, Emily, the way in which the world talks. "

"The world! And do you regard the world, Louis?"

"Lady Milborough, I believe, spoke to yourself. "

"Lady Milborough! No, she did not speak to me. She began to do so, but I was careful to silence her at once. From you, Louis, I am boundto hear whatever you may choose to say to me; but I will not hearfrom any other lips a single word that may be injurious to yourhonour. " This she said very quietly, with much dignity, and he feltthat he had better not answer her. She had given him the promisewhich he had demanded, and he began to fear that if he pushed thematter further she might go back even from that amount of submission. So he kissed her again, and had the boy brought into the room, and bythe time that he went to dress for dinner he was able, at any rate, to seem to be well pleased. 

"Richard, " he said to the servant, as soon as he was down-stairs, "when Colonel Osborne calls again, say that your mistress is--not athome. " He gave the order in the most indifferent tone of voice whichhe could assume; but as he gave it he felt thoroughly ashamed of it. Richard, who, with the other servants, had of course known that therehad been a quarrel between his master and mistress for the last twodays, no doubt understood all about it. 

While they were sitting at dinner on the next day, a Saturday, therecame another note from Colonel Osborne. The servant brought it tohis mistress, and she, when she had looked at it, put it down by herplate. Trevelyan knew immediately from whom the letter had come, andunderstood how impossible it was for his wife to give it up in theservant's presence. The letter lay there till the man was out of theroom, and then she handed it to Nora. "Will you give that to Louis?"she said. "It comes from the man whom he supposes to be my lover. "

"Emily!" said he, jumping from his seat, "how can you allow words sohorrible and so untrue to fall from your mouth?"

"If it be not so, why am I to be placed in such a position as this?The servant knows, of course, from whom the letter comes, and seesthat I have been forbidden to open it. " Then the man returned to theroom, and the remainder of the dinner passed off almost in silence. It was their custom when they dined without company to leave thedining-room together, but on this evening Trevelyan remained for afew minutes that he might read Colonel Osborne's letter. He waited, standing on the rug with his face to the fire-place, till he wasquite alone, and then he opened it. It ran as follows:--

 House of Commons, Saturday. 

 DEAR EMILY, --

Trevelyan, as he read this, cursed Colonel Osborne between his teeth. 

 DEAR EMILY, I called this afternoon, but you were out. I am afraid you will be disappointed by what I have to tell you, but you should rather be glad of it. They say at the C. O. That Sir Marmaduke would not receive their letter if sent now till the middle of June, and that he could not be in London, let him do what he would, till the end of July. They hope to have the session over by that time, and therefore the committee is to be put off till next session. They mean to have Lord Bowles home from Canada, and they think that Bowles would like to be here in the winter. Sir Marmaduke will be summoned for February next, and will of course stretch his stay over the hot months. All this will, on the whole, be for the best. Lady Rowley could hardly have packed up her things and come away at a day's notice, whatever your father might have done. I'll call to-morrow at luncheon time. 

 Yours always, F. O. 

There was nothing objectionable in this letter, --excepting always the"Dear Emily, "--nothing which it was not imperative on Colonel Osborneto communicate to the person to whom it was addressed. Trevelyan mustnow go up-stairs and tell the contents of the letter to his wife. But he felt that he had created for himself a terrible trouble. Hemust tell his wife what was in the letter, but the very telling ofit would be a renewing of the soreness of his wound. And then whatwas to be done in reference to the threatened visit for the Sundaymorning? Trevelyan knew very well that were his wife denied atthat hour, Colonel Osborne would understand the whole matter. Hehad doubtless in his anger intended that Colonel Osborne shouldunderstand the whole matter; but he was calmer now than he had beenthen, and almost wished that the command given by him had not been sodefinite and imperious. He remained with his arm on the mantel-piece, thinking of it, for some ten minutes, and then went up into thedrawing-room. "Emily, " he said, walking up to the table at which shewas sitting, "you had better read that letter. "

"I would so much rather not, " she replied haughtily. 

"Then Nora can read it. It concerns you both equally. "

Nora, with hesitating hand, took the letter and read it. "They arenot to come after all, " said she, "till next February. "

"And why not?" asked Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"Something about the session. I don't quite understand. "

"Lord Bowles is to come from Canada, " said Louis, "and they think hewould prefer being here in the winter. I dare say he would. "

"But what has that to do with papa?"

"I suppose they must both be here together, " said Nora. 

"I call that very hard indeed, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"I can't agree with you there, " said her husband. "His coming at allis so much of a favour that it is almost a job. "

"I don't see that it is a job at all, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. "Somebodyis wanted, and nobody can know more of the service than papa does. But as the other man is a lord, I suppose papa must give way. Does hesay anything about mamma, Nora?"

"You had better read the letter yourself, " said Trevelyan, who wasdesirous that his wife should know of the threatened visit. 

"No, Louis, I shall not do that. You must not blow hot and cold too. Till the other day I should have thought that Colonel Osborne'sletters were as innocent as an old newspaper. As you have supposedthem to be poisoned I will have nothing to do with them. "

This speech made him very angry. It seemed that his wife, whohad yielded to him, was determined to take out the value of hersubmission in the most disagreeable words which she could utter. Noranow closed the letter and handed it back to her brother-in-law. Helaid it down on the table beside him, and sat for a while with hiseyes fixed upon his book. At last he spoke again. "Colonel Osbornesays that he will call to-morrow at luncheon time. You can admit him, if you please, and thank him for the trouble he has taken in thismatter. "

"I shall not remain in the room if he be admitted, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

There was silence again for some minutes, and the cloud uponTrevelyan's brow became blacker than before. Then he rose from hischair and walked round to the sofa on which his wife was sitting. "Ipresume, " said he, "that your wishes and mine in this matter must bethe same. "

"I cannot tell what your wishes are, " she replied. "I never was morein the dark on any subject in my life. My wishes at present areconfined to a desire to save you as far as may be possible from theshame which must be attached to your own suspicions. "

"I have never had any suspicions. "

"A husband without suspicions does not intercept his wife's letters. A husband without suspicions does not call in the aid of his servantsto guard his wife. A husband without suspicions--"

"Emily, " exclaimed Nora Rowley, "how can you say such things, --onpurpose to provoke him?"

"Yes; on purpose to provoke me, " said Trevelyan. 

"And have I not been provoked? Have I not been injured? You say nowthat you have not suspected me, and yet in what condition do I findmyself? Because an old woman has chosen to talk scandal about me, Iam placed in a position in my own house which is disgraceful to youand insupportable to myself. This man has been in the habit of cominghere on Sundays, and will, of course, know that we are at home. Youmust manage it as you please. If you choose to receive him, I will goup-stairs. "

"Why can't you let him come in and go away, just as usual?" saidNora. 

"Because Louis has made me promise that I will never willingly bein his company again, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. "I would have given theworld to avoid a promise so disgraceful to me; but it was exacted, and it shall be kept. " Having so spoken, she swept out of the room, and went up-stairs to the nursery. Trevelyan sat for an hour with hisbook before him, reading or pretending to read, but his wife did notcome down-stairs. Then Nora went up to her, and he descended to hissolitude below. So far he had hardly gained much by the enforcedobedience of his wife. 

On the next morning the three went to church together, and as theywere walking home Trevelyan's heart was filled with returninggentleness towards his wife. He could not bear to be at wrath withher after the church service which they had just heard together. But he was softer-hearted than was she, and knowing this, wasalmost afraid to say anything that would again bring forth from herexpressions of scorn. As soon as they were alone within the house hetook her by the hand and led her apart. "Let all this be, " said he, "as though it had never been. "

"That will hardly be possible, Louis, " she answered. "I cannot forgetthat I have been--cautioned. "

"But cannot you bring yourself to believe that I have meant it allfor your good?"

"I have never doubted it, Louis;--never for a moment. But it has hurtme to find that you should think that such caution was needed for mygood. "

It was almost on his tongue to beg her pardon, to acknowledge thathe had made a mistake, and to implore her to forget that he had evermade an objection to Colonel Osborne's visit. He remembered at thismoment the painful odiousness of that "Dear Emily;" but he had toreconcile himself even to that, telling himself that, after all, Colonel Osborne was an old man, --a man older even than his wife'sfather. If she would only have met him with gentleness, he would havewithdrawn his command, and have acknowledged that he had been wrong. But she was hard, dignified, obedient, and resentful. "It will, Ithink, " he said, "be better for both of us that he should be asked into lunch to-day. "

"You must judge of that, " said Emily. "Perhaps, upon the whole, itwill be best. I can only say that I will not be present. I will lunchup-stairs with baby, and you can make what excuse for me you please. "This was all very bad, but it was in this way that things wereallowed to arrange themselves. Richard was told that Colonel Osbornewas coming to lunch, and when he came something was muttered to himabout Mrs. Trevelyan being not quite well. It was Nora who told theinnocent fib, and though she did not tell it well, she did her verybest. She felt that her brother-in-law was very wretched, and she wasmost anxious to relieve him. Colonel Osborne did not stay long, andthen Nora went up-stairs to her sister. 

Louis Trevelyan felt that he had disgraced himself. He had meant tohave been strong, and he had, as he knew, been very weak. He hadmeant to have acted in a high-minded, honest, manly manner; butcircumstances had been so untoward with him, that on looking at hisown conduct, it seemed to him to have been mean, and almost falseand cowardly. As the order for the exclusion of this hated man fromhis house had been given, he should at any rate have stuck to theorder. At the moment of his vacillation he had simply intended tomake things easy for his wife; but she had taken advantage of hisvacillation, and had now clearly conquered him. Perhaps he respectedher more than he had done when he was resolving, three or four dayssince, that he would be the master in his own house; but it may befeared that the tenderness of his love for her had been impaired. 

Late in the afternoon his wife and sister-in-law came down dressedfor walking, and, finding Trevelyan in the library, they asked him tojoin them, --it was a custom with them to walk in the park on a Sundayafternoon, --and he at once assented, and went out with them. Emily, who had had her triumph, was very gracious. There should not be aword more said by her about Colonel Osborne. She would avoid thatgentleman, never receiving him in Curzon Street, and having as littleto say to him as possible elsewhere; but she would not throw his namein her husband's teeth, or make any reference to the injury which hadso manifestly been done to her. Unless Louis should be indiscreet, it should be as though it had been forgotten. As they walked byChesterfield House and Stanhope Street into the park, she began todiscuss the sermon they had heard that morning, and when she foundthat that subject was not alluring, she spoke of a dinner to whichthey were to go at Mrs. Fairfax's house. Louis Trevelyan was quiteaware that he was being treated as a naughty boy, who was to beforgiven. 

They went across Hyde Park into Kensington Gardens, and still thesame thing was going on. Nora found it to be almost impossible to saya word. Trevelyan answered his wife's questions, but was otherwisesilent. Emily worked very hard at her mission of forgiveness, andhardly ceased in her efforts at conciliatory conversation. Womencan work so much harder in this way than men find it possible to do!She never flagged, but continued to be fluent, conciliatory, andintolerably wearisome. On a sudden they came across two men together, who, as they all knew, were barely acquainted with each other. Thesewere Colonel Osborne and Hugh Stanbury. 

"I am glad to find you are able to be out, " said the Colonel. 

"Thanks; yes. I think my seclusion just now was almost as much due tobaby as to anything else. Mr. Stanbury, how is it we never see younow?"

"It is the D. R. , Mrs. Trevelyan;--nothing else. The D. R. Is a mostgrateful mistress, but somewhat exacting. I am allowed a couple ofhours on Sundays, but otherwise my time is wholly passed in FleetStreet. "

"How very unpleasant. "

"Well; yes. The unpleasantness of this world consists chiefly in thefact that when a man wants wages, he must earn them. The Christianphilosophers have a theory about it. Don't they call it the primevalfall, original sin, and that kind of thing?"

"Mr. Stanbury, I won't have irreligion. I hope that doesn't come fromwriting for the newspapers. "

"Certainly not with me, Mrs. Trevelyan. I have never been put onto take that branch yet. Scrubby does that with us, and does itexcellently. It was he who touched up the Ritualists, and then theCommission, and then the Low Church bishops, till he didn't leave oneof them a leg to stand upon. "

"What is it, then, that the Daily Record upholds?"

"It upholds the Daily Record. Believe in that and you will surely besaved. " Then he turned to Miss Rowley, and they two were soon walkingon together, each manifestly interested in what the other was saying, though there was no word of tenderness spoken between them. 

Colonel Osborne was now between Mr. And Mrs. Trevelyan. She wouldhave avoided the position had it been possible for her to do so. While they were falling into their present places, she had made alittle mute appeal to her husband to take her away from the spot, togive her his arm and return with her, to save her in some way fromremaining in company with the man to whose company for her he hadobjected; but he took no such step. It had seemed to him that hecould take no such step without showing his hostility to ColonelOsborne. 

They walked on along the broad path together, and the Colonel wasbetween them. 

"I hope you think it satisfactory, --about Sir Rowley, " he said. 

"Beggars must not be choosers, you know, Colonel Osborne. I felt alittle disappointed when I found that we were not to see them tillFebruary next. "

"They will stay longer then, you know, than they could now. "

"I have no doubt when the time comes we shall all believe it to bebetter. "

"I suppose you think, Emily, that a little pudding to-day is betterthan much to-morrow. "

Colonel Osborne certainly had a caressing, would-be affectionate modeof talking to women, which, unless it were reciprocated and enjoyed, was likely to make itself disagreeable. No possible words could havebeen more innocent than those he had now spoken; but he had turnedhis face down close to her face, and had almost whispered them. Andthen, too, he had again called her by her Christian name. Trevelyanhad not heard the words. He had walked on, making the distancebetween him and the other man greater than was necessary, anxious toshow to his wife that he had no jealousy at such a meeting as this. But his wife was determined that she would put an end to this stateof things, let the cost be what it might. She did not say a word toColonel Osborne, but addressed herself at once to her husband. 

"Louis, " she said, "will you give me your arm? We will go back, ifyou please. " Then she took her husband's arm, and turned herself andhim abruptly away from their companion. 

The thing was done in such a manner that it was impossible thatColonel Osborne should not perceive that he had been left in anger. When Trevelyan and his wife had gone back a few yards, he was obligedto return for Nora. He did so, and then rejoined his wife. 

"It was quite unnecessary, Emily, " he said, "that you should behavelike that. "

"Your suspicions, " she said, "have made it almost impossible for meto behave with propriety. "

"You have told him everything now, " said Trevelyan. 

"And it was requisite that he should be told, " said his wife. Thenthey walked home without interchanging another word. When theyreached their house, Emily at once went up to her own room, andTrevelyan to his. They parted as though they had no common interestwhich was worthy of a moment's conversation. And she by her step, and gait, and every movement of her body showed to him that she wasnot his wife now in any sense that could bring to him a feeling ofdomestic happiness. Her compliance with his command was of no useto him unless she could be brought to comply in spirit. Unless shewould be soft to him he could not be happy. He walked about his roomuneasily for half-an-hour, trying to shake off his sorrow, and thenhe went up to her room. "Emily, " he said, "for God's sake let allthis pass away. "

"What is to pass away?"

"This feeling of rancour between you and me. What is the world to usunless we can love one another? At any rate it will be nothing tome. "

"Do you doubt my love?" said she. 

"No; certainly not. "

"Nor I yours. Without love, Louis, you and I can not be happy. Butlove alone will not make us so. There must be trust, and there mustalso be forbearance. My feeling of annoyance will pass away in time;and till it does, I will shew it as little as may be possible. "

He felt that he had nothing more to say, and then he left her; but hehad gained nothing by the interview. She was still hard and cold, andstill assumed a tone which seemed to imply that she had manifestlybeen the injured person. 

Colonel Osborne, when he was left alone, stood for a few moments onthe spot, and then with a whistle, a shake of the head, and a littlelow chuckle of laughter, rejoined the crowd. 

CHAPTER VII. 

MISS JEMIMA STANBURY, OF EXETER. 

 [Illustration]

Miss Jemima Stanbury, the aunt of our friend Hugh, was a maiden lady, very much respected, indeed, in the city of Exeter. It is to behoped that no readers of these pages will be so un-English as to beunable to appreciate the difference between county society and townsociety, --the society, that is, of a provincial town, or so ignorantas not to know also that there may be persons so privileged, thatalthough they live distinctly within a provincial town, thereis accorded to them, as though by brevet rank, all the merit ofliving in the county. In reference to persons so privileged, it isconsidered that they have been made free from the contamination ofcontiguous bricks and mortar by certain inner gifts, probably ofbirth, occasionally of profession, possibly of merit. It is veryrarely, indeed, that money alone will bestow this acknowledgedrank; and in Exeter, which by the stringency and excellence of itswell-defined rules on such matters, may perhaps be said to take thelead of all English provincial towns, money alone has never availed. Good blood, especially if it be blood good in Devonshire, is rarelyrejected. Clergymen are allowed within the pale, --though by no meansas certainly as used to be the case; and, indeed, in these days ofliterates, clergymen have to pass harder examinations than those everimposed upon them by bishops' chaplains, before they are admitted adeundem among the chosen ones of the city of Exeter. The wives anddaughters of the old prebendaries see well to that. And, as has beensaid, special merit may prevail. Sir Peter Mancrudy, the great Exeterphysician, has won his way in, --not at all by being Sir Peter, whichhas stood in his way rather than otherwise, --but by the acknowledgedexcellence of his book about saltzes. Sir Peter Mancrudy is supposedto have quite a metropolitan, almost a European reputation, --andtherefore is acknowledged to belong to the county set, although henever dines out at any house beyond the limits of the city. Now, letit be known that no inhabitant of Exeter ever achieved a clearerright to be regarded as "county, " in opposition to "town, " than hadMiss Jemima Stanbury. There was not a tradesman in Exeter who was notaware of it, and who did not touch his hat to her accordingly. Themen who drove the flies, when summoned to take her out at night, would bring oats with them, knowing how probable it was that theymight have to travel far. A distinct apology was made if she wasasked to drink tea with people who were simply "town. " The Noels ofDoddescombe Leigh, the Cliffords of Budleigh Salterton, the Powels ofHaldon, the Cheritons of Alphington, --all county persons, but veryfrequently in the city, --were greeted by her, and greeted her, onterms of equality. Her most intimate friend was old Mrs. MacHugh, the widow of the last dean but two, who could not have stood higherhad she been the widow of the last bishop. And then, although MissStanbury was intimate with the Frenches of Heavitree, with theWrights of Northernhay, with the Apjohns of Helion Villa, --a reallymagnificent house, two miles out of the city on the CreditonRoad, and with the Crumbies of Cronstadt House, Saint Ide's, --whowould have been county people, if living in the country made thedifference;--although she was intimate with all these families, her manner to them was not the same, nor was it expected to be thesame, as with those of her own acknowledged set. These things areunderstood in Exeter so well!

Miss Stanbury belonged to the county set, but she lived in a largebrick house, standing in the Close, almost behind the Cathedral. Indeed it was so close to the eastern end of the edifice that acarriage could not be brought quite up to her door. It was a largebrick house, very old, with a door in the middle, and five stepsascending to it between high iron rails. On each side of the doorthere were two windows on the ground floor, and above that therewere three tiers of five windows each, and the house was doublethroughout, having as many windows looking out behind into a gloomycourtyard. But the glory of the house consisted in this, that therewas a garden attached to it, a garden with very high walls, overwhich the boughs of trees might be seen, giving to the otherwisegloomy abode a touch of freshness in the summer, and a look of spacein the winter, which no doubt added something to the reputation evenof Miss Stanbury. The fact, --for it was a fact, --that there wasno gloomier or less attractive spot in the whole city than MissStanbury's garden, when seen inside, did not militate against thisadvantage. There were but half-a-dozen trees, and a few square yardsof grass that was never green, and a damp ungravelled path on whichno one ever walked. Seen from the inside the garden was not much;but, from the outside, it gave a distinct character to the house, andproduced an unexpressed acknowledgment that the owner of it ought tobelong to the county set. 

The house and all that was in it belonged to Miss Stanbury herself, as did also many other houses in the neighbourhood. She was the ownerof the "Cock and Bottle, " a very decent second class inn on the otherside of the Close, an inn supposed to have clerical tendencies, whichmade it quite suitable for a close. The choristers took their beerthere, and the landlord was a retired verger. Nearly the whole ofone side of a dark passage leading out of the Close towards the HighStreet belonged to her; and though the passage be narrow and thehouses dark, the locality is known to be good for trade. And sheowned two large houses in the High Street, and a great warehouseat St. Thomas's, and had been bought out of land by the Railway atSt. David's, --much to her own dissatisfaction, as she was wont toexpress herself, but, undoubtedly, at a very high price. It will beunderstood therefore, that Miss Stanbury was wealthy, and that shewas bound to the city in which she lived by peculiar ties. 

But Miss Stanbury had not been born to this wealth, nor can shebe said to have inherited from her forefathers any of these highprivileges which had been awarded to her. She had achieved them bythe romance of her life and the manner in which she had carriedherself amidst its vicissitudes. Her father had been vicar ofNuncombe Putney, a parish lying twenty miles west of Exeter, amongthe moors. And on her father's death, her brother, also now dead, hadbecome vicar of the same parish, --her brother, whose only son, HughStanbury, we already know, working for the "D. R. " up in London. WhenMiss Stanbury was twenty-one she became engaged to a certain Mr. Brooke Burgess, the eldest son of a banker in Exeter, --or, it might, perhaps, be better said, a banker himself; for at the time Mr. Brooke Burgess was in the firm. It need not here be told how variousmisfortunes arose, how Mr. Burgess quarrelled with the Stanburyfamily, how Jemima quarrelled with her own family, how, when herfather died, she went out from Nuncombe Putney parsonage, and livedon the smallest pittance in a city lodging, how her lover was untrueto her and did not marry her, and how at last he died and left herevery shilling that he possessed. 

The Devonshire people, at the time, had been much divided as to themerits of the Stanbury quarrel. There were many who said that thebrother could not have acted otherwise than he did; and that MissStanbury, though by force of character and force of circumstancesshe had weathered the storm, had in truth been very indiscreet. Theresults, however, were as have been described. At the period of whichwe treat, Miss Stanbury was a very rich lady, living by herself inExeter, admitted, without question, to be one of the county set, andstill at variance with her brother's family. Except to Hugh, she hadnever spoken a word to one of them since her brother's death. Whenthe money came into her hands, she at that time being over fortyand her nephew being then just ten years old, she had undertaken toeducate him, and to start him in the world. We know how she had kepther word, and how and why she had withdrawn herself from any furtherresponsibility in the matter. 

And in regard to this business of starting the young man she had beencareful to let it be known that she would do no more than start him. In the formal document, by means of which she had made the proposalto her brother, she had been careful to let it be understood thatsimple education was all that she intended to bestow upon him, --"andthat only, " she had added, "in the event of my surviving till hiseducation be completed. " And to Hugh himself she had declared thatany allowance which she made him after he was called to the Bar, was only made in order to give him room for his foot, a spot ofground from whence to make his first leap. We know how he made thatleap, infinitely to the disgust of his aunt, who, when he refusedobedience to her in the matter of withdrawing from the Daily Record, immediately withdrew from him, not only her patronage and assistance, but even her friendship and acquaintance. This was the letter whichshe wrote to him--

 I don't think that writing radical stuff for a penny newspaper is a respectable occupation for a gentleman, and I will have nothing to do with it. If you choose to do such work, I cannot help it; but it was not for such that I sent you to Harrow and Oxford, nor yet up to London and paid £100 a year to Mr. Lambert. I think you are treating me badly, but that is nothing to your bad treatment of yourself. You need not trouble yourself to answer this, unless you are prepared to say that you will not write any more stuff for that penny newspaper. Only I wish to be understood. I will have no connection that I can help, and no acquaintance at all, with radical scribblers and incendiaries. 

 JEMIMA STANBURY. 

 The Close, Exeter, April 15, 186--. 

Hugh Stanbury had answered this, thanking his aunt for past favours, and explaining to her, --or striving to do so, --that he felt it to behis duty to earn his bread, as a means of earning it had come withinhis reach. He might as well have spared himself the trouble. Shesimply wrote a few words across his own letter in red ink:--"Thebread of unworthiness should never be earned or eaten;" and then sentthe letter back under a blank envelope to her nephew. 

She was a thorough Tory of the old school. Had Hugh taken to writingfor a newspaper that had cost sixpence, or even threepence, for itscopies, she might perhaps have forgiven him. At any rate the offencewould not have been so flagrant. And had the paper been conservativeinstead of liberal, she would have had some qualms of consciencebefore she gave him up. But to live by writing for a newspaper! andfor a penny newspaper!! and for a penny radical newspaper!!! It wasmore than she could endure. Of what nature were the articles which hecontributed it was impossible that she should have any idea, for noconsideration would have induced her to look at a penny newspaper, orto admit it within her doors. She herself took in the John Bull andthe Herald, and daily groaned deeply at the way in which those oncegreat organs of true British public feeling were becoming demoralisedand perverted. Had any reduction been made in the price of either ofthem, she would at once have stopped her subscription. In the matterof politics she had long since come to think that everything good wasover. She hated the name of Reform so much that she could not bringherself to believe in Mr. Disraeli and his bill. For many years shehad believed in Lord Derby. She would fain believe in him still ifshe could. It was the great desire of her heart to have some one inwhom she believed. In the bishop of her diocese she did believe, andannually sent him some little comforting present from her own hand. And in two or three of the clergymen around her she believed, findingin them a flavour of the unascetic godliness of ancient days whichwas gratifying to her palate. But in politics there was hardly a nameremaining to which she could fix her faith and declare that thereshould be her guide. For awhile she thought she would cling to Mr. Lowe; but, when she made inquiry, she found that there was no basethere of really well-formed conservative granite. The three gentlemenwho had dissevered themselves from Mr. Disraeli when Mr. Disraeli waspassing his Reform bill, were doubtless very good in their way; butthey were not big enough to fill her heart. She tried to make herselfhappy with General Peel, but General Peel was after all no more thana shade to her. But the untruth of others never made her untrue, andshe still talked of the excellence of George III. And the glories ofthe subsequent reign. She had a bust of Lord Eldon, before which shewas accustomed to stand with hands closed and to weep, --or to thinkthat she wept. 

She was a little woman, now nearly sixty years of age, with brightgrey eyes, and a strong Roman nose, and thin lips, and a sharp-cutchin. She wore a head-gear that almost amounted to a mob-cap, andbeneath it her grey hair was always frizzled with the greatest care. Her dress was invariably of black silk, and she had five gowns, --onefor church, one for evening parties, one for driving out, and one forevenings at home, and one for mornings. The dress, when new, alwayswent to church. Nothing, she was wont to say, was too good for theLord's house. In the days of crinolines she had protested that shehad never worn one, --a protest, however, which was hardly true; andnow, in these later days, her hatred was especially developed inreference to the head-dresses of young women. "Chignon" was a wordwhich she had never been heard to pronounce. She would talk of "thosebandboxes which the sluts wear behind their noddles;" for MissStanbury allowed herself the use of much strong language. She wasvery punctilious in all her habits, breakfasting ever at half-pasteight, and dining always at six. Half-past five had been her time, till the bishop, who, on an occasion, was to be her guest, oncesignified to her that such an hour cut up the day and interfered withclerical work. Her lunch was always of bread and cheese, and they wholunched with her either eat that, --or the bread without the cheese. An afternoon "tea" was a thing horrible to her imagination. Tea andbuttered toast at half-past eight in the evening was the great luxuryof her life. She was as strong as a horse, and had never hithertoknown a day's illness. As a consequence of this, she did not believein the illness of other people, --especially not in the illness ofwomen. She did not like a girl who could not drink a glass of beerwith her bread and cheese in the middle of the day, and she thoughtthat a glass of port after dinner was good for everybody. Indeed, shehad a thorough belief in port wine, thinking that it would go far tocure most miseries. But she could not put up with the idea that awoman, young or old, should want the stimulus of a glass of sherryto support her at any odd time of the day. Hot concoctions of strongdrink at Christmas she would allow to everybody, and was very strongin recommending such comforts to ladies blessed, or about to beblessed, with babies. She took the sacrament every month, and gaveaway exactly a tenth of her income to the poor. She believed thatthere was a special holiness in a tithe of a thing, and attributedthe commencement of the downfall of the Church of England to rentcharges, and the commutation of clergymen's incomes. Since Judas, there had never been, to her thinking, a traitor so base, or anapostate so sinful, as Colenso; and yet, of the nature of Colenso'steaching she was as ignorant as the towers of the cathedral oppositeto her. 

She believed in Exeter, thinking that there was no other provincialtown in England in which a maiden lady could live safely anddecently. London to her was an abode of sin; and though, as we haveseen, she delighted to call herself one of the county set, she didnot love the fields and lanes. And in Exeter the only place for alady was the Close. Southernhay and Northernhay might be very well, and there was doubtless a respectable neighbourhood on the Heavitreeside of the town; but for the new streets, and especially for thesuburban villas, she had no endurance. She liked to deal at dearshops; but would leave any shop, either dear or cheap, in regard towhich a printed advertisement should reach her eye. She paid all herbills at the end of each six months, and almost took a delight inhigh prices. She would rejoice that bread should be cheap, and grievethat meat should be dear, because of the poor; but in regard to othermatters no reduction in the cost of an article ever pleased her. She had houses as to which she was told by her agent that the rentsshould be raised; but she would not raise them. She had others whichit was difficult to let without lowering the rents, but she would notlower them. All change was to her hateful and unnecessary. 

She kept three maid-servants, and a man came in every day to cleanthe knives and boots. Service with her was well requited, and muchlabour was never exacted. But it was not every young woman who couldlive with her. A rigidity as to hours, as to religious exercises, and as to dress, was exacted, under which many poor girls altogetherbroke down; but they who could stand this rigidity came to know thattheir places were very valuable. No one belonging to them need wantfor aught, when once the good opinion of Miss Stanbury had beenearned. When once she believed in her servant there was nobody likethat servant. There was not a man in Exeter could clean a boot exceptGiles Hickbody, --and if not in Exeter, then where else? And her ownmaid Martha, who had lived with her now for twenty years, and who hadcome with her to the brick house when she first inhabited it, wassuch a woman that no other servant anywhere was fit to hold a candleto her. But then Martha had great gifts, --was never ill, and reallyliked having sermons read to her. 

Such was Miss Stanbury, who had now discarded her nephew Hugh. Shehad never been tenderly affectionate to Hugh, or she would hardlyhave asked him to live in London on a hundred a year. She had neverreally been kind to him since he was a boy, for although she had paidfor him, she had been almost penurious in her manner of doing so, and had repeatedly given him to understand, that in the event of herdeath not a shilling would be left to him. Indeed, as to that matterof bequeathing her money, it was understood that it was her purposeto let it all go back to the Burgess family. With the Burgess familyshe had kept up no sustained connection, it being quite understoodthat she was never to be asked to meet the only one of them now leftin Exeter. Nor was it as yet known to any one in what manner themoney was to go back, how it was to be divided, or who were to be therecipients. But she had declared that it should go back, explainingthat she had conceived it to be a duty to let her own relations knowthat they would not inherit her wealth at her death. 

About a week after she had sent back poor Hugh's letter with theendorsement on it as to unworthy bread, she summoned Martha to theback parlour in which she was accustomed to write her letters. It wasone of the theories of her life that different rooms should be usedonly for the purposes for which they were intended. She never allowedpens and ink up into the bed-rooms, and had she ever heard that anyguest in her house was reading in bed, she would have made an instantpersonal attack upon that guest, whether male or female, which wouldhave surprised that guest. Poor Hugh would have got on better withher had he not been discovered once smoking in the garden. Nor wouldshe have writing materials in the drawing-room or dining-room. Therewas a chamber behind the dining-room in which there was an inkbottle, and if there was a letter to be written, let the writer go thereand write it. In the writing of many letters, however, she put noconfidence, and regarded penny postage as one of the strongestevidences of the coming ruin. 

"Martha, " she said, "I want to speak to you. Sit down. I think I amgoing to do something. " Martha sat down, but did not speak a word. There had been no question asked of her, and the time for speakinghad not come. "I am writing to Mrs. Stanbury, at Nuncombe Putney; andwhat do you think I am saying to her?"

Now the question had been asked, and it was Martha's duty to reply. 

"Writing to Mrs. Stanbury, ma'am?"

"Yes, to Mrs. Stanbury. "

"It ain't possible for me to say, ma'am, unless it's to put Mr. Hughfrom going on with the newspapers. "

"When my nephew won't be controlled by me, I shan't go elsewhereto look for control over him; you may be sure of that, Martha. Andremember, Martha, I don't want to have his name mentioned again inthe house. You will tell them all so, if you please. "

"He was a very nice gentleman, ma'am. "

"Martha, I won't have it; and there's an end of it. I won't have it. Perhaps I know what goes to the making of a nice gentleman as well asyou do. "

"Mr. Hugh, ma'am, --"

"I won't have it, Martha. And when I say so, let there be an endof it. " As she said this, she got up from her chair, and shook herhead, and took a turn about the room. "If I'm not mistress here, I'mnobody. "

"Of course you're mistress here, ma'am. "

"And if I don't know what's fit to be done, and what's not fit, I'mtoo old to learn; and, what's more, I won't be taught. I'm not goingto have my house crammed with radical incendiary stuff, printed withink that stinks, on paper made out of straw. If I can't live withoutpenny literature, at any rate I'll die without it. Now listen to me. "

"Yes, ma'am. "

"I have asked Mrs. Stanbury to send one of the girls over here. "

"To live, ma'am?" Martha's tone as she asked the question, showed howdeeply she felt its importance. 

"Yes, Martha; to live. "

"You'll never like it, ma'am. "

"I don't suppose I shall. "

"You'll never get on with it, ma'am; never. The young lady'll be outof the house in a week; or if she ain't, somebody else will. "

"You mean yourself. "

"I'm only a servant, ma'am, and it don't signify about me. "

"You're a fool. "

"That's true, ma'am, I don't doubt. "

"I've sent for her, and we must do the best we can. Perhaps she won'tcome. "

"She'll come fast enough, " said Martha. "But whether she'll stay, that's a different thing. I don't see how it's possible she's tostay. I'm told they're feckless, idle young ladies. She'll be sosoft, ma'am, and you, --"

"Well; what of me?"

"You'll be so hard, ma'am!"

"I'm not a bit harder than you, Martha; nor yet so hard. I'll do myduty, or at least I'll try. Now you know all about it, and you may goaway. There's the letter, and I mean to go out and post it myself. "

CHAPTER VIII. 

"I KNOW IT WILL DO. "

Miss Stanbury carried her letter all the way to the chief post-officein the city, having no faith whatever in those little subsidiaryreceiving houses which are established in different parts of thecity. As for the iron pillar boxes which had been erected of lateyears for the receipt of letters, one of which, --a most hateful thingto her, --stood almost close to her own hall door, she had not thefaintest belief that any letter put into one of them would ever reachits destination. She could not understand why people should not walkwith their letters to a respectable post-office instead of chuckingthem into an iron stump, --as she called it, --out in the middle of thestreet with nobody to look after it. Positive orders had been giventhat no letter from her house should ever be put into the iron post. Her epistle to her sister-in-law, of whom she never spoke otherwisethan as Mrs. Stanbury, was as follows:--

 The Close, Exeter, 22nd April, 186--. 

 MY DEAR SISTER STANBURY, Your son, Hugh, has taken to courses of which I do not approve, and therefore I have put an end to my connection with him. I shall be happy to entertain your daughter Dorothy in my house if you and she approve of such a plan. Should you agree to this, she will be welcome to receive you or her sister, --_not her brother_, --in my house any Wednesday morning between half-past nine and half-past twelve. I will endeavour to make my house pleasant to her and useful, and will make her an allowance of £25 per annum for her clothes as long as she may remain with me. I shall expect her to be regular at meals, to be constant in going to church, and not to read modern novels. 

 I intend the arrangement to be permanent, but of course I must retain the power of closing it if, and when, I shall see fit. Its permanence must be contingent on my life. I have no power of providing for any one _after my death_. 

 Yours truly, JEMIMA STANBURY. 

 I hope the young lady does not have any false hair about her. 

When this note was received at Nuncombe Putney the amazement which itoccasioned was extreme. Mrs. Stanbury, the widow of the late vicar, lived in a little morsel of a cottage on the outskirts of thevillage, with her two daughters, Priscilla and Dorothy. Their wholeincome, out of which it was necessary that they should pay rent fortheir cottage, was less than £70 per annum. During the last fewmonths a five-pound note now and again had found its way to NuncombePutney out of the coffers of the "D. R. ;" but the ladies there weremost unwilling to be so relieved, thinking that their brother'scareer was of infinitely more importance than their comforts or eventhan their living. They were very poor, but they were accustomedto poverty. The elder sister was older than Hugh, but Dorothy, theyounger, to whom this strange invitation was now made, was two yearsyounger than her brother, and was now nearly twenty-six. How they hadlived, and dressed themselves, and had continued to be called ladiesby the inhabitants of the village was, and is, and will be a mysteryto those who have had the spending of much larger incomes, but havestill been always poor. But they had lived, had gone to church everySunday in decent apparel, and had kept up friendly relations with thefamily of the present vicar, and with one or two other neighbours. 

When the letter had been read first by the mother, and then aloud, and then by each of them separately, in the little sitting-room inthe cottage, there was silence among them, --for neither of themdesired to be the first to express an opinion. Nothing could be morenatural than the proposed arrangement, had it not been made unnaturalby a quarrel existing nearly throughout the whole life of the personmost nearly concerned. Priscilla, the elder daughter, was the one ofthe family who was generally the ruler, and she at last expressed anopinion adverse to the arrangement. "My dear, you would never be ableto bear it, " said Priscilla. 

"I suppose not, " said Mrs. Stanbury, plaintively. 

"I could try, " said Dorothy. 

"My dear, you don't know that woman, " said Priscilla. 

"Of course I don't know her, " said Dorothy. 

"She has always been very good to Hugh, " said Mrs. Stanbury. 

"I don't think she has been good to him at all, " said Priscilla. 

"But think what a saving it would be, " said Dorothy. "And I couldsend home half of what Aunt Stanbury says she would give me. "

"You must not think of that, " said Priscilla, "because she expectsyou to be dressed. "

"I should like to try, " she said, before the morning was over, --"ifyou and mamma don't think it would be wrong. "

The conference that day ended in a written request to Aunt Stanburythat a week might be allowed for consideration, --the letter beingwritten by Priscilla, but signed with her mother's name, --and with avery long epistle to Hugh, in which each of the ladies took a part, and in which advice and decision were demanded. It was very evidentto Hugh that his mother and Dorothy were for compliance, and thatPriscilla was for refusal. But he never doubted for a moment. "Ofcourse she will go, " he said in his answer to Priscilla; "and shemust understand that Aunt Stanbury is a most excellent woman, as trueas the sun, thoroughly honest, with no fault but this, that she likesher own way. Of course Dolly can go back again if she finds the housetoo hard for her. " Then he sent another five-pound note, observingthat Dolly's journey to Exeter would cost money, and that herwardrobe would want some improvement. 

"I'm very glad that it isn't me, " said Priscilla, who, however, didnot attempt to oppose the decision of the man of the family. Dorothywas greatly gratified by the excitement of the proposed change inher life, and the following letter, the product of the wisdom of thefamily, was written by Mrs. Stanbury:--

 Nuncombe Putney, 1st May, 186--. 

 MY DEAR SISTER STANBURY, We are all very thankful for the kindness of your offer, which my daughter Dorothy will accept with feelings of affectionate gratitude. I think you will find her docile, good-tempered, and amiable; but a mother, of course, speaks well of her own child. She will endeavour to comply with your wishes in all things reasonable. She, of course, understands that should the arrangement not suit, she will come back home on the expression of your wish that it should be so. And she will, of course, do the same, if she should find that living in Exeter does not suit herself. [This sentence was inserted at the instance of Priscilla, after much urgent expostulation. ] Dorothy will be ready to go to you on any day you may fix after the 7th of this month. 

 Believe me to remain, Your affectionate sister-in-law, P. STANBURY. 

"She's going to come, " said Miss Stanbury to Martha, holding theletter in her hand. 

"I never doubted her coming, ma'am, " said Martha. 

"And I mean her to stay, unless it's her own fault. She'll have thesmall room up-stairs, looking out front, next to mine. And you mustgo and fetch her. "

"Go and fetch her, ma'am?"

"Yes. If you won't, I must. "

"She ain't a child, ma'am. She's twenty-five years old, and surelyshe can come to Exeter by herself, with a railroad all the way fromLessboro'. "

"There's no place a young woman is insulted in so bad as thoserailway carriages, and I won't have her come by herself. If she is tolive with me, she shall begin decently at any rate. "

Martha argued the matter, but was of course beaten, and on the dayfixed started early in the morning for Nuncombe Putney, and returnedin the afternoon to the Close with her charge. By the time that shehad reached the house she had in some degree reconciled herself tothe dangerous step that her mistress had taken, partly by perceivingthat in face Dorothy Stanbury was very like her brother Hugh, andpartly, perhaps, by finding that the young woman's manner to herselfwas both gentle and sprightly. She knew well that gentleness alone, without some back-bone of strength under it, would not long succeedwith Miss Stanbury. "As far as I can judge, ma'am, she's a sweetyoung lady, " said Martha, when she reported her arrival to hermistress, who had retired up-stairs to her own room, in order thatshe might thus hear a word of tidings from her lieutenant, before sheshowed herself on the field of action. 

"Sweet! I hate your sweets, " said Miss Stanbury. 

"Then why did you send for her, ma'am?"

"Because I was an old fool. But I must go down and receive her, Isuppose. "

Then Miss Stanbury went down, almost trembling as she went. Thematter to her was one of vital importance. She was going to changethe whole tenour of her life for the sake, --as she told herself, --ofdoing her duty by a relative whom she did not even know. But we mayfairly suppose that there had in truth been a feeling beyond that, which taught her to desire to have some one near her to whom shemight not only do her duty as guardian, but whom she might also love. She had tried this with her nephew; but her nephew had been toostrong for her, too far from her, too unlike to herself. When he cameto see her he had smoked a short pipe, --which had been shocking toher, --and he had spoken of Reform, and Trades' Unions, and meetingsin the parks, as though they had not been Devil's ordinances. And hewas very shy of going to church, --utterly refusing to be taken theretwice on the same Sunday. And he had told his aunt that owing to apeculiar and unfortunate weakness in his constitution he could notlisten to the reading of sermons. And then she was almost certainthat he had once kissed one of the maids! She had found it impossibleto manage him in any way; and when he positively declared himself aspermanently devoted to the degrading iniquities of penny newspapers, she had thought it best to cast him off altogether. Now, thus late inlife, she was going to make another venture, to try an altogether newmode of living, --in order, as she said to herself, that she might beof some use to somebody, --but, no doubt, with a further unexpressedhope in her bosom, that the solitude of her life might be relieved bythe companionship of some one whom she might love. She had arrayedherself in a clean cap and her evening gown, and she went down-stairslooking sternly, with a fully-developed idea that she must initiateher new duties by assuming a mastery at once. But inwardly shetrembled, and was intensely anxious as to the first appearance ofher niece. Of course there would be a little morsel of a bonnet. She hated those vile patches, --dirty flat daubs of millinery asshe called them; but they had become too general for her to refuseadmittance for such a thing within her doors. But a chignon, abandbox behind the noddle, --she would not endure. And then there wereother details of feminine gear, which shall not be specified, as towhich she was painfully anxious, --almost forgetting in her anxietythat the dress of this young woman whom she was about to see musthave ever been regulated by the closest possible economy. 

The first thing she saw on entering the room was a dark straw hat, a straw hat with a strong penthouse flap to it, and her heart wasimmediately softened. 

"My dear, " she said, "I am glad to see you. "

Dorothy, who, on her part, was trembling also, whose position was oneto justify most intense anxiety, murmured some reply. 

"Take off your hat, " said the aunt, "and let me give you a kiss. "

The hat was taken off and the kiss was given. There was certainly nochignon there. Dorothy Stanbury was light haired, with almost flaxenringlets, worn after the old-fashioned way which we used to think sopretty when we were young. She had very soft grey eyes, which everseemed to beseech you to do something when they looked at you, andher mouth was a beseeching mouth. There are women who, even amidsttheir strongest efforts at giving assistance to others, always lookas though they were asking aid themselves, and such a one was DorothyStanbury. Her complexion was pale, but there was always present init a tint of pink running here and there, changing with every wordshe spoke, changing indeed with every pulse of her heart. Nothingever was softer than her cheek; but her hands were thin and hard, and almost fibrous with the working of the thread upon them. Shewas rather tall than otherwise, but that extreme look of femininedependence which always accompanied her, took away something evenfrom the appearance of her height. 

"These are all real, at any rate, " said her aunt, taking hold of thecurls, "and won't be hurt by a little cold water. "

Dorothy smiled but said nothing, and was then taken up to herbed-room. Indeed, when the aunt and niece sat down to dinner togetherDorothy had hardly spoken. But Miss Stanbury had spoken, and thingsupon the whole had gone very well. 

"I hope you like roast chicken, my dear?" said Miss Stanbury. 

"Oh, thank you. "

"And bread sauce? Jane, I do hope the bread sauce is hot. "

If the reader thinks that Miss Stanbury was indifferent toconsiderations of the table, the reader is altogether ignorant ofMiss Stanbury's character. When Miss Stanbury gave her niece theliver-wing, and picked out from the attendant sausages one that hadbeen well browned and properly broken in the frying, she meant to doa real kindness. 

"And now, my dear, there are mashed potatoes and bread sauce. As forgreen vegetables, I don't know what has become of them. They tell meI may have green peas from France at a shilling a quart; but if Ican't have English green peas, I won't have any. "

Miss Stanbury was standing up as she said this, --as she always did onsuch occasions, liking to have a full mastery over the dish. 

"I hope you like it, my dear?"

"Everything is so very nice. "

"That's right. I like to see a young woman with an appetite. Rememberthat God sends the good things for us to eat; and as long as wedon't take more than our share, and give away something to those whohaven't a fair share of their own, I for one think it quite right toenjoy my victuals. Jane, this bread sauce isn't hot. It never is hot. Don't tell me; I know what hot is!"

Dorothy thought that her aunt was very angry; but Jane knew MissStanbury better, and bore the scolding without shaking in her shoes. 

"And now, my dear, you must take a glass of port wine. It will do yougood after your journey. "

Dorothy attempted to explain that she never did drink any wine, buther aunt talked down her scruples at once. 

"One glass of port wine never did anybody any harm, and as there isport wine, it must be intended that somebody should drink it. "

Miss Stanbury, as she sipped hers out very slowly, seemed to enjoy itmuch. Although May had come, there was a fire in the grate, and shesat with her toes on the fender, and her silk dress folded up aboveher knees. She sat quite silent in this position for a quarter of anhour, every now and then raising her glass to her lips. Dorothy satsilent also. To her, in the newness of her condition, speech wasimpossible. 

"I think it will do, " said Miss Stanbury at last. 

As Dorothy had no idea what would do, she could make no reply tothis. 

"I'm sure it will do, " said Miss Stanbury, after another shortinterval. "You're as like my poor sister as two eggs. You don't haveheadaches, do you?"

Dorothy said that she was not ordinarily affected in that way. 

"When girls have headaches it comes from tight-lacing, and notwalking enough, and carrying all manner of nasty smells about withthem. I know what headaches mean. How is a woman not to have aheadache, when she carries a thing on the back of her poll as bigas a gardener's wheel-barrow? Come, it's a fine evening, and we'llgo out and look at the towers. You've never even seen them yet, Isuppose?"

So they went out, and finding the verger at the Cathedral door, hebeing a great friend of Miss Stanbury's, they walked up and down theaisles, and Dorothy was instructed as to what would be expected fromher in regard to the outward forms of religion. She was to go to theCathedral service on the morning of every week-day, and on Sundays inthe afternoon. On Sunday mornings she was to attend the little churchof St. Margaret. On Sunday evenings it was the practice of MissStanbury to read a sermon in the dining-room to all of whom herhousehold consisted. Did Dorothy like daily services? Dorothy, whowas more patient than her brother, and whose life had been much lessenergetic, said that she had no objection to going to church everyday when there was not too much to do. 

"There never need be too much to do to attend the Lord's house, " saidMiss Stanbury, somewhat angrily. 

"Only if you've got to make the beds, " said Dorothy. 

"My dear, I beg your pardon, " said Miss Stanbury. "I beg your pardon, heartily. I'm a thoughtless old woman, I know. Never mind. Now, we'llgo in. "

Later in the evening, when she gave her niece a candlestick to go tobed, she repeated what she had said before. 

"It'll do very well, my dear. I'm sure it'll do. But if you read inbed either night or morning, I'll never forgive you. "

This last caution was uttered with so much energy, that Dorothy gavea little jump as she promised obedience. 

CHAPTER IX. 

SHEWING HOW THE QUARREL PROGRESSED AGAIN. 

On one Sunday morning, when the month of May was nearly over, HughStanbury met Colonel Osborne in Curzon Street, not many yards fromTrevelyan's door. Colonel Osborne had just come from the house, andStanbury was going to it. Hugh had not spoken to Osborne since theday, now a fortnight since, on which both of them had witnessedthe scene in the park; but on that occasion they had been lefttogether, and it had been impossible for them not to say a few wordsabout their mutual friends. Osborne had expressed his sorrow thatthere should be any misunderstanding, and had called Trevelyan a"confounded fool. " Stanbury had suggested that there was something init which they two probably did not understand, and that matters wouldbe sure to come all right. "The truth is Trevelyan bullies her, " saidOsborne; "and if he goes on with that he'll be sure to get the worstof it. " Now, --on this present occasion, --Stanbury asked whether hewould find the ladies at home. "Yes, they are both there, " saidOsborne. "Trevelyan has just gone out in a huff. She'll never be ableto go on living with him. Anybody can see that with half an eye. "Then he had passed on, and Hugh Stanbury knocked at the door. 

He was shown up into the drawing-room, and found both the sistersthere; but he could see that Mrs. Trevelyan had been in tears. Theavowed purpose of his visit, --that is, the purpose which he hadavowed to himself, --was to talk about his sister Dorothy. He had toldMiss Rowley, while walking in the park with her, how Dorothy had beeninvited over to Exeter by her aunt, and how he had counselled hissister to accept the invitation. Nora had expressed herself veryinterested as to Dorothy's fate, and had said how much she wishedthat she knew Dorothy. We all understand how sweet it is, when twosuch persons as Hugh Stanbury and Nora Rowley cannot speak of theirlove for each other, to say these tender things in regard to someone else. Nora had been quite anxious to know how Dorothy had beenreceived by that old conservative warrior, as Hugh Stanbury hadcalled his aunt, and Hugh had now come to Curzon Street with a letterfrom Dorothy in his pocket. But when he saw that there had been somecause for trouble, he hardly knew how to introduce his subject. 

"Trevelyan is not at home?" he asked. 

"No, " said Emily, with her face turned away. "He went out and left usa quarter of an hour since. Did you meet Colonel Osborne?"

"I was speaking to him in the street not a moment since. " As heanswered he could see that Nora was making some sign to her sister. Nora was most anxious that Emily should not speak of what had justoccurred, but her signs were all thrown away. "Somebody must tellhim, " said Mrs. Trevelyan, "and I don't know who can do so betterthan so old a friend as Mr. Stanbury. "

"Tell what, and to whom?" he asked. 

"No, no, no, " said Nora. 

"Then I must tell him myself, " said she, "that is all. As forstanding this kind of life, it is out of the question. I shouldeither destroy myself or go mad. "

"If I could do any good I should be so happy, " said Stanbury. 

"Nobody can do any good between a man and his wife, " said Nora. 

Then Mrs. Trevelyan began to tell her story, putting aside, with animpatient motion of her hands, the efforts which her sister made tostop her. She was very angry, and as she told it, standing up, alltrace of sobbing soon disappeared from her voice. "The fact is, " shesaid, "he does not know his own mind, or what to fear or what not tofear. He told me that I was never to see Colonel Osborne again. "

"What is the use, Emily, of your repeating that to Mr. Stanbury?"

"Why should I not repeat it? Colonel Osborne is papa's oldest friend, and mine too. He is a man I like very much, --who is a real friend tome. As he is old enough to be my father, one would have thought thatmy husband could have found no objection. "

"I don't know much about his age, " said Stanbury. 

"It does make a difference. It must make a difference. I should notthink of becoming so intimate with a younger man. But, however, whenmy husband told me that I was to see him no more, --though the insultnearly killed me, I determined to obey him. An order was given thatColonel Osborne should not be admitted. You may imagine how painfulit was; but it was given, and I was prepared to bear it. "

"But he had been lunching with you on that Sunday. "

"Yes; that is just it. As soon as it was given Louis would rescindit, because he was ashamed of what he had done. He was so jealousthat he did not want me to see the man; and yet he was so afraid thatit should be known that he ordered me to see him. He ordered him intothe house at last, and I, --I went away up-stairs. "

"That was on the Sunday that we met you in the park?" asked Stanbury. 

"What is the use of going back to all that?" said Nora. 

"Then I met him by chance in the park, " continued Mrs. Trevelyan, "and because he said a word which I knew would anger my husband, Ileft him abruptly. Since that my husband has begged that things mightgo on as they were before. He could not bear that Colonel Osbornehimself should think that he was jealous. Well; I gave way, and theman has been here as before. And now there has been a scene which hasbeen disgraceful to us all. I cannot stand it, and I won't. If hedoes not behave himself with more manliness, --I will leave him. "

"But what can I do?"

"Nothing, Mr. Stanbury, " said Nora. 

"Yes; you can do this. You can go to him from me, and can tell himthat I have chosen you as a messenger because you are his friend. You can tell him that I am willing to obey him in anything. If hechooses, I will consent that Colonel Osborne shall be asked neverto come into my presence again. It will be very absurd; but if hechooses, I will consent. Or I will let things go on as they are, andcontinue to receive my father's old friend when he comes. But if Ido, I will not put up with an imputation on my conduct because hedoes not like the way in which the gentleman thinks fit to addressme. I take upon myself to say that if any man alive spoke to me ashe ought not to speak, I should know how to resent it myself. But Icannot fly into a passion with an old gentleman for calling me by myChristian name, when he has done so habitually for years. "

From all this it will appear that the great godsend of a richmarriage, with all manner of attendant comforts, which had come inthe way of the Rowley family as they were living at the Mandarins, had not turned out to be an unmixed blessing. In the matter of thequarrel, as it had hitherto progressed, the husband had perhaps beenmore in the wrong than his wife; but the wife, in spite of all herpromises of perfect obedience, had proved herself to be a woman veryhard to manage. Had she been earnest in her desire to please her lordand master in this matter of Colonel Osborne's visits, --to pleasehim even after he had so vacillated in his own behests, --she mightprobably have so received the man as to have quelled all feeling ofjealousy in her husband's bosom. But instead of doing so she hadtold herself that as she was innocent, and as her innocence had beenacknowledged, and as she had been specially instructed to receivethis man whom she had before been specially instructed not toreceive, she would now fall back exactly into her old manner withhim. She had told Colonel Osborne never to allude to that meetingin the park, and to ask no creature as to what had occasioned herconduct on that Sunday; thus having a mystery with him, which ofcourse he understood as well as she did. And then she had again takento writing notes to him and receiving notes from him, --none of whichshe showed to her husband. She was more intimate with him than ever, and yet she hardly ever mentioned his name to her husband. Trevelyan, acknowledging to himself that he had done no good by his formerinterference, feeling that he had put himself in the wrong on thatoccasion, and that his wife had got the better of him, had borne withall this, with soreness and a moody savageness of general conduct, but still without further words of anger with reference to the manhimself. But now, on this Sunday, when his wife had been closetedwith Colonel Osborne in the back drawing-room, leaving him with hissister-in-law, his temper had become too hot for him, and he hadsuddenly left the house, declaring that he would not walk with thetwo women on that day. "Why not, Louis?" his wife had said, coming upto him. "Never mind why not, but I shall not, " he had answered; andthen he left the room. 

"What is the matter with him?" Colonel Osborne had asked. 

"It is impossible to say what is the matter with him, " Mrs. Trevelyanhad replied. After that she had at once gone up-stairs to her child, telling herself that she was doing all that the strictest proprietycould require in leaving the man's society as soon as her husbandwas gone. Then there was an awkward minute or two between Nora andColonel Osborne, and he took his leave. 

Stanbury at last promised that he would see Trevelyan, repeating, however, very frequently that often-used assertion, that no taskis so hopeless as that of interfering between a man and his wife. Nevertheless he promised, and undertook to look for Trevelyan atthe Acrobats on that afternoon. At last he got a moment in whichto produce the letter from his sister, and was able to turn theconversation for a few minutes to his own affairs. Dorothy's letterwas read and discussed by both the ladies with much zeal. "It isquite a strange world to me, " said Dorothy, "but I am beginning tofind myself more at my ease than I was at first. Aunt Stanbury isvery good-natured, and when I know what she wants, I think I shall beable to please her. What you said of her disposition is not so bad tome, as of course a girl in my position does not expect to have herown way. "

"Why shouldn't she have her share of her own way as well as anybodyelse?" said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"Poor Dorothy would never want to have her own way, " said Hugh. 

"She ought to want it, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"She has spirit enough to turn if she's trodden on, " said Hugh. 

"That's more than what most women have, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

Then he went on with the letter. "She is very generous, and has givenme £6 5_s. _ in advance of my allowance. When I said I would send partof it home to mamma, she seemed to be angry, and said that she wantedme always to look nice about my clothes. She told me afterwards to doas I pleased, and that I might try my own way for the first quarter. So I was frightened, and only sent thirty shillings. We went outthe other evening to drink tea with Mrs. MacHugh, an old lady whosehusband was once dean. I had to go, and it was all very nice. Therewere a great many clergymen there, but many of them were young men. ""Poor Dorothy, " exclaimed Nora. "One of them was the minor canon whochants the service every morning. He is a bachelor--" "Then there isa hope for her, " said Nora--"and he always talks a little as thoughhe were singing the Litany. " "That's very bad, " said Nora; "fancyhaving a husband to sing the Litany to you always. " "Better that, perhaps, than having him always singing something else, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

It was decided between them that Dorothy's state might on the wholebe considered as flourishing, but that Hugh was bound as a brotherto go down to Exeter and look after her. He explained, however, thathe was expressly debarred from calling on his sister, even betweenthe hours of half-past nine and half-past twelve on Wednesdaymornings, and that he could not see her at all unless he did sosurreptitiously. 

"If I were you I would see my sister in spite of all the old viragosin Exeter, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. "I have no idea of anybody taking somuch upon themselves. "

"You must remember, Mrs. Trevelyan, that she has taken upon herselfmuch also in the way of kindness, in doing what perhaps I ought tocall charity. I wonder what I should have been doing now if it werenot for my Aunt Stanbury. "

He took his leave, and went at once from Curzon Street to Trevelyan'sclub, and found that Trevelyan had not been there as yet. In anotherhour he called again, and was about to give it up, when he met theman whom he was seeking on the steps. 

"I was looking for you, " he said. 

"Well, here I am. "

It was impossible not to see in the look of Trevelyan's face, and notto hear in the tone of his voice, that he was, at the moment, in anangry and unhappy frame of mind. He did not move as though he werewilling to accompany his friend, and seemed almost to know beforehandthat the approaching interview was to be an unpleasant one. 

"I want to speak to you, and perhaps you wouldn't mind taking a turnwith me, " said Stanbury. 

But Trevelyan objected to this, and led the way into the clubwaiting-room. A club waiting-room is always a gloomy, unpromisingplace for a confidential conversation, and so Stanbury felt it to beon the present occasion. But he had no alternative. There they weretogether, and he must do as he had promised. Trevelyan kept on hishat and did not sit down, and looked very gloomy. Stanbury havingto commence without any assistance from outward auxiliaries, almostforgot what it was that he had promised to do. 

"I have just come from Curzon Street, " he said. 

"Well!"

"At least I was there about two hours ago. "

"It doesn't matter, I suppose, whether it was two hours or twominutes, " said Trevelyan. 

"Not in the least. The fact is this; I happened to come upon the twogirls there, when they were very unhappy, and your wife asked me tocome and say a word or two to you. "

"Was Colonel Osborne there?"

"No; I had met him in the street a minute or two before. "

"Well, now; look here, Stanbury. If you'll take my advice, you'llkeep your hands out of this. It is not but that I regard you as beingas good a friend as I have in the world; but, to own the truth, Icannot put up with interference between myself and my wife. "

"Of course you understand that I only come as a messenger. "

 [Illustration: "I only come as a messenger. "]

"You had better not be a messenger in such a cause. If she hasanything to say she can say it to myself. "

"Am I to understand that you will not listen to me?"

"I had rather not. "

"I think you are wrong, " said Stanbury. 

"In that matter you must allow me to judge for myself. I can easilyunderstand that a young woman like her, especially with her sister toback her, should induce such a one as you to take her part. "

"I am taking nobody's part. You wrong your wife, and you especiallywrong Miss Rowley. "

"If you please, Stanbury, we will say nothing more about it. " ThisTrevelyan said holding the door of the room half open in his hand, sothat the other was obliged to pass out through it. 

"Good evening, " said Stanbury, with much anger. 

"Good evening, " said Trevelyan, with an assumption of indifference. 

Stanbury went away in absolute wrath, though the trouble which he hadhad in the interview was much less than he had anticipated, and theresult quite as favourable. He had known that no good would come ofhis visit. And yet he was now full of anger against Trevelyan, andhad become a partisan in the matter, --which was exactly that which hehad resolutely determined that he would not become. "I believe thatno woman on earth could live with him, " he said to himself as hewalked away. "It was always the same with him, --a desire for mastery, which he did not know how to use when he had obtained it. If it wereNora, instead of the other sister, he would break her sweet heartwithin a month. "

Trevelyan dined at his club, and hardly spoke a word to any oneduring the evening. At about eleven he started to walk home, butwent by no means straight thither, taking a long turn through St. James's Park, and by Pimlico. It was necessary that he should makeup his mind as to what he would do. He had sternly refused theinterference of a friend, and he must be prepared to act on his ownresponsibility. He knew well that he could not begin again with hiswife on the next day as though nothing had happened. Stanbury's visitto him, if it had done nothing else, had made this impossible. Hedetermined that he would not go to her room to-night, but would seeher as early as possible in the morning;--and would then talk to herwith all the wisdom of which he was master. 

How many husbands have come to the same resolution; and how few ofthem have found the words of wisdom to be efficacious!

CHAPTER X. 

HARD WORDS. 

 [Illustration]

It is to be feared that men in general do not regret as they shoulddo any temporary ill-feeling, or irritating jealousy between husbandsand wives, of which they themselves have been the cause. The authoris not speaking now of actual love-makings, of intrigues and devilishvillany, either perpetrated or imagined; but rather of those passinggusts of short-lived and unfounded suspicion to which, as to otheraccidents, very well-regulated families may occasionally be liable. When such suspicion rises in the bosom of a wife, some womanintervening or being believed to intervene between her and the manwho is her own, that woman who has intervened or been supposed tointervene, will either glory in her position or bewail it bitterly, according to the circumstances of the case. We will charitablysuppose that, in a great majority of such instances, she will bewailit. But when such painful jealous doubts annoy the husband, theman who is in the way will almost always feel himself justified inextracting a slightly pleasurable sensation from the transaction. He will say to himself probably, unconsciously indeed, and withno formed words, that the husband is an ass, an ass if he be ina twitter either for that which he has kept or for that which hehas been unable to keep, that the lady has shewn a good deal ofappreciation, and that he himself is--is--is--quite a Captain boldof Halifax. All the while he will not have the slightest intentionof wronging the husband's honour, and will have received no greaterfavour from the intimacy accorded to him than the privilege ofrunning on one day to Marshall and Snellgrove's, the haberdashers, and on another to Handcocks', the jewellers. If he be allowed to buya present or two, or to pay a few shillings here or there, he hasachieved much. Terrible things now and again do occur, even here inEngland; but women, with us, are slow to burn their household gods. It happens, however, occasionally, as we are all aware, that theoutward garments of a domestic deity will be a little scorched; andwhen this occurs, the man who is the interloper, will generally finda gentle consolation in his position, let its interest be ever soflaccid and unreal, and its troubles in running about, and the like, ever so considerable and time-destructive. 

It was so certainly with Colonel Osborne when he became aware thathis intimacy with Mrs. Trevelyan had caused her husband uneasiness. He was not especially a vicious man, and had now, as we know, reacheda time of life when such vice as that in question might be supposedto have lost its charm for him. A gentleman over fifty, popularin London, with a seat in Parliament, fond of good dinners, andpossessed of everything which the world has to give, could hardlyhave wished to run away with his neighbour's wife, or to havedestroyed the happiness of his old friend's daughter. Such wickednesshad never come into his head; but he had a certain pleasure in beingthe confidential friend of a very pretty woman; and when he heardthat that pretty woman's husband was jealous, the pleasure wasenhanced rather than otherwise. On that Sunday, as he had left thehouse in Curzon Street, he had told Stanbury that Trevelyan had justgone off in a huff, which was true enough, and he had walked fromthence down Clarges Street, and across Piccadilly to St. James'sStreet, with a jauntier step than usual, because he was aware that hehimself had been the occasion of that trouble. This was very wrong;but there is reason to believe that many such men as Colonel Osborne, who are bachelors at fifty, are equally malicious. 

He thought a good deal about it on that evening, and was stillthinking about it on the following morning. He had promised to go upto Curzon Street on the Monday, --really on some most trivial mission, on a matter of business which no man could have taken in hand whosetime was of the slightest value to himself or any one else. But nowthat mission assumed an importance in his eyes, and seemed to requireeither a special observance or a special excuse. There was no realreason why he should not have stayed away from Curzon Street for thenext fortnight; and had he done so he need have made no excuse toMrs. Trevelyan when he met her. But the opportunity for a littleexcitement was not to be missed, and instead of going he wrote to herthe following note:--

 Albany, Monday. 

 DEAR EMILY, What was it all about yesterday? I was to have come up with the words of that opera, but perhaps it will be better to send it. If it be not wicked, do tell me whether I am to consider myself as a banished man. I thought that our little meetings were so innocent, --and so pleasant! The green-eyed monster is of all monsters the most monstrous, --and the most unreasonable. Pray let me have a line, if it be not forbidden. 

 Yours always heartily, F. O. 

 Putting aside all joking, I beg you to remember that I consider myself always entitled to be regarded by you as your most sincere friend. 

When this was brought to Mrs. Trevelyan, about twelve o'clock inthe day, she had already undergone the infliction of those wordsof wisdom which her husband had prepared for her, and which werethreatened at the close of the last chapter. Her husband had comeup to her while she was yet in her bed-room, and had striven hardto prevail against her. But his success had been very doubtful. Inregard to the number of words, Mrs. Trevelyan certainly had hadthe best of it. As far as any understanding, one of another, wasconcerned, the conversation had been useless. She believed herself tobe injured and aggrieved, and would continue so to assert, let himimplore her to listen to him as loudly as he might. "Yes;--I willlisten, and I will obey you, " she had said, "but I will not enduresuch insults without telling you that I feel them. " Then he had lefther, fully conscious that he had failed, and went forth out of hishouse into the City, to his club, to wander about the streets, notknowing what he had best do to bring back that state of tranquillityat home which he felt to be so desirable. 

Mrs. Trevelyan was alone when Colonel Osborne's note was brought toher, and was at that moment struggling with herself in anger againsther husband. If he laid any command upon her, she would execute it;but she would never cease to tell him that he had ill-used her. Shewould din it into his ears, let him come to her as often as he mightwith his wise words. Wise words! What was the use of wise words whena man was such a fool in nature? And as for Colonel Osborne, --shewould see him if he came to her three times a day, unless her husbandgave some clearly intelligible order to the contrary. She wasfortifying her mind with this resolution when Colonel Osborne'sletter was brought to her. She asked whether any servant was waitingfor an answer. No, --the servant, who had left it, had gone at once. She read the note, and sat working, with it before her, for a quarterof an hour; and then walked over to her desk and answered it. 

 MY DEAR COLONEL OSBORNE, It will be best to say nothing whatever about the occurrence of yesterday; and if possible, not to think of it. As far as I am concerned, I wish for no change;--except that people should be more reasonable. You can call of course whenever you please; and I am very grateful for your expression of friendship. 

 Yours most sincerely, EMILY TREVELYAN. 

 Thanks for the words of the opera. 

When she had written this, being determined that all should be openand above board, she put a penny stamp on the envelope, and desiredthat the letter should be posted. But she destroyed that which shehad received from Colonel Osborne. In all things she would act as shewould have done if her husband had not been so foolish, and therecould have been no reason why she should have kept so unimportant acommunication. 

In the course of the day Trevelyan passed through the hall to theroom which he himself was accustomed to occupy behind the parlour, and as he did so saw the note lying ready to be posted, took it up, and read the address. He held it for a moment in his hand, thenreplaced it on the hall table, and passed on. When he reached his owntable he sat down hurriedly, and took up in his hand some Review thatwas lying ready for him to read. But he was quite unable to fix hismind upon the words before him. He had spoken to his wife on thatmorning in the strongest language he could use as to the unseemlinessof her intimacy with Colonel Osborne; and then, the first thing shehad done when his back was turned was to write to this very ColonelOsborne, and tell him, no doubt, what had occurred between her andher husband. He sat thinking of it all for many minutes. He wouldprobably have declared himself that he had thought of it for an houras he sat there. Then he got up, went up-stairs and walked slowlyinto the drawing-room. There he found his wife sitting with hersister. "Nora, " he said, "I want to speak to Emily. Will you forgiveme, if I ask you to leave us for a few minutes?" Nora, with ananxious look at Emily, got up and left the room. 

"Why do you send her away?" said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"Because I wish to be alone with you for a few minutes. Since what Isaid to you this morning, you have written to Colonel Osborne. "

"Yes;--I have. I do not know how you have found it out; but I supposeyou keep a watch on me. "

"I keep no watch on you. As I came into the house, I saw your letterlying in the hall. "

"Very well. You could have read it if you pleased. "

"Emily, this matter is becoming very serious, and I strongly adviseyou to be on your guard in what you say. I will bear much for you, and much for our boy; but I will not bear to have my name made areproach. "

"Sir, if you think your name is shamed by me, we had better part, "said Mrs. Trevelyan, rising from her chair, and confronting him witha look before which his own almost quailed. 

"It may be that we had better part, " he said, slowly. "But in thefirst place I wish you to tell me what were the contents of thatletter. "

"If it was there when you came in, no doubt it is there still. Go andlook at it. "

"That is no answer to me. I have desired you to tell me what are itscontents. "

"I shall not tell you. I will not demean myself by repeating anythingso insignificant in my own justification. If you suspect me ofwriting what I should not write, you will suspect me also of lying toconceal it. "

"Have you heard from Colonel Osborne this morning?"

"I have. "

"And where is his letter?"

"I have destroyed it. "

Again he paused, trying to think what he had better do, trying to becalm. And she stood still opposite to him, confronting him with thescorn of her bright angry eyes. Of course, he was not calm. He wasthe very reverse of calm. "And you refuse to tell me what you wrote, "he said. 

"The letter is there, " she answered, pointing away towards the door. "If you want to play the spy, go and look at it for yourself. "

"Do you call me a spy?"

"And what have you called me? Because you are a husband, is theprivilege of vituperation to be all on your side?"

"It is impossible that I should put up with this, " he said;--"quiteimpossible. This would kill me. Anything is better than this. Mypresent orders to you are not to see Colonel Osborne, not to writeto him or have any communication with him, and to put under cover tome, unopened, any letter that may come from him. I shall expect yourimplicit obedience to these orders. "

"Well;--go on. "

"Have I your promise?"

"No;--no. You have no promise. I will make no promise exacted from mein so disgraceful a manner. "

"You refuse to obey me?"

"I will refuse nothing, and will promise nothing. "

"Then we must part;--that is all. I will take care that you shallhear from me before to-morrow morning. "

So saying, he left the room, and, passing through the hall, saw thatthe letter had been taken away. 

CHAPTER XI. 

LADY MILBOROUGH AS AMBASSADOR. 

"Of course, I know you are right, " said Nora to her sister;--"rightas far as Colonel Osborne is concerned; but nevertheless you ought togive way. "

"And be trampled upon?" said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"Yes; and be trampled upon, if he should trample on you;--which, however, he is the last man in the world to do. "

"And to endure any insult and any names? You yourself--you would be aGriselda, I suppose. "

"I don't want to talk about myself, " said Nora, "nor about Griselda. But I know that, however unreasonable it may seem, you had bettergive way to him now and tell him what there was in the note toColonel Osborne. "

"Never! He has ordered me not to see him or to write to him, or toopen his letters, --having, mind you, ordered just the reverse a dayor two before; and I will obey him. Absurd as it is, I will obey him. But as for submitting to him, and letting him suppose that I thinkhe is right;--never! I should be lying to him then, and I will neverlie to him. He has said that we must part, and I suppose it will bebetter so. How can a woman live with a man that suspects her? Hecannot take my baby from me. "

There were many such conversations as the above between the twosisters before Mrs. Trevelyan received from her husband thecommunication with which she had been threatened. And Nora, acting onher own judgment in the matter, made an attempt to see Mr. Trevelyan, writing to him a pretty little note, and beseeching him to be kind toher. But he declined to see her, and the two women sat at home, withthe baby between them, holding such pleasant conversations as thatabove narrated. When such tempests occur in a family, a woman willgenerally suffer the least during the thick of the tempest. Whilethe hurricane is at the fiercest, she will be sustained by the mostthorough conviction that the right is on her side, that she isaggrieved, that there is nothing for her to acknowledge, and noposition that she need surrender. Whereas her husband will desire acompromise, even amidst the violence of the storm. But afterwards, when the wind has lulled, but while the heavens around are still allblack and murky, then the woman's sufferings begin. When passiongives way to thought and memory, she feels the loneliness of herposition, --the loneliness, and the possible degradation. It is allvery well for a man to talk about his name and his honour; but it isthe woman's honour and the woman's name that are, in truth, placed injeopardy. Let the woman do what she will, the man can, in truth, showhis face in the world;--and, after awhile, does show his face. Butthe woman may be compelled to veil hers, either by her own fault, orby his. Mrs. Trevelyan was now told that she was to be separated fromher husband, and she did not, at any rate, believe that she had doneany harm. But, if such separation did come, where could she live, what could she do, what position in the world would she possess?Would not her face be, in truth, veiled as effectually as though shehad disgraced herself and her husband?

And then there was that terrible question about the child. Mrs. Trevelyan had said a dozen times to her sister that her husband couldnot take the boy away from her. Nora, however, had never assented tothis, partly from a conviction of her own ignorance, not knowing whatmight be the power of a husband in such a matter, and partly thinkingthat any argument would be good and fair by which she could induceher sister to avoid a catastrophe so terrible as that which was nowthreatened. 

"I suppose he could take him, if he chose, " she said at last. 

"I don't believe he is wicked like that, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. "Hewould not wish to kill me. "

"But he will say that he loves baby as well as you do. "

"He will never take my child from me. He could never be so bad asthat. "

"And you will never be so bad as to leave him, " said Nora after apause. "I will not believe that it can come to that. You know that heis good at heart, --that nobody on earth loves you as he does. "

So they went on for two days, and on the evening of the second daythere came a letter from Trevelyan to his wife. They had neither ofthem seen him, although he had been in and out of the house. Andon the afternoon of the Sunday a new grievance, a very terriblegrievance, was added to those which Mrs. Trevelyan was made to bear. Her husband had told one of the servants in the house that ColonelOsborne was not to be admitted. And the servant to whom he had giventhis order was the--cook. There is no reason why a cook should beless trustworthy in such a matter than any other servant; and inMr. Trevelyan's household there was a reason why she should be moreso, --as she, and she alone, was what we generally call an old familydomestic. She had lived with her master's mother, and had known hermaster when he was a boy. Looking about him, therefore, for some onein his house to whom he could speak, --feeling that he was bound toconvey the order through some medium, --he called to him the ancientcook, and imparted to her so much of his trouble as was necessaryto make the order intelligible. This he did with various ill-wordedassurances to Mrs. Prodgers that there really was nothing amiss. Butwhen Mrs. Trevelyan heard what had been done, --which she did fromMrs. Prodgers herself, Mrs. Prodgers having been desired by hermaster to make the communication, --she declared to her sister thateverything was now over. She could never again live with a husbandwho had disgraced his wife by desiring her own cook to keep a guardupon her. Had the footman been instructed not to admit ColonelOsborne, there would have been in such instruction some apparentadherence to the recognised usages of society. If you do not desireeither your friend or your enemy to be received into your house, youcommunicate your desire to the person who has charge of the door. Butthe cook!

"And now, Nora, if it were you, do you mean to say that you wouldremain with him?" asked Mrs. Trevelyan. 

Nora simply replied that anything under any circumstances would bebetter than a separation. 

On the morning of the third day there came the following letter:--

 Wednesday, June 1, 12 midnight. 

 DEAREST EMILY, You will readily believe me when I say that I never in my life was so wretched as I have been during the last two days. That you and I should be in the same house together and not able to speak to each other is in itself a misery, but this is terribly enhanced by the dread lest this state of things should be made to continue. 

 I want you to understand that I do not in the least suspect you of having as yet done anything wrong, --or having even said anything injurious either to my position as your husband, or to your position as my wife. But I cannot but perceive that you are allowing yourself to be entrapped into an intimacy with Colonel Osborne which if it be not checked, will be destructive to my happiness and your own. After what had passed before, you cannot have thought it right to receive letters from him which I was not to see, or to write letters to him of which I was not to know the contents. It must be manifest to you that such conduct on your part is wrong as judged by any of the rules by which a wife's conduct can be measured. And yet you have refused even to say that this shall be discontinued! I need hardly explain to you that if you persist in this refusal you and I cannot continue to live together as man and wife. All my hopes and prospects in life will be blighted by such a separation. I have not as yet been able to think what I should do in such wretched circumstances. And for you, as also for Nora, such a catastrophe would be most lamentable. Do, therefore, think of it well, and write me such a letter as may bring me back to your side. 

 There is only one friend in the world to whom I could endure to talk of this great grief, and I have been to her and told her everything. You will know that I mean Lady Milborough. After much difficult conversation I have persuaded her to see you, and she will call in Curzon Street to-morrow about twelve. There can be no kinder-hearted, or more gentle woman in the world than Lady Milborough; nor did any one ever have a warmer friend than both you and I have in her. Let me implore you then to listen to her, and be guided by her advice. 

 Pray believe, dearest Emily, that I am now, as ever, your most affectionate husband, and that I have no wish so strong as that we should not be compelled to part. 

 LOUIS TREVELYAN. 

This epistle was, in many respects, a very injudicious composition. Trevelyan should have trusted either to the eloquence of his ownwritten words, or to that of the ambassador whom he was about todespatch; but by sending both he weakened both. And then there werecertain words in the letter which were odious to Mrs. Trevelyan, andmust have been odious to any young wife. He had said that he did not"as yet" suspect her of having done anything wrong. And then, whenhe endeavoured to explain to her that a separation would be veryinjurious to herself, he had coupled her sister with her, thusseeming to imply that the injury to be avoided was of a materialkind. She had better do what he told her, as, otherwise, she and hersister would not have a roof over their head! That was the nature ofthe threat which his words were supposed to convey. 

The matter had become so serious, that Mrs. Trevelyan, haughty andstiff-necked as she was, did not dare to abstain from showing theletter to her sister. She had no other counsellor, at any rate, tillLady Milborough came, and the weight of the battle was too great forher own unaided spirit. The letter had been written late at night, aswas shown by the precision of the date, and had been brought to herearly in the morning. At first she had determined to say nothingabout it to Nora, but she was not strong enough to maintain such apurpose. She felt that she needed the poor consolation of discussingher wretchedness. She first declared that she would not see LadyMilborough. "I hate her, and she knows that I hate her, and she oughtnot to have thought of coming, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

But she was at last beaten out of this purpose by Nora's argument, that all the world would be against her if she refused to see herhusband's old friend. And then, though the letter was an odiousletter, as she declared a dozen times, she took some littlecomfort in the fact that not a word was said in it about the baby. She thought that if she could take her child with her into anyseparation, she could endure it, and her husband would ultimately beconquered. 

"Yes; I'll see her, " she said, as they finished the discussion. "Ashe chooses to send her, I suppose I had better see her. But I don'tthink he does much to mend matters when he sends the woman whom heknows I dislike more than any other in all London. "

Exactly at twelve o'clock Lady Milborough's carriage was at the door. Trevelyan was in the house at the time and heard the knock at thedoor. During those two or three days of absolute wretchedness, he spent most of his hours under the same roof with his wife andsister-in-law, though he spoke to neither of them. He had had hisdoubts as to the reception of Lady Milborough, and was, to tellthe truth, listening with most anxious ear, when her ladyship wasannounced. His wife, however, was not so bitterly contumacious asto refuse admittance to his friend, and he heard the rustle of theponderous silk as the old woman was shown up-stairs. When LadyMilborough reached the drawing-room, Mrs. Trevelyan was alone. 

"I had better see her by myself, " she had said to her sister. 

Nora had then left her, with one word of prayer that she would be aslittle defiant as possible. 

"That must depend, " Emily had said, with a little shake of her head. 

There had been a suggestion that the child should be with her, butthe mother herself had rejected this. 

"It would be stagey, " she had said, "and clap-trap. There is nothingI hate so much as that. "

She was sitting, therefore, quite alone, and as stiff as a man inarmour, when Lady Milborough was shown up to her. 

And Lady Milborough herself was not at all comfortable as shecommenced the interview. She had prepared many wise words to bespoken, but was not so little ignorant of the character of the womanwith whom she had to deal, as to suppose that the wise words wouldget themselves spoken without interruption. She had known from thefirst that Mrs. Trevelyan would have much to say for herself, and thefeeling that it would be so became stronger than ever as she enteredthe room. The ordinary feelings between the two ladies were cold andconstrained, and then there was silence for a few moments when theCountess had taken her seat. Mrs. Trevelyan had quite determined thatthe enemy should fire the first shot. 

"This is a very sad state of things, " said the Countess. 

"Yes, indeed, Lady Milborough. "

"The saddest in the world;--and so unnecessary;--is it not?"

"Very unnecessary, indeed, as I think. "

"Yes, my dear, yes. But, of course, we must remember--"

Then Lady Milborough could not clearly bring to her mind what it wasthat she had to remember. 

"The fact is, my dear, that all this kind of thing is too monstrousto be thought of. Goodness, gracious, me; two young people like youand Louis, who thoroughly love each other, and who have got a baby, to think of being separated! Of course it is out of the question. "

"You cannot suppose, Lady Milborough, that I want to be separatedfrom my husband?"

"Of course not. How should it be possible? The very idea is tooshocking to be thought of. I declare I haven't slept since Louiswas talking to me about it. But, my dear, you must remember, youknow, that a husband has a right to expect some--some--some--a sortof--submission from his wife. "

"He has a right to expect obedience, Lady Milborough. "

"Of course; that is all one wants. "

"And I will obey Mr. Trevelyan--in anything reasonable. "

"But, my dear, who is to say what is reasonable? That, you see, isalways the difficulty. You must allow that your husband is the personwho ought to decide that. "

"Has he told you that I have refused to obey him, Lady Milborough?"

The Countess paused a moment before she replied. "Well, yes; I thinkhe has, " she said. "He asked you to do something about a letter, --aletter to that Colonel Osborne, who is a man, my dear, really to bevery much afraid of; a man who has done a great deal of harm, --andyou declined. Now in a matter of that kind of course the husband--"

"Lady Milborough, I must ask you to listen to me. You have listenedto Mr. Trevelyan, and I must ask you to listen to me. I am sorryto trouble you, but as you have come here about this unpleasantbusiness, you must forgive me if I insist upon it. "

"Of course I will listen to you, my dear. "

"I have never refused to obey my husband, and I do not refuse now. The gentleman of whom you have been speaking is an old friend of myfather's, and has become my friend. Nevertheless, had Mr. Trevelyangiven me any plain order about him, I should have obeyed him. Awife does not feel that her chances of happiness are increased whenshe finds that her husband suspects her of being too intimate withanother man. It is a thing very hard to bear. But I would haveendeavoured to bear it, knowing how important it is for both oursakes, and more especially for our child. I would have made excuses, and would have endeavoured to think that this horrid feeling on hispart is nothing more than a short delusion. "

"But my dear--"

"I must ask you to hear me out, Lady Milborough. But when he tells mefirst that I am not to meet the man, and so instructs the servants;then tells me that I am to meet him, and go on just as I was goingbefore, and then again tells me that I am not to see him, and againinstructs the servants, --and, above all, the cook!--that ColonelOsborne is not to come into the house, then obedience becomes ratherdifficult. "

"Just say now that you will do what he wants, and then all will beright. "

"I will not say so to you, Lady Milborough. It is not to you thatI ought to say it. But as he has chosen to send you here, I willexplain to you that I have never disobeyed him. When I was free, inaccordance with Mr. Trevelyan's wishes, to have what intercourse Ipleased with Colonel Osborne, I received a note from that gentlemanon a most trivial matter. I answered it as trivially. My husband sawmy letter, closed, and questioned me about it. I told him that theletter was still there, and that if he chose to be a spy upon myactions he could open it and read it. "

"My dear, how could you bring yourself to use the word spy to yourhusband?"

"How could he bring himself to accuse me as he did? If he cares forme let him come and beg my pardon for the insult he has offered me. "

"Oh, Mrs. Trevelyan, --"

"Yes; that seems very wrong to you, who have not had to bear it. Itis very easy for a stranger to take a husband's part, and help to putdown a poor woman who has been ill-used. I have done nothing wrong, nothing to be ashamed of; and I will not say that I have. I neverhave spoken a word to Colonel Osborne that all the world might nothear. "

"Nobody has accused you, my dear. "

"Yes; he has accused me, and you have accused me, and you will makeall the world accuse me. He may put me out of his house if he likes, but he shall not make me say I have been wrong, when I know I havebeen right. He cannot take my child from me. "

"But he will. "

"No, " shouted Mrs. Trevelyan, jumping up from her chair, "no; heshall never do that. I will cling to him so that he cannot separateus. He will never be so wicked, --such a monster as that. I would goabout the world saying what a monster he had been to me. " The passionof the interview was becoming too great for Lady Milborough's powerof moderating it, and she was beginning to feel herself to be in adifficulty. "Lady Milborough, " continued Mrs. Trevelyan, "tell himfrom me that I will bear anything but that. That I will not bear. "

"Dear Mrs. Trevelyan, do not let us talk about it. "

"Who wants to talk about it? Why do you come here and threaten mewith a thing so horrible? I do not believe you. He would not dare toseparate me and my--child. "

"But you have only to say that you will submit yourself to him. "

"I have submitted myself to him, and I will submit no further. Whatdoes he want? Why does he send you here? He does not know what hewants. He has made himself miserable by an absurd idea, and he wantseverybody to tell him that he has been right. He has been very wrong;and if he desires to be wise now, he will come back to his home, and say nothing further about it. He will gain nothing by sendingmessengers here. "

Lady Milborough, who had undertaken a most disagreeable task fromthe purest motives of old friendship, did not like being called amessenger; but the woman before her was so strong in her words, soeager, and so passionate, that she did not know how to resent theinjury. And there was coming over her an idea, of which she herselfwas hardly conscious, that after all, perhaps, the husband was not inthe right. She had come there with the general idea that wives, andespecially young wives, should be submissive. She had naturally takenthe husband's part; and having a preconceived dislike to ColonelOsborne, she had been willing enough to think that precautionarymeasures were necessary in reference to so eminent, and notorious, and experienced a Lothario. She had never altogether loved Mrs. Trevelyan, and had always been a little in dread of her. But she hadthought that the authority with which she would be invested on thisoccasion, the manifest right on her side, and the undeniable truth ofher grand argument, that a wife should obey, would carry her, if noteasily, still successfully through all difficulties. It was probablythe case that Lady Milborough when preparing for her visit, hadanticipated a triumph. But when she had been closeted for an hourwith Mrs. Trevelyan, she found that she was not triumphant. She wastold that she was a messenger, and an unwelcome messenger; and shebegan to feel that she did not know how she was to take herself away. 

"I am sure I have done everything for the best, " she said, getting upfrom her chair. 

"The best will be to send him back, and make him feel the truth. "

"The best for you, my dear, will be to consider well what should bethe duty of a wife. "

"I have considered, Lady Milborough. It cannot be a wife's duty toacknowledge that she has been wrong in such a matter as this. "

Then Lady Milborough made her curtsey and got herself away in somemanner that was sufficiently awkward, and Mrs. Trevelyan curtseyedalso as she rang the bell; and, though she was sore and wretched, and, in truth, sadly frightened, she was not awkward. In thatencounter, so far as it had gone, she had been the victor. 

As soon as she was alone and the carriage had been driven well awayfrom the door, Mrs. Trevelyan left the drawing-room and went up tothe nursery. As she entered she clothed her face with her sweetestsmile. "How is his own mother's dearest, dearest, darling duck?"she said, putting out her arms and taking the boy from the nurse. The child was at this time about ten months old, and was a strong, hearty, happy infant, always laughing when he was awake and alwayssleeping when he did not laugh, because his little limbs werefree from pain and his little stomach was not annoyed by internaltroubles. He kicked, and crowed, and sputtered, when his mother tookhim, and put up his little fingers to clutch her hair, and was to heras a young god upon the earth. Nothing in the world had ever beencreated so beautiful, so joyous, so satisfactory, so divine! And theytold her that this apple of her eye was to be taken away from her!No;--that must be impossible. "I will take him into my own room, nurse, for a little while--you have had him all the morning, " shesaid; as though the "having baby" was a privilege over which theremight almost be a quarrel. Then she took her boy away with her, and when she was alone with him, went through such a service inbaby-worship as most mothers will understand. Divide these two! No;nobody should do that. Sooner than that, she, the mother, wouldconsent to be no more than a servant in her husband's house. Was nother baby all the world to her?

On the evening of that day the husband and wife had an interviewtogether in the library, which, unfortunately, was as unsatisfactoryas Lady Milborough's visit. The cause of the failure of them alllay probably in this, --that there was no decided point which, ifconceded, would have brought about a reconciliation. Trevelyan askedfor general submission, which he regarded as his right, and which inthe existing circumstances he thought it necessary to claim, andthough Mrs. Trevelyan did not refuse to be submissive she would makeno promise on the subject. But the truth was that each desired thatthe other should acknowledge a fault, and that neither of them wouldmake that acknowledgment. Emily Trevelyan felt acutely that shehad been ill-used, not only by her husband's suspicion, but by themanner in which he had talked of his suspicion to others, --to LadyMilborough and the cook, and she was quite convinced that she wasright herself, because he had been so vacillating in his conductabout Colonel Osborne. But Trevelyan was equally sure that justicewas on his side. Emily must have known his real wishes about ColonelOsborne; but when she had found that he had rescinded his verbalorders about the admission of the man to the house, --which he haddone to save himself and her from slander and gossip, --she had takenadvantage of this and had thrown herself more entirely than ever intothe intimacy of which he disapproved! When they met, each was so sorethat no approach to terms was made by them. 

"If I am to be treated in that way, I would rather not live withyou, " said the wife. "It is impossible to live with a husband who isjealous. "

"All I ask of you is that you shall promise me to have no furthercommunication with this man. "

"I will make no promise that implies my own disgrace. "

"Then we must part; and if that be so, this house will be given up. You may live where you please, --in the country, not in London; but Ishall take steps that Colonel Osborne does not see you. "

"I will not remain in the room with you to be insulted thus, " saidMrs. Trevelyan. And she did not remain, but left the chamber, slamming the door after her as she went. 

"It will be better that she should go, " said Trevelyan, when he foundhimself alone. And so it came to pass that that blessing of a richmarriage, which had as it were fallen upon them at the Mandarins fromout of heaven, had become, after an interval of but two short years, anything but an unmixed blessing. 

CHAPTER XII. 

MISS STANBURY'S GENEROSITY. 

On one Wednesday morning early in June, great preparations were beingmade at the brick house in the Close at Exeter for an event which canhardly be said to have required any preparation at all. Mrs. Stanburyand her elder daughter were coming into Exeter from Nuncombe Putneyto visit Dorothy. The reader may perhaps remember that when MissStanbury's invitation was sent to her niece, she was pleased topromise that such visits should be permitted on a Wednesday morning. Such a visit was now to be made, and old Miss Stanbury was quitemoved by the occasion. "I shall not see them, you know, Martha, " shehad said, on the afternoon of the preceding day. 

"I suppose not, ma'am. "

"Certainly not. Why should I? It would do no good. "

"It is not for me to say, ma'am, of course. "

"No, Martha, it is not. And I am sure that I am right. It's no goodgoing back and undoing in ten minutes what twenty years have done. She's a poor harmless creature, I believe. "

"The most harmless in the world, ma'am. "

"But she was as bad as poison to me when she was young, and what'sthe good of trying to change it now? If I was to tell her that Iloved her, I should only be lying. "

"Then, ma'am, I would not say it. "

"And I don't mean. But you'll take in some wine and cake, you know. "

"I don't think they'll care for wine and cake. "

"Will you do as I tell you? What matters whether they care for it ornot? They need not take it. It will look better for Miss Dorothy. If Dorothy is to remain here I shall choose that she should berespected. " And so the question of the cake and wine had been decidedovernight. But when the morning came Miss Stanbury was still ina twitter. Half-past ten had been the hour fixed for the visit, in consequence of there being a train in from Lessboro', due atthe Exeter station at ten. As Miss Stanbury breakfasted alwaysat half-past eight, there was no need of hurry on account of theexpected visit. But, nevertheless, she was in a fuss all the morning;and spoke of the coming period as one in which she must necessarilyput herself into solitary confinement. 

"Perhaps your mamma will be cold, " she said, "and will expect afire. "

"Oh, dear, no, Aunt Stanbury. "

"It could be lighted of course. It is a pity they should come just soas to prevent you from going to morning service; is it not?"

"I could go with you, aunt, and be back very nearly in time. Theywon't mind waiting a quarter of an hour. "

"What; and have them here all alone! I wouldn't think of such athing. I shall go up-stairs. You had better come to me when they aregone. Don't hurry them. I don't want you to hurry them at all; andif you require anything, Martha will wait upon you. I have told thegirls to keep out of the way. They are so giddy, there's no knowingwhat they might be after. Besides, --they've got their work to mind. "

All this was very terrible to poor Dorothy, who had not as yet quiterecovered from the original fear with which her aunt had inspiredher, --so terrible that she was almost sorry that her mother andsister were coming to her. When the knock was heard at the door, precisely as the cathedral clock was striking half-past ten, --tosecure which punctuality, and thereby not to offend the owner of themansion, Mrs. Stanbury and Priscilla had been walking about the Closefor the last ten minutes, --Miss Stanbury was still in the parlour. 

"There they are!" she exclaimed, jumping up. "They haven't givena body much time to run away, have they, my dear? Half a minute, Martha, --just half a minute!" Then she gathered up her things asthough she had been ill-treated in being driven to make so sudden aretreat, and Martha, as soon as the last hem of her mistress's dresshad become invisible on the stairs, opened the front door for thevisitors. 

"Do you mean to say you like it?" said Priscilla, when they had beenthere about a quarter of an hour. 

"H--u--sh, " whispered Mrs. Stanbury. 

"I don't suppose she's listening at the door, " said Priscilla. 

"Indeed, she's not, " said Dorothy. "There can't be a truer, honesterwoman, than Aunt Stanbury. "

"But is she kind to you, Dolly?" asked the mother. 

"Very kind; too kind. Only I don't understand her quite, and thenshe gets angry with me. I know she thinks I'm a fool, and that's theworst of it. "

"Then, if I were you, I would come home, " said Priscilla. 

"She'll never forgive you if you do, " said Mrs. Stanbury. 

"And who need care about her forgiveness?" said Priscilla. 

"I don't mean to go home yet, at any rate, " said Dorothy. Then therewas a knock at the door, and Martha entered with the cake and wine. "Miss Stanbury's compliments, ladies, and she hopes you'll take aglass of sherry. " Whereupon she filled out the glasses and carriedthem round. 

"Pray give my compliments and thanks to my sister Stanbury, " saidDorothy's mother. But Priscilla put down the glass of wine withouttouching it, and looked her sternest at the maid. 

Altogether, the visit was not very successful, and poor Dorothyalmost felt that if she chose to remain in the Close she must loseher mother and sister, and that without really making a friend ofher aunt. There had as yet been no quarrel, --nothing that had beenplainly recognised as disagreeable; but there had not as yet come tobe any sympathy, or assured signs of comfortable love. Miss Stanburyhad declared more than once that it would do, but had not succeededin showing in what the success consisted. When she was told that thetwo ladies were gone, she desired that Dorothy might be sent to her, and immediately began to make anxious inquiries. 

"Well, my dear, and what do they think of it?"

"I don't know, aunt, that they think very much. "

"And what do they say about it?"

"They didn't say very much, aunt. I was very glad to see mamma andPriscilla. Perhaps I ought to tell you that mamma gave me back themoney I sent her. "

"What did she do that for?" asked Miss Stanbury very sharply. 

"Because she says that Hugh sends her now what she wants. " MissStanbury, when she heard this, looked very sour. "I thought it bestto tell you, you know. "

"It will never come to any good, got in that way, --never. "

"But, Aunt Stanbury, isn't it good of him to send it?"

"I don't know. I suppose it's better than drinking, and smoking, andgambling. But I dare say he gets enough for that too. When a man, born and bred like a gentleman, condescends to let out his talentsand education for such purposes, I dare say they are willing enoughto pay him. The devil always does pay high wages. But that only makesit so much the worse. One almost comes to doubt whether any one oughtto learn to write at all, when it is used for such vile purposes. I've said what I've got to say, and I don't mean to say anythingmore. What's the use? But it has been hard upon me, --very. It was mymoney did it, and I feel I've misused it. It's a disgrace to me whichI don't deserve. "

For a couple of minutes Dorothy remained quite silent, and MissStanbury did not herself say anything further. Nor during that timedid she observe her niece, or she would probably have seen that thesubject was not to be dropped. Dorothy, though she was silent, wasnot calm, and was preparing herself for a crusade in her brother'sdefence. 

"Aunt Stanbury, he's my brother, you know. "

"Of course he's your brother. I wish he were not. "

"I think him the best brother in the world, --and the best son. "

"Why does he sell himself to write sedition?"

"He doesn't sell himself to write sedition. I don't see why it shouldbe sedition, or anything wicked, because it's sold for a penny. "

"If you are going to cram him down my throat, Dorothy, you and I hadbetter part. "

"I don't want to say anything about him, only you ought--not--toabuse him--before me. " By this time Dorothy was beginning to sob, but Miss Stanbury's countenance was still very grim and very stern. "He's coming home to Nuncombe Putney, and I want to--see--see him, "continued Dorothy. 

"Hugh Stanbury coming to Exeter! He won't come here. "

"Then I'd rather go home, Aunt Stanbury. "

"Very well, very well, " said Miss Stanbury, and she got up and leftthe room. 

Dorothy was in dismay, and began to think that there was nothing forher to do but to pack up her clothes and prepare for her departure. She was very sorry for what had occurred, being fully alive to theimportance of the aid not only to herself, but to her mother andsister, which was afforded by the present arrangement, and she feltvery angry with herself, in that she had already driven her aunt toquarrel with her. But she had found it to be impossible to hear herown brother abused without saying a word on his behalf. She did notsee her aunt again till dinner-time, and then there was hardly a worduttered. Once or twice Dorothy made a little effort to speak, butthese attempts failed utterly. The old woman would hardly reply evenby a monosyllable, but simply muttered something, or shook her headwhen she was addressed. Jane, who waited at table, was very demureand silent, and Martha, who once came into the room during the meal, merely whispered a word into Miss Stanbury's ear. When the clothwas removed, and two glasses of port had been poured out by MissStanbury herself, Dorothy felt that she could endure this treatmentno longer. How was it possible that she could drink wine under suchcircumstances?

 [Illustration: Aunt Stanbury at dinner will not speak. ]

"Not for me, Aunt Stanbury, " said she, with a deploring tone. 

"Why not?"

"I couldn't drink it to-day. "

"Why didn't you say so before it was poured out? And why not to-day?Come, drink it. Do as I bid you. " And she stood over her niece, as atragedy queen in a play with a bowl of poison. Dorothy took it andsipped it from mere force of obedience. "You make as many bones abouta glass of port wine as though it were senna and salts, " said MissStanbury. "Now I've got something to say to you. " By this time theservant was gone, and the two were seated alone together in theparlour. Dorothy, who had not as yet swallowed above half her wine, at once put the glass down. There was an importance in her aunt'stone which frightened her, and made her feel that some evil wascoming. And yet, as she had made up her mind that she must returnhome, there was no further evil that she need dread. "You didn'twrite any of those horrid articles?" said Miss Stanbury. 

"No, aunt; I didn't write them. I shouldn't know how. "

"And I hope you'll never learn. They say women are to vote, andbecome doctors, and if so, there's no knowing what devil's tricksthey mayn't do. But it isn't your fault about that filthy newspaper. How he can let himself down to write stuff that is to be printed onstraw is what I can't understand. "

"I don't see how it can make a difference as he writes it. "

"It would make a great deal of difference to me. And I'm told thatwhat they call ink comes off on your fingers like lamp-black. I nevertouched one, thank God; but they tell me so. All the same; it isn'tyour fault. "

"I've nothing to do with it, Aunt Stanbury. "

"Of course you've not. And as he is your brother it wouldn't benatural that you should like to throw him off. And, my dear, I likeyou for taking his part. Only you needn't have been so fierce with anold woman. "

"Indeed--indeed I didn't mean to be--fierce, Aunt Stanbury. "

"I never was taken up so short in my life. But we won't mind that. There; he shall come and see you. I suppose he won't insist onleaving any of his nastiness about. "

"But is he to come here, Aunt Stanbury?"

"He may if he pleases. "

"Oh, Aunt Stanbury!"

"When he was here last he generally had a pipe in his mouth, and Idare say he never puts it down at all now. Those things grow uponyoung people so fast. But if he could leave it on the door-step justwhile he's here I should be obliged to him. "

"But, dear aunt, couldn't I see him in the street?"

"Out in the street! No, my dear. All the world is not to know thathe's your brother; and he is dressed in such a rapscallion mannerthat the people would think you were talking to a house-breaker. "Dorothy's face became again red as she heard this, and the angrywords were very nearly spoken. "The last time I saw him, " continuedMiss Stanbury, "he had on a short, rough jacket, with enormousbuttons, and one of those flipperty-flopperty things on his head, that the butcher-boys wear. And, oh, the smell of tobacco! As he hadbeen up in London I suppose he thought Exeter was no better than avillage, and he might do just as he pleased. But he knew that ifI'm particular about anything, it is about a gentleman's hat inthe streets. And he wanted me--me!--to walk with him across to Mrs. MacHugh's! We should have been hooted about the Close like a pair ofmad dogs;--and so I told him. "

"All the young men seem to dress like that now, Aunt Stanbury. "

"No, they don't. Mr. Gibson doesn't dress like that. "

"But he's a clergyman, Aunt Stanbury. "

"Perhaps I'm an old fool. I dare say I am, and of course that's whatyou mean. At any rate I'm too old to change, and I don't mean to try. I like to see a difference between a gentleman and a house-breaker. For the matter of that I'm told that there is a difference, and thatthe house-breakers all look like gentlemen now. It may be proper tomake us all stand on our heads, with our legs sticking up in the air;but I for one don't like being topsy-turvey, and I won't try it. Whenis he to reach Exeter?"

"He is coming on Tuesday next, by the last train. "

"Then you can't see him that night. That's out of the question. Nodoubt he'll sleep at the Nag's Head, as that's the lowest radicalpublic-house in the city. Martha shall try to find him. She knowsmore about his doings than I do. If he chooses to come here thefollowing morning before he goes down to Nuncombe Putney, well andgood. I shall wait up till Martha comes back from the train onTuesday night, and hear. " Dorothy was of course full of gratitude andthanks; but yet she felt almost disappointed by the result of heraunt's clemency on the matter. She had desired to take her brother'spart, and it had seemed to her as though she had done so in a verylukewarm manner. She had listened to an immense number of accusationsagainst him, and had been unable to reply to them because she hadbeen conquered by the promise of a visit. And now it was out of thequestion that she should speak of going. Her aunt had given way toher, and of course had conquered her. 

Late on the Tuesday evening, after ten o'clock, Hugh Stanbury waswalking round the Close with his aunt's old servant. He had not putup at that dreadfully radical establishment of which Miss Stanburywas so much afraid, but had taken a bed-room at the Railway Inn. Fromthere he had walked up to the Close with Martha, and now was having afew last words with her before he would allow her to return to thehouse. 

"I suppose she'd as soon see the devil as see me, " said Hugh. 

"If you speak in that way, Mr. Hugh, I won't listen to you. "

"And yet I did everything I could to please her; and I don't thinkany boy ever loved an old woman better than I did her. "

"That was while she used to send you cakes, and ham, and jam toschool, Mr. Hugh. "

"Of course it was, and while she sent me flannel waistcoats toOxford. But when I didn't care any longer for cakes or flannel thenshe got tired of me. It is much better as it is, if she'll only begood to Dorothy. "

"She never was bad to anybody, Mr. Hugh. But I don't think an oldlady like her ever takes to a young woman as she does to a young man, if only he'll let her have a little more of her own way than youwould. It's my belief that you might have had it all for your ownsome day, if you'd done as you ought. "

"That's nonsense, Martha. She means to leave it all to the Burgesses. I've heard her say so. "

"Say so; yes. People don't always do what they say. If you'd managedrightly you might have it all;--and so you might now. "

"I'll tell you what, old girl; I shan't try. Live for the next twentyyears under her apron strings, that I may have the chance at the endof it of cutting some poor devil out of his money! Do you know themeaning of making a score off your own bat, Martha?"

"No, I don't; and if it's anything you're like to do, I don't think Ishould be the better for learning, --by all accounts. And now if youplease, I'll go in. "

"Good night, Martha. My love to them both, and say I'll be thereto-morrow exactly at half-past nine. You'd better take it. It won'tturn to slate-stone. It hasn't come from the old gentleman. "

"I don't want anything of that kind, Mr. Hugh;--indeed I don't. "

"Nonsense. If you don't take it you'll offend me. I believe you thinkI'm not much better than a schoolboy still. "

"I don't think you're half so good, Mr. Hugh, " said the old servant, sticking the sovereign which Hugh had given her in under her glove asshe spoke. 

On the next morning that other visit was made at the brick house, andMiss Stanbury was again in a fuss. On this occasion, however, she wasin a much better humour than before, and was full of little jokes asto the nature of the visitation. Of course, she was not to see hernephew herself, and no message was to be delivered from her, and nonewas to be given to her from him. But an accurate report was to bemade to her as to his appearance, and Dorothy was to be enabled toanswer a variety of questions respecting him after he was gone. "Ofcourse, I don't want to know anything about his money, " Miss Stanburysaid, "only I should like to know how much these people can affordto pay for their penny trash. " On this occasion she had left theroom and gone up-stairs before the knock came at the door, but shemanaged, by peeping over the balcony, to catch a glimpse of the"flipperty-flopperty" hat which her nephew certainly had with him onthis occasion. 

Hugh Stanbury had great news for his sister. The cottage in whichMrs. Stanbury lived at Nuncombe Putney, was the tiniest littledwelling in which a lady and her two daughters ever shelteredthemselves. There was, indeed, a sitting-room, two bed-rooms, and akitchen; but they were all so diminutive in size that the cottage waslittle more than a cabin. But there was a house in the village, notlarge indeed, but eminently respectable, three stories high, coveredwith ivy, having a garden behind it, and generally called the ClockHouse, because there had once been a clock upon it. This househad been lately vacated, and Hugh informed his sister that he wasthinking of taking it for his mother's accommodation. Now, thelate occupants of the Clock House, at Nuncombe Putney, had beenpeople with five or six hundred a year. Had other matters been inaccordance, the house would almost have entitled them to considerthemselves as county people. A gardener had always been keptthere, --and a cow!

"The Clock House for mamma!"

"Well, yes. Don't say a word about it as yet to Aunt Stanbury, asshe'll think that I've sold myself altogether to the old gentleman. "

"But, Hugh, how can mamma live there?"

"The fact is, Dorothy, there is a secret. I can't tell you quiteyet. Of course, you'll know it, and everybody will know it, if thething comes about. But as you won't talk, I will tell you what mostconcerns ourselves. "

"And am I to go back?"

"Certainly not, --if you will take my advice. Stick to your aunt. Youdon't want to smoke pipes, and wear Tom-and-Jerry hats, and write forthe penny newspapers. "

Now Hugh Stanbury's secret was this;--that Louis Trevelyan's wife andsister-in-law were to leave the house in Curzon Street, and come andlive at Nuncombe Putney, with Mrs. Stanbury and Priscilla. Such, atleast, was the plan to be carried out, if Hugh Stanbury should besuccessful in his present negotiations. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

THE HONOURABLE MR. GLASCOCK. 

 [Illustration]

By the end of July Mrs. Trevelyan with her sister was established inthe Clock House, at Nuncombe Putney, under the protection of Hugh'smother; but before the reader is made acquainted with any of thecircumstances of their life there, a few words must be said of anoccurrence which took place before those two ladies left CurzonStreet. 

As to the quarrel between Trevelyan and his wife things went from badto worse. Lady Milborough continued to interfere, writing lettersto Emily which were full of good sense, but which, as Emily saidherself, never really touched the point of dispute. "Am I, who amaltogether unconscious of having done anything amiss, to confess thatI have been in the wrong? If it were about a small matter, I wouldnot mind, for the sake of peace. But when it concerns my conduct inreference to another man I would rather die first. " That had beenMrs. Trevelyan's line of thought and argument in the matter; butthen old Lady Milborough in her letters spoke only of the duty ofobedience as promised at the altar. "But I didn't promise to tell alie, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. And there were interviews between LadyMilborough and Trevelyan, and interviews between Lady Milborough andNora Rowley. The poor dear old dowager was exceedingly busy and fullof groans, prescribing Naples, prescribing a course of extra prayers, prescribing a general course of letting by-gones be by-gones, --towhich, however, Trevelyan would by no means assent without someassurance, which he might regard as a guarantee, --prescribingretirement to a small town in the west of France if Naples would notsuffice; but she could effect nothing. 

Mrs. Trevelyan, indeed, did a thing which was sure of itself torender any steps taken for a reconciliation ineffectual. In the midstof all this turmoil, --while she and her husband were still living inthe same house, but apart because of their absurd quarrel respectingColonel Osborne, she wrote another letter to that gentleman. Theargument by which she justified this to herself, and to her sisterafter it was done, was the real propriety of her own conductthroughout her whole intimacy with Colonel Osborne. "But that isjust what Louis doesn't want you to do, " Nora had said, filled withanger and dismay. "Then let Louis give me an order to that effect, and behave to me like a husband, and I will obey him, " Emily hadanswered. And she had gone on to plead that in her present conditionshe was under no orders from her husband. She was left to judge forherself, and, --judging for herself, --she knew, as she said, that itwas best that she should write to Colonel Osborne. Unfortunatelythere was no ground for hoping that Colonel Osborne was ignorantof this insane jealousy on the part of her husband. It was better, therefore, she said, that she should write to him, --whom on theoccasion she took care to name to her sister as "papa's oldfriend, "--and explain to him what she would wish him to do, and whatnot to do. Colonel Osborne answered the letter very quickly, throwingmuch more of demonstrative affection than he should have done intohis "Dear Emily, " and his "Dearest Friend. " Of course Mrs. Trevelyanhad burned this answer, and of course Mr. Trevelyan had been told ofthe correspondence. His wife, indeed, had been especially carefulthat there should be nothing secret about the matter, --that it shouldbe so known in the house that Mr. Trevelyan should be sure to hearof it. And he had heard of it, and been driven almost mad by it. Hehad flown off to Lady Milborough, and had reduced his old friend todespair by declaring that, after all, he began to fear that his wifewas--was--was--infatuated by that d---- scoundrel. Lady Milboroughforgave the language, but protested that he was wrong in hissuspicion. "To continue to correspond with him after what I have saidto her!" exclaimed Trevelyan. "Take her to Naples at once, "--saidLady Milborough;--"at once!" "And have him after me?" said Trevelyan. Lady Milborough had no answer ready, and not having thought ofthis looked very blank. "I should find it harder to deal with herthere even than here, " continued Trevelyan. Then it was that LadyMilborough spoke of the small town in the west of France, urgingas her reason that such a man as Colonel Osborne would certainlynot follow them there; but Trevelyan had become indignant at this, declaring that if his wife's good name could be preserved in no othermanner than that, it would not be worth preserving at all. Then LadyMilborough had begun to cry, and had continued crying for a very longtime. She was very unhappy, --as unhappy as her nature would allowher to be. She would have made almost any sacrifice to bring the twoyoung people together;--would have willingly given her time, hermoney, her labour in the cause;--would probably herself have goneto the little town in the west of France, had her going been of anyservice. But, nevertheless, after her own fashion, she extracted nosmall enjoyment out of the circumstances of this miserable quarrel. The Lady Milboroughs of the day hate the Colonel Osbornes from thevery bottoms of their warm hearts and pure souls; but they respectthe Colonel Osbornes almost as much as they hate them, and find itto be an inestimable privilege to be brought into some contact withthese roaring lions. 

But there arose to dear Lady Milborough a great trouble out of thisquarrel, irrespective of the absolute horror of the separation of ayoung husband from his young wife. And the excess of her trouble onthis head was great proof of the real goodness of her heart. For, inthis matter, the welfare of Trevelyan himself was not concerned;--butrather that of the Rowley family. Now the Rowleys had not given LadyMilborough any special reason for loving them. When she had firstheard that her dear young friend Louis was going to marry a girl fromthe Mandarins, she had been almost in despair. It was her opinionthat had he properly understood his own position, he would havepromoted his welfare by falling in love with the daughter of someEnglish country gentleman, --or some English peer, to which honour, with his advantages, Lady Milborough thought that he might haveaspired. Nevertheless, when the girl from the Mandarins had beenbrought home as Mrs. Trevelyan, Lady Milborough had received her withopen arms, --had received even the sister-in-law with arms partlyopen. Had either of them shown any tendency to regard her as amother, she would have showered motherly cares upon them. For LadyMilborough was like an old hen, in her capacity for taking manyunder her wings. The two sisters had hardly done more than bearwith her, --Nora, indeed, bearing with her more graciously than Mrs. Trevelyan; and in return, even for this, the old dowager was full ofmotherly regard. Now she knew well that Mr. Glascock was over headand ears in love with Nora Rowley. It only wanted the slightestmanagement and the easiest discretion to bring him on his knees, withan offer of his hand. And, then, how much that hand contained!--howmuch, indeed, as compared with that other hand, which was to be givenin return, and which was, --to speak the truth, --completely empty! Mr. Glascock was the heir to a peer, was the heir to a rich peer, was theheir to a very, very old peer. He was in Parliament. The world spokewell of him. He was not, so to say, by any means an old man himself. He was good-tempered, reasonable, easily led, and yet by no meansdespicable. On all subjects connected with land, he held an opinionthat was very much respected, and was supposed to be a thoroughlygood specimen of an upper-class Englishman. Here was a suitor! But itwas not to be supposed that such a man as Mr. Glascock would be soviolently in love as to propose to a girl whose nearest known friendand female relation was misbehaving herself. 

Only they who have closely watched the natural uneasiness of humanhens can understand how great was Lady Milborough's anxiety onthis occasion. Marriage to her was a thing always delightful tocontemplate. Though she had never been sordidly a match-maker, thecourse of the world around her had taught her to regard men as fishto be caught, and girls as the anglers who ought to catch them. Or, rather, could her mind have been accurately analysed, it would havebeen found that the girl was regarded as half-angler and half-bait. Any girl that angled visibly with her own hook, with a manifestlyexpressed desire to catch a fish, was odious to her. And she was verygentle-hearted in regard to the fishes, thinking that every fishin the river should have the hook and bait presented to him in themildest, pleasantest form. But still, when the trout was well inthe basket, her joy was great; and then came across her unlaboriousmind some half-formed idea that a great ordinance of nature wasbeing accomplished in the teeth of difficulties. For, --as she wellknew, --there is a difficulty in the catching of fish. 

Lady Milborough, in her kind anxiety on Nora's behalf, --that the fishshould be landed before Nora might be swept away in her sister'sruin, --hardly knew what step she might safely take. Mrs. Trevelyanwould not see her again, --having already declared that any furtherinterview would be painful and useless. She had spoken to Trevelyan, but Trevelyan had declared that he could do nothing. What was therethat he could have done? He could not, as he said, overlook the grossimproprieties of his wife's conduct, because his wife's sister had, or might possibly have, a lover. And then as to speaking to Mr. Glascock himself, --nobody knew better than Lady Milborough how veryapt fish are to be frightened. 

But at last Lady Milborough did speak to Mr. Glascock, --making noallusion whatever to the hook prepared for himself, but saying a wordor two as to the affairs of that other fish, whose circumstances, ashe floundered about in the bucket of matrimony, were not as happy asthey might have been. The care, the discretion, nay, the wisdom withwhich she did this were most excellent. She had become aware thatMr. Glascock had already heard of the unfortunate affair in CurzonStreet. Indeed, every one who knew the Trevelyans had heard of it, and a great many who did not know them. No harm, therefore, couldbe done by mentioning the circumstance. Lady Milborough did mentionit, explaining that the only person really in fault was that odiousdestroyer of the peace of families, Colonel Osborne, of whomLady Milborough, on that occasion, said some very severe thingsindeed. Poor dear Mrs. Trevelyan was foolish, obstinate, andself-reliant;--but as innocent as the babe unborn. That things wouldcome right before long no one who knew the affair, --and she knew itfrom beginning to end, --could for a moment doubt. The real victimwould be that sweetest of all girls, Nora Rowley. Mr. Glascockinnocently asked why Nora Rowley should be a victim. "Don't youunderstand, Mr. Glascock, how the most remote connection with athing of that kind tarnishes a young woman's standing in the world?"Mr. Glascock was almost angry with the well-pleased Countess as hedeclared that he could not see that Miss Rowley's standing was at alltarnished; and old Lady Milborough, when he got up and left her, feltthat she had done a good morning's work. If Nora could have known itall, Nora ought to have been very grateful, for Mr. Glascock got intoa cab in Eccleston Square and had himself driven direct to CurzonStreet. He himself believed that he was at that moment only doing thething which he had for some time past resolved that he would do; butwe perhaps may be justified in thinking that the actual resolutionwas first fixed by the discretion of Lady Milborough's communication. At any rate he arrived in Curzon Street with his mind fully resolved, and had spent the minutes in the cab considering how he had betterperform the business in hand. 

He was at once shown into the drawing-room, where he found the twosisters, and Mrs. Trevelyan, as soon as she saw him, understood thepurpose of his coming. There was an air of determination about him, amanifest intention of doing something, an absence of that vaguenesswhich almost always flavours a morning visit. This was so stronglymarked that Mrs. Trevelyan felt that she would have been almostjustified in getting up and declaring that, as this visit was paidto her sister, she would retire. But any such declaration on herpart was unnecessary, as Mr. Glascock had not been in the room threeminutes before he asked her to go. By some clever device of his own, he got her into the back room and whispered to her that he wanted tosay a few words in private to her sister. 

"Oh, certainly, " said Mrs. Trevelyan, smiling. 

"I dare say you may guess what they are, " said he. "I don't know whatchance I may have. "

"I can tell you nothing about that, " she replied, "as I know nothing. But you have my good wishes. "

And then she went. 

It may be presumed that gradually some idea of Mr. Glascock'sintention had made its way into Nora's mind by the time that shefound herself alone with that gentleman. Why else had he brought intothe room with him that manifest air of a purpose? Why else had hetaken the very strong step of sending the lady of the house out ofher own drawing-room? Nora, beginning to understand this, put herselfinto an attitude of defence. She had never told herself that shewould refuse Mr. Glascock. She had never acknowledged to herselfthat there was another man whom she liked better than she liked Mr. Glascock. But had she ever encouraged any wish for such an interview, her feelings at this moment would have been very different from whatthey were. As it was, she would have given much to postpone it, sothat she might have asked herself questions, and have discoveredwhether she could reconcile herself to do that which, no doubt, allher friends would commend her for doing. Of course, it was clearenough to the mind of the girl that she had her fortune to make, andthat her beauty and youth were the capital on which she had to foundit. She had not lived so far from all taint of corruption as to feelany actual horror at the idea of a girl giving herself to a man, --notbecause the man had already, by his own capacities in that direction, forced her heart from her, --but because he was one likely to be atall points a good husband. Had all this affair concerned any othergirl, any friend of her own, and had she known all the circumstancesof the case, she would have had no hesitation in recommending thatother girl to marry Mr. Glascock. A girl thrown out upon the worldwithout a shilling must make her hay while the sun shines. But, nevertheless, there was something within her bosom which made herlong for a better thing than this. She had dreamed, if she had notthought, of being able to worship a man; but she could hardly worshipMr. Glascock. She had dreamed, if she had not thought, of leaningupon a man all through life with her whole weight, as though thatman had been specially made to be her staff, her prop, her support, her wall of comfort and protection. She knew that if she were tomarry Mr. Glascock and become Lady Peterborough, in due course shemust stand a good deal by her own strength, and live without thatcomfortable leaning. Nevertheless, when she found herself alone withthe man, she by no means knew whether she would refuse him or not. But she knew that she must pluck up courage for an important moment, and she collected herself, braced her muscles, as it were, for afight, and threw her mind into an attitude of contest. 

Mr. Glascock, as soon as the door was shut behind Mrs. Trevelyan'sback, took a chair and placed it close beside the head of the sofa onwhich Nora was sitting. "Miss Rowley, " he said, "you and I have knowneach other now for some months, and I hope you have learned to regardme as a friend. "

"Oh, yes, indeed, " said Nora, with some spirit. 

"It has seemed to me that we have met as friends, and I can mosttruly say for myself, that I have taken the greatest possiblepleasure in your acquaintance. It is not only that I admire you verymuch, "--he looked straight before him as he said this, and movedabout the point of the stick which he was holding in both hishands, --"it is not only that, --perhaps not chiefly that, though I doadmire you very much; but the truth is, that I like everything aboutyou. "

Nora smiled, but she said nothing. It was better, she thought, to lethim tell his story; but his mode of telling it was not without itsefficacy. It was not the simple praise which made its way with herbut a certain tone in the words which seemed to convince her thatthey were true. If he had really found her, or fancied her to be whathe said, there was a manliness in his telling her so in the plainestwords that pleased her much. 

"I know, " continued he, "that this is a very bald way of telling--ofpleading--my cause; but I don't know whether a bald way may notbe the best, if it can only make itself understood to be true. Ofcourse, Miss Rowley, you know what I mean. As I said before, you haveall those things which not only make me love you, but which make melike you also. If you think that you can love me, say so; and, aslong as I live, I will do my best to make you happy as my wife. "

There was a clearness of expression in this, and a downrightsurrender of himself, which so flattered her and so fluttered herthat she was almost reduced to the giving of herself up because shecould not reply to such an appeal in language less courteous thanthat of agreement. After a moment or two she found herself remainingsilent, with a growing feeling that silence would be taken asconveying consent. There floated quickly across her brain an idea ofthe hardness of a woman's lot, in that she should be called upon todecide her future fate for life in half a minute. He had had weeks tothink of this, --weeks in which it would have been almost unmaidenlyin her so to think of it as to have made up her mind to accept theman. Had she so made up her mind, and had he not come to her, wherewould she have been then? But he had come to her. There he was, stillpoking about with his stick, waiting for her, and she must answerhim. And he was the eldest son of a peer, --an enormous match for her, very proper in all respects; such a man, that if she should accepthim, everybody around her would regard her fortune in life asmiraculously successful. He was not such a man that any one wouldpoint at her and say, --"There; see another of them who has soldherself for money and a title!" Mr. Glascock was not an Apollo, notan admirable Crichton; but he was a man whom any girl might havelearned to love. Now he had asked her to be his wife, and it wasnecessary that she should answer him. He sat there waiting for hervery patiently, still poking about the point of his stick. 

Did she really love him? Though she was so pressed by considerationof time, she did find a moment in which to ask herself the question. With a quick turn of an eye she glanced at him, to see what he waslike. Up to this moment, though she knew him well, she could havegiven no details of his personal appearance. He was a better-lookingman than Hugh Stanbury, --so she told herself with a passing thought;but he lacked--he lacked; what was it that he lacked? Was it youth, or spirit, or strength; or was it some outward sign of an inward giftof mind? Was it that he was heavy while Hugh was light? Was it thatshe could find no fire in his eye, while Hugh's eyes were full offlashing? Or was it that for her, especially for her, Hugh was theappointed staff and appropriate wall of protection? Be all that as itmight, she knew at the moment that she did love, not this man, butthat other who was writing articles for the Daily Record. She mustrefuse the offer that was so brilliant, and give up the idea ofreigning as queen at Monkhams. 

"Oh, Mr. Glascock, " she said, "I ought to answer you more quickly. "

"No, dearest; not more quickly than suits you. Nothing ever in thisworld can be more important both to you and to me. If you want moretime to think of it, take more time. "

"No, Mr. Glascock; I do not. I don't know why I should have paused. Is not the truth best?"

"Yes, --certainly the truth is best. "

"I do not--love you. Pray, pray understand me. "

"I understand it too well, Miss Rowley. " The stick was still going, and the eyes more intently fixed than ever on something opposite. 

"I do like you; I like you very much. And I am so grateful! I cannotunderstand why such a man as you should want to make me your wife. "

"Because I love you better than all the others; simply that. Thatreason, and that only, justifies a man in wanting to marry a girl. "What a good fellow he was, and how flattering were his words! Did henot deserve what he wanted, even though it could not be given withouta sacrifice? But yet she did not love him. As she looked at him againshe could not there recognise her staff. As she looked at him she wasmore than ever convinced that that other staff ought to be her staff. "May I come again, --after a month, say?" he asked, when there hadbeen another short period of silence. 

"No, no. Why should you trouble yourself? I am not worth it. "

"It is for me to judge of that, Miss Rowley. "

"All the same, I know that I am not worth it. And I could not tellyou to do that. "

"Then I will wait, and come again without your telling me. "

"Oh, Mr. Glascock, I did not mean that; indeed I did not. Pray do notthink that. Take what I say as final. I like you more than I can say;and I feel a gratitude to you that I cannot express, --which I shallnever forget. I have never known any one who has seemed to be so goodas you. But-- It is just what I said before. " And then she fairlyburst into tears. 

"Miss Rowley, " he said, very slowly, "pray do not think that I wantto ask any question which it might embarrass you to answer. But myhappiness is so greatly at stake; and, if you will allow me to sayso, your happiness, too, is so greatly concerned, that it is mostimportant that we should not come to a conclusion too quickly. If Ithought that your heart were vacant I would wait patiently. I havebeen thinking of you as my possible wife for weeks past, --for monthspast. Of course you have not had such thoughts about me. " As he saidthis she almost loved him for his considerate goodness. "It hassometimes seemed to me odd that girls should love men in such ahurry. If your heart be free, I will wait. And if you esteem me, youcan see, and try whether you cannot learn to love me. "

"I do esteem you. "

"It depends on that question, then?" he said, slowly. 

She sat silent for fully a minute, with her hands clasped; and thenshe answered him in a whisper. "I do not know, " she said. 

He also was silent for a while before he spoke again. He ceased topoke with his stick, and got up from his chair, and stood a littleapart from her, not looking at her even yet. 

"I see, " he said at last. "I understand. Well, Miss Rowley, I quiteperceive that I cannot press my suit any further now. But I shall notdespair altogether. I know this, that if I might possibly succeed, Ishould be a very happy man. Good-bye, Miss Rowley. "

She took his offered hand and pressed it so warmly, that had he notbeen manly and big-hearted, he would have taken such pressure as asign that she wished him to ask her again. But such was his nature. 

"God bless you, " he said, "and make you happy, whatever you maychoose to do. "

Then he left her, and she heard him walk down the stairs with heavyslow steps, and she thought that she could perceive from the soundthat he was sad at heart, but that he was resolved not to show hissadness outwardly. 

When she was alone she began to think in earnest of what she haddone. If the reader were told that she regretted the decision whichshe had been forced to make so rapidly, a wrong impression wouldbe given of the condition of her thoughts. But there came upon hersuddenly a strange capacity for counting up and making a mentalinventory of all that might have been hers. She knew, --and where isthe girl so placed that does not know?--that it is a great thing tobe an English peeress. Now, as she stood there thinking of it all, she was Nora Rowley without a shilling in the world, and without aprospect of a shilling. She had often heard her mother speak fearfulwords of future possible days, when colonial governing should nolonger be within the capacity of Sir Marmaduke. She had been taughtfrom a very early age that all the material prosperity of her lifemust depend on matrimony. She could never be comfortably disposed ofin the world, unless some fitting man who possessed those things ofwhich she was so bare, should wish to make her his wife. Now therehad come a man so thoroughly fitting, so marvellously endowed, thatno worldly blessing would have been wanting. Mr. Glascock had morethan once spoken to her of the glories of Monkhams. She thought ofMonkhams now more than she had ever thought of the place before. It would have been a great privilege to be the mistress of an oldtime-honoured mansion, to call oaks and elms her own, to know thatacres of gardens were submitted to her caprices, to look at herdsof cows and oxen, and be aware that they lowed on her own pastures. And to have been the mother of a future peer of England, tohave the nursing, and sweet custody and very making of a futuresenator, --would not that have been much? And the man himself whowould have been her husband was such a one that any woman might havetrusted herself to him with perfect confidence. Now that he wasgone she almost fancied that she did love him. Then she thought ofHugh Stanbury, sitting as he had described himself, in a littledark closet at the office of the "D. R. , " in a very old inkyshooting-coat, with a tarnished square-cut cloth cap upon his head, with a short pipe in his mouth, writing at midnight for the nextmorning's impression, this or that article according to the orderof his master, "the tallow-chandler;"--for the editor of the DailyRecord was a gentleman whose father happened to be a grocer in theCity, and Hugh had been accustomed thus to describe the familytrade. And she might certainly have had the peer, and the acres ofgarden, and the big house, and the senatorial honours; whereas thetallow-chandler's journeyman had never been so out-spoken. She toldherself from moment to moment that she had done right; that she woulddo the same a dozen times, if a dozen times the experiment couldbe repeated; but still, still, there was the remembrance of allthat she had lost. How would her mother look at her, her anxious, heavily-laden mother, when the story should be told of all that hadbeen offered to her and all that had been refused?

 [Illustration: To have been the mother of a future peer!]

As she was thinking of this Mrs. Trevelyan came into the room. Norafelt that though she might dread to meet her mother, she could bebold enough on such an occasion before her sister. Emily had notdone so well with her own affairs, as to enable her to preach withadvantage about marriage. 

"He has gone?" said Mrs. Trevelyan, as she opened the door. 

"Yes, he has gone. "

"Well? Do not pretend, Nora, that you will not tell me. "

"There is nothing worth the telling, Emily. "

"What do you mean? I am sure he has proposed. He told me in so manywords that it was his intention. "

"Whatever has happened, dear, you may be quite sure that I shallnever be Mrs. Glascock. "

"Then you have refused him, --because of Hugh Stanbury!"

"I have refused him, Emily, because I did not love him. Pray let thatbe enough. "

Then she walked out of the room with something of stateliness in hergait, --as might become a girl who had had it in her power to be thefuture Lady Peterborough; but as soon as she reached the sacrednessof her own chamber, she gave way to an agony of tears. It would, indeed, be much to be a Lady Peterborough. And she had, in truth, refused it all because of Hugh Stanbury! Was Hugh Stanbury worth sogreat a sacrifice?

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE CLOCK HOUSE AT NUNCOMBE PUTNEY. 

It was not till a fortnight had passed after the transaction recordedin the last chapter, that Mrs. Trevelyan and Nora Rowley first heardthe proposition that they should go to live at Nuncombe Putney. Frombad to worse the quarrel between the husband and the wife had goneon, till Trevelyan had at last told his friend Lady Milboroughthat he had made up his mind that they must live apart. "She is soself-willed, --and perhaps I am the same, " he had said, "that itis impossible that we should live together. " Lady Milborough hadimplored and called to witness all testimonies, profane and sacred, against such a step, --had almost gone down on her knees. Go toNaples, --why not Naples? Or to the quiet town in the west of France, which was so dull that a wicked roaring lion, fond of cities andgambling, and eating and drinking, could not live in such a place!Oh, why not go to the quiet town in the west of France? Was notanything better than this flying in the face of God and man? PerhapsTrevelyan did not himself like the idea of the quiet dull Frenchtown. Perhaps he thought that the flying in the face of God and manwas all done by his wife, not by him; and that it was right that hiswife should feel the consequences. After many such entreaties, manysuch arguments, it was at last decided that the house in CurzonStreet should be given up, and that he and his wife live apart. 

"And what about Nora Rowley?" asked Lady Milborough, who had becomeaware by this time of Nora's insane folly in having refused Mr. Glascock. 

"She will go with her sister, I suppose. "

"And who will maintain her? Dear, dear, dear! It does seem as thoughsome young people were bent upon cutting their own throats, and alltheir family's. "

Poor Lady Milborough just at this time went as near to disliking theRowleys as was compatible with her nature. It was not possible to herto hate anybody. She thought that she hated the Colonel Osbornes; buteven that was a mistake. She was very angry, however, with both Mrs. Trevelyan and her sister, and was disposed to speak of them as thoughthey had been born to create trouble and vexation. 

Trevelyan had not given any direct answer to that question about NoraRowley's maintenance, but he was quite prepared to bear all necessaryexpense in that direction, at any rate till Sir Marmaduke should havearrived. At first there had been an idea that the two sisters shouldgo to the house of their aunt, Mrs. Outhouse. Mrs. Outhouse was thewife, --as the reader may perhaps remember, --of a clergyman livingin the east of London. St. Diddulph's-in-the-East was very much inthe east indeed. It was a parish outside the City, lying near theriver, very populous, very poor, very low in character, and veryuncomfortable. There was a rectory-house, queerly situated at theend of a little blind lane, with a gate of its own, and a so-calledgarden about twenty yards square. But the rectory of St. Diddulph'scannot be said to have been a comfortable abode. The neighbourhoodwas certainly not alluring. Of visiting society within a distanceof three or four miles there was none but what was afforded by thefamilies of other East-end clergymen. And then Mr. Outhouse himselfwas a somewhat singular man. He was very religious, devoted tohis work, most kind to the poor; but he was unfortunately astrongly-biased man, and at the same time very obstinate withal. Hehad never allied himself very cordially with his wife's brother, Sir Marmaduke, allowing himself to be carried away by a prejudicethat people living at the West-end, who frequented clubs, andwere connected in any way with fashion, could not be appropriatecompanions for himself. The very title which Sir Marmaduke hadacquired was repulsive to him, and had induced him to tell hiswife more than once that Sir this or Sir that could not be fittingassociates for a poor East-end clergyman. Then his wife's niece hadmarried a man of fashion, --a man supposed at St. Diddulph's to bevery closely allied to fashion; and Mr. Outhouse had never beeninduced even to dine in the house in Curzon Street. When, therefore, he heard that Mr. And Mrs. Trevelyan were to be separated within twoyears of their marriage, it could not be expected that he should bevery eager to lend to the two sisters the use of his rectory. 

There had been interviews between Mr. Outhouse and Trevelyan, andbetween Mrs. Outhouse and her niece; and then there was an interviewbetween Mr. Outhouse and Emily, in which it was decided that Mrs. Trevelyan would not go to the parsonage of St. Diddulph's. She hadbeen very outspoken to her uncle, declaring that she by no meansintended to carry herself as a disgraced woman. Mr. Outhouse hadquoted St. Paul to her; "Wives, obey your husbands. " Then she hadgot up and had spoken very angrily. "I look for support from you, "she said, "as the man who is the nearest to me, till my fathershall come. " "But I cannot support you in what is wrong, " said theclergyman. Then Mrs. Trevelyan had left the room, and would not seeher uncle again. 

She carried things altogether with a high hand at this time. When oldMr. Bideawhile called upon her, her husband's ancient family lawyer, she told that gentleman that if it was her husband's will that theyshould live apart, it must be so. She could not force him to remainwith her. She could not compel him to keep up the house in CurzonStreet. She had certain rights, she believed. She spoke then, shesaid, of pecuniary rights, --not of those other rights which herhusband was determined, and was no doubt able, to ignore. She did notreally know what those pecuniary rights might be, nor was she carefulto learn their exact extent. She would thank Mr. Bideawhile to seethat things were properly arranged. But of this her husband, and Mr. Bideawhile, might be quite sure;--she would take nothing as a favour. She would not go to her uncle's house. She declined to tell Mr. Bideawhile why she had so decided; but she had decided. She was readyto listen to any suggestion that her husband might make as to herresidence, but she must claim to have some choice in the matter. Asto her sister, of course she intended to give Nora a home as long assuch a home might be wanted. It would be very sad for Nora, but inexisting circumstances such an arrangement would be expedient. Shewould not go into details as to expense. Her husband was drivingher away from him, and it was for him to say what proportion of hisincome he would choose to give for her maintenance, --for hers andfor that of their child. She was not desirous of anything beyond themeans of decent living, but of course she must for the present finda home for her sister as well as for herself. When speaking of herbaby she had striven hard so to speak that Mr. Bideawhile should findno trace of doubt in the tones of her voice. And yet she had beenfull of doubt, --full of fear. As Mr. Bideawhile had uttered nothingantagonistic to her wishes in this matter, --had seemed to agreethat wherever the mother went thither the child would go also, --Mrs. Trevelyan had considered herself to be successful in this interview. 

The idea of a residence at Nuncombe Putney had occurred first toTrevelyan himself, and he had spoken of it to Hugh Stanbury. Therehad been some difficulty in this, because he had snubbed Stanburygrievously when his friend had attempted to do some work of gentleinterference between him and his wife; and when he began theconversation, he took the trouble of stating, in the first instance, that the separation was a thing fixed, --so that nothing might beurged on that subject. "It is to be. You will understand that, "he said; "and if you think that your mother would agree to thearrangement, it would be satisfactory to me, and might, I think, be made pleasant to her. Of course, your mother would be made tounderstand that the only fault with which my wife is charged is thatof indomitable disobedience to my wishes. "

"Incompatibility of temper, " suggested Stanbury. 

"You may call it that if you please;--though I must say for myselfthat I do not think that I have displayed any temper to which awoman has a right to object. " Then he had gone on to explain whathe was prepared to do about money. He would pay, through Stanbury'shands, so much for maintenance and so much for house rent, on theunderstanding that the money was not to go into his wife's hands. "I shall prefer, " he said, "to make myself, on her behalf, whatdisbursements may be necessary. I will take care that she receives aproper sum quarterly through Mr. Bideawhile for her own clothes, --andfor those of our poor boy. " Then Stanbury had told him of the ClockHouse, and there had been an agreement made between them;--anagreement which was then, of course, subject to the approval ofthe ladies at Nuncombe Putney. When the suggestion was made to Mrs. Trevelyan, --with a proposition that the Clock House should be takenfor one year, and that for that year, at least, her boy should remainwith her, --she assented to it. She did so with all the calmness thatshe was able to assume; but, in truth, almost everything seemed tohave been gained, when she found that she was not to be separatedfrom her baby. "I have no objection to living in Devonshire if Mr. Trevelyan wishes it, " she said, in her most stately manner; "andcertainly no objection to living with Mr. Stanbury's mother. " ThenMr. Bideawhile explained to her that Nuncombe Putney was not a largetown, --was, in fact, a very small and a very remote village. "Thatwill make no difference whatsoever as far as I am concerned, " sheanswered; "and as for my sister, she must put up with it till myfather and my mother are here. I believe the scenery at NuncombePutney is very pretty. " "Lovely!" said Mr. Bideawhile, who had ageneral idea that Devonshire is supposed to be a picturesquecounty. "With such a life before me as I must lead, " continued Mrs. Trevelyan, "an ugly neighbourhood, one that would itself have hadno interest for a stranger, would certainly have been an additionalsorrow. " So it had been settled, and by the end of July, Mrs. Trevelyan, with her sister and baby, was established at the ClockHouse, under the protection of Mrs. Stanbury. Mrs. Trevelyan hadbrought down her own maid and her own nurse, and had found that thearrangements made by her husband had, in truth, been liberal. Thehouse in Curzon Street had been given up, the furniture had been sentto a warehouse, and Mr. Trevelyan had gone into lodgings. "Therenever were two young people so insane since the world began, " saidLady Milborough to her old friend, Mrs. Fairfax, when the thing wasdone. 

"They will be together again before next April, " Mrs. Fairfax hadreplied. But Mrs. Fairfax was a jolly dame who made the best ofeverything. Lady Milborough raised her hands in despair, and shookher head. "I don't suppose, though, that Mr. Glascock will go toDevonshire after his lady love, " said Mrs. Fairfax. Lady Milboroughagain raised her hands, and again shook her head. 

Mrs. Stanbury had given an easy assent when her son proposed to herthis new mode of life, but Priscilla had had her doubts. Like allwomen, she thought that when a man was to be separated from his wife, the woman must be in the wrong. And though it must be doubtlesscomfortable to go from the cottage to the Clock House, itwould, she said, with much prudence, be very uncomfortableto go back from the Clock House to the cottage. Hugh repliedvery cavalierly, --generously, that is, rashly, and somewhatimpetuously, --that he would guarantee them against any suchdegradation. 

"We don't want to be a burden upon you, my dear, " said the mother. 

"You would be a great burden on me, " he replied, "if you were livinguncomfortably while I am able to make you comfortable. "

Mrs. Stanbury was soon won over by Mrs. Trevelyan, by Nora, andespecially by the baby; and even Priscilla, after a week or two, began to feel that she liked their company. Priscilla was a youngwoman who read a great deal, and even had some gifts of understandingwhat she read. She borrowed books from the clergyman, and paid apenny a week to the landlady of the Stag and Antlers for the hireduring half a day of the weekly newspaper. But now there came a boxof books from Exeter, and a daily paper from London, and, --to improveall this, --both the new comers were able to talk with her about thethings she read. She soon declared to her mother that she likedMiss Rowley much the best of the two. Mrs. Trevelyan was too fondof having her own way. She began to understand, she would say toher mother, that a man might find it difficult to live with Mrs. Trevelyan. "She hardly ever yields about anything, " said Priscilla. As Miss Priscilla Stanbury was also very fond of having her own way, it was not surprising that she should object to that quality in thislady, who had come to live under the same roof with her. 

The country about Nuncombe Putney is perhaps as pretty as any inEngland. It is beyond the river Teign, between that and Dartmoor, and is so lovely in all its variations of rivers, rivulets, brokenground, hills and dales, old broken, battered, time-worn timber, green knolls, rich pastures, and heathy common, that the wonder isthat English lovers of scenery know so little of it. At the Stag andAntlers old Mrs. Crocket, than whom no old woman in the public linewas ever more generous, more peppery, or more kind, kept two cleanbed-rooms, and could cook a leg of Dartmoor mutton and make an applepie against any woman in Devonshire. "Drat your fish!" she would say, when some self-indulgent and exacting traveller would wish for morethan these accustomed viands. "Cock you up with dainties! If youcan't eat your victuals without fish, you must go to Exeter. Andthen you'll get it stinking mayhap. " Now Priscilla Stanbury and Mrs. Crocket were great friends, and there had been times of deep want, in which Mrs. Crocket's friendship had been very serviceable to theladies at the cottage. The three young women had been to the inn onemorning to ask after a conveyance from Nuncombe Putney to Princetown, and had found that a four-wheeled open carriage with an old horseand a very young driver could be hired there. "We have never dreamedof such a thing, " Priscilla Stanbury had said, "and the only timeI was at Princetown I walked there and back. " So they had called atthe Stag and Antlers, and Mrs. Crocket had told them her mind uponseveral matters. 

"What a dear old woman!" said Nora, as they came away, having madetheir bargain for the open carriage. 

"I think she takes quite enough upon herself, you know, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"She is a dear old woman, " said Priscilla, not attending at all tothe last words that had been spoken. "She is one of the best friendsI have in the world. If I were to say the best out of my own family, perhaps I should not be wrong. "

"But she uses such very odd language for a woman, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. Now Mrs. Crocket had certainly "dratted" and "darned" theboy, who wouldn't come as fast as she had wished, and had laughedat Mrs. Trevelyan very contemptuously, when that lady had suggestedthat the urchin, who was at last brought forth, might not be a safecharioteer down some of the hills. 

"I suppose I'm used to it, " said Priscilla. "At any rate I know Ilike it. And I like her. "

"I dare say she's a good sort of woman, " said Mrs. Trevelyan, "only--"

"I am not saying anything about her being a good woman now, " saidPriscilla, interrupting the other with some vehemence, "but only thatshe is my friend. "

"I liked her of all things, " said Nora. "Has she lived here always?"

"Yes; all her life. The house belonged to her father and to hergrandfather before her, and I think she says she has never sleptout of it a dozen times in her life. Her husband is dead, and herdaughters are married away, and she has the great grief and troubleof a ne'er-do-well son. He's away now, and she's all alone. " Thenafter a pause, she continued; "I dare say it seems odd to you, Mrs. Trevelyan, that we should speak of the innkeeper as a dear friend;but you must remember that we have been poor among the poorest--andare so indeed now. We only came into our present house to receiveyou. That is where we used to live, " and she pointed to the tinycottage, which now that it was dismantled and desolate, looked to bedoubly poor. "There have been times when we should have gone to bedvery hungry if it had not been for Mrs. Crocket. "

Later in the day Mrs. Trevelyan, finding Priscilla alone, hadapologized for what she had said about the old woman. "I was verythoughtless and forgetful, but I hope you will not be angry with me. I will be ever so fond of her if you will forgive me. "

"Very well, " said Priscilla, smiling; "on those conditions I willforgive you. " And from that time there sprang up something likea feeling of friendship between Priscilla and Mrs. Trevelyan. Nevertheless Priscilla was still of opinion that the Clock Housearrangement was dangerous, and should never have been made; and Mrs. Stanbury, always timid of her own nature, began to fear that it mustbe so, as soon as she was removed from the influence of her son. Shedid not see much even of the few neighbours who lived around her, butshe fancied that people looked at her in church as though she haddone that which she ought not to have done, in taking herself to abig and comfortable house for the sake of lending her protection to alady who was separated from her husband. It was not that she believedthat Mrs. Trevelyan had been wrong; but that, knowing herself to beweak, she fancied that she and her daughter would be enveloped in thedanger and suspicion which could not but attach themselves to thelady's condition, instead of raising the lady out of the cloud, --aswould have been the case had she herself been strong. Mrs. Trevelyan, who was sharpsighted and clear-witted, soon saw that it was so, andspoke to Priscilla on the subject before she had been a fortnight inthe house. "I am afraid your mother does not like our being here, "she said. 

"How am I to answer that?" Priscilla replied. 

"Just tell the truth. "

"The truth is so uncivil. At first I did not like it. I disliked itvery much. "

"Why did you give way?"

"I didn't give way. Hugh talked my mother over. Mamma does what Itell her, except when Hugh tells her something else. I was afraid, because, down here, knowing nothing of the world, I didn't wishthat we, little people, should be mixed up in the quarrels anddisagreements of those who are so much bigger. "

"I don't know who it is that is big in this matter. "

"You are big, --at any rate by comparison. But now it must go on. Thehouse has been taken, and my fears are over as regards you. What youobserve in mamma is only the effect, not yet quite worn out, of whatI said before you came. You may be quite sure of this, --that weneither of us believe a word against you. Your position is a veryunfortunate one; but if it can be remedied by your staying here withus, pray stay with us. "

"It cannot be remedied, " said Emily; "but we could not be anywheremore comfortable than we are here. "

CHAPTER XV. 

WHAT THEY SAID ABOUT IT IN THE CLOSE. 

When Miss Stanbury, in the Close at Exeter, was first told of thearrangement that had been made at Nuncombe Putney, she said some veryhard words as to the thing that had been done. She was quite surethat Mrs. Trevelyan was no better than she should be. Ladies who wereseparated from their husbands never were any better than they shouldbe. And what was to be thought of any woman, who, when separated fromher husband, would put herself under the protection of such a Paladinas Hugh Stanbury? She heard the tidings of course from Dorothy, andspoke her mind even to Dorothy plainly enough; but it was to Marthathat she expressed herself with her fullest vehemence. 

"We always knew, " she said, "that my brother had married anaddle-pated, silly woman, one of the most unsuited to be the mistressof a clergyman's house that ever a man set eyes on; but I didn'tthink she'd allow herself to be led into such a stupid thing asthis. "

"I don't suppose the lady has done anything amiss, --any more thancombing her husband's hair, and the like of that, " said Martha. 

"Don't tell me! Why, by their own story, she has got a lover. "

"But he ain't to come after her down here, I suppose. And as forlovers, ma'am, I'm told that the most of 'em have 'em up in London. But it don't mean much, only just idle talking and gallivanting. "

"When women can't keep themselves from idle talking with strangegentlemen, they are very far gone on the road to the devil. That'smy notion. And that was everybody's notion a few years ago. But now, what with divorce bills, and women's rights, and penny papers, andfalse hair, and married women being just like giggling girls, andgiggling girls knowing just as much as married women, when a womanhas been married a year or two she begins to think whether she mayn'thave more fun for her money by living apart from her husband. "

"Miss Dorothy says--"

"Oh, bother what Miss Dorothy says! Miss Dorothy only knows whatit has suited that scamp, her brother, to tell her. I understandthis woman has come away because of a lover; and if that's so, mysister-in-law is very wrong to receive her. The temptation of theClock House has been too much for her. It's not my doing; that'sall. "

That evening Miss Stanbury and Dorothy went out to tea at the houseof Mrs. MacHugh, and there the matter was very much discussed. Thefamily of the Trevelyans was known by name in these parts, and thefact of Mrs. Trevelyan having been sent to live in a Devonshirevillage, with Devonshire ladies who had a relation in Exeter sowell esteemed as Miss Stanbury of the Close, were circumstances ofthemselves sufficient to ensure a considerable amount of prestigeat the city tea-table for the tidings of this unfortunate familyquarrel. Some reticence was of course necessary because of thepresence of Miss Stanbury and of Dorothy. To Miss Stanbury herselfMrs. MacHugh and Mrs. Crumbie, of Cronstadt House, did not scrupleto express themselves very plainly, and to whisper a question as towhat was to be done should the lover make his appearance at NuncombePutney; but they who spoke of the matter before Dorothy, were atfirst more charitable, or, at least, more forbearing. Mr. Gibson, who was one of the minor canons, and the two Miss Frenches fromHeavitree, who had the reputation of hunting unmarried clergymen incouples, seemed to have heard all about it. When Mrs. MacHugh andMiss Stanbury, with Mr. And Mrs. Crumbie, had seated themselves attheir whist-table, the younger people were able to express theiropinions without danger of interruption or of rebuke. It was knownto all Exeter by this time, that Dorothy Stanbury's mother had goneto the Clock House, and that she had done so in order that Mrs. Trevelyan might have a home. But it was not yet known whether anybodyhad called upon them. There was Mrs. Merton, the wife of the presentparson of Nuncombe, who had known the Stanburys for the last twentyyears; and there was Mrs. Ellison of Lessboro', who lived only fourmiles from Nuncombe, and who kept a pony-carriage. It would be agreat thing to know how these ladies had behaved in so difficult andembarrassing a position. Mrs. Trevelyan and her sister had now beenat Nuncombe Putney for more than a fortnight, and something in thatmatter of calling must have been done, --or have been left undone. Inanswer to an ingeniously-framed question asked by Camilla French, Dorothy at once set the matter at rest. "Mrs. Merton, " said CamillaFrench, "must find it a great thing to have two new ladies come tothe village, especially now that she has lost you, Miss Stanbury?"

"Mamma tells me, " said Dorothy, "that Mrs. Trevelyan and Miss Rowleydo not mean to know anybody. They have given it out quite plainly, sothat there should be no mistake. "

"Dear, dear, " said Camilla French. 

"I dare say it's for the best, " said Arabella French, who was theelder, and who looked very meek and soft. Miss French almost alwayslooked meek and soft. 

"I'm afraid it will make it very dull for your mother, --not seeingher old friends, " said Mr. Gibson. 

"Mamma won't feel that at all, " said Dorothy. 

"Mrs. Stanbury, I suppose, will see her own friends at her own housejust the same, " said Camilla. 

"There would be great difficulty in that, when there is a lady who isto remain unknown, " said Arabella. "Don't you think so, Mr. Gibson?"Mr. Gibson replied that perhaps there might be a difficulty, but hewasn't sure. The difficulty, he thought, might be got over if theladies did not always occupy the same room. 

"You have never seen Mrs. Trevelyan, have you, Miss Stanbury?" askedCamilla. 

"Never. "

"She is not an old family friend, then, --or anything of that sort?"

"Oh, dear, no. "

"Because, " said Arabella, "it is so odd how different people gettogether sometimes. " Then Dorothy explained that Mr. Trevelyan andher brother Hugh had long been friends. 

"Oh!--of Mr. Trevelyan, " said Camilla. "Then it is he that has senthis wife to Nuncombe, not she that has come there?"

"I suppose there has been some agreement, " said Dorothy. 

"Just so; just so, " said Arabella, the meek. "I should like to seeher. They say that she is very beautiful; don't they?"

"My brother says that she is handsome. "

"Exceedingly lovely, I'm told, " said Camilla. "I should like to seeher, --shouldn't you, Mr. Gibson?"

"I always like to see a pretty woman, " said Mr. Gibson, with a politebow, which the sisters shared between them. 

"I suppose she'll go to church, " said Camilla. 

"Very likely not, " said Arabella. "Ladies of that sort very oftendon't go to church. I dare say you'll find that she'll never stirout of the place at all, and that not a soul in Nuncombe will eversee her except the gardener. It is such a thing for a woman to beseparated from her husband! Don't you think so, Mr. Gibson?"

"Of course it is, " said he, with a shake of his head, which wasintended to imply that the censure of the church must of courseattend any sundering of those whom the church had bound together; butwhich implied also by the absence from it of any intense clericalseverity, that as the separated wife was allowed to live with so veryrespectable a lady as Mrs. Stanbury, there must probably be somemitigating circumstances attending this special separation. 

"I wonder what he is like?" said Camilla, after a pause. 

"Who?" asked Arabella. 

"The gentleman, " said Camilla. 

"What gentleman?" demanded Arabella. 

"I don't mean Mr. Trevelyan, " said Camilla. 

"I don't believe there really is, --eh, --is there?" said Mr. Gibson, very timidly. 

"Oh, dear, yes, " said Arabella. 

"I'm afraid there's something of the kind, " said Camilla. "I've heardthat there is, and I've heard his name. " Then she whispered veryclosely into the ear of Mr. Gibson the words, "Colonel Osborne, " asthough her lips were by far too pure to mention aloud any sound sofull of iniquity. 

"Indeed!" said Mr. Gibson. 

"But he's quite an old man, " said Dorothy, "and knew her fatherintimately before she was born. And, as far as I can understand, herhusband does not suspect her in the least. And it's only becausethere's a misunderstanding between them, and not at all because ofthe gentleman. "

"Oh!" exclaimed Camilla. 

"Ah!" exclaimed Arabella. 

"That would make a difference, " said Mr. Gibson. 

"But for a married woman to have her name mentioned at all with agentleman, --it is so bad; is it not, Mr. Gibson?" And then Arabellaalso had her whisper into the clergyman's ear, --very closely. "I'mafraid there's not a doubt about the Colonel. I'm afraid not. I amindeed. "

"Two by honours and the odd, and it's my deal, " said Miss Stanbury, briskly, and the sharp click with which she put the markers downupon the table was heard all through the room. "I don't want anybodyto tell me, " she said, "that when a young woman is parted from herhusband, the chances are ten to one that she has been very foolish. "

"But what's a woman to do, if her husband beats her?" said Mrs. Crumbie. 

"Beat him again, " said Mrs. MacHugh. 

"And the husband will be sure to have the worst of it, " said Mr. Crumbie. "Well, I declare, if you haven't turned up an honour again, Miss Stanbury!"

"It was your wife that cut it to me, Mr. Crumbie. " Then they wereagain at once immersed in the play, and the name neither of Trevelyannor Osborne was heard till Miss Stanbury was marking her double underthe candlestick; but during all pauses in the game the conversationwent back to the same topic, and when the rubber was over theywho had been playing it lost themselves for ten minutes in theallurements of the interesting subject. It was so singular acoincidence that the lady should have gone to Nuncombe Putney ofall villages in England, and to the house of Mrs. Stanbury of allladies in England. And then was she innocent, or was she guilty; andif guilty, in what degree? That she had been allowed to bring herbaby with her was considered to be a great point in her favour. Mr. Crumbie's opinion was that it was "only a few words. " Mrs. Crumbiewas afraid that she had been a little light. Mrs. MacHugh said thatthere was never fire without smoke. And Miss Stanbury, as she tookher departure, declared that the young women of the present daydidn't know what they were after. "They think that the world shouldbe all frolic and dancing, and they have no more idea of doing theirduty and earning their bread than a boy home for the holidays has ofdoing lessons. "

Then, as she went home with Dorothy across the Close, she spoke aword which she intended to be very serious. "I don't mean to sayanything against your mother for what she has done as yet. Somebodymust take the woman in, and perhaps it was natural. But if thatColonel What's-his-name makes his way down to Nuncombe Putney, yourmother must send her packing, if she has any respect either forherself or for Priscilla. "

CHAPTER XVI. 

DARTMOOR. 

 [Illustration]

The well-weighed decision of Miss Stanbury respecting theStanbury-Trevelyan arrangement at Nuncombe Putney had beencommunicated to Dorothy as the two walked home at night across theClose from Mrs. MacHugh's house, and it was accepted by Dorothyas being wise and proper. It amounted to this. If Mrs. Trevelyanshould behave herself with propriety in her retirement at the ClockHouse, no further blame in the matter should be attributed to Mrs. Stanbury for receiving her, --at any rate in Dorothy's hearing. Theexisting scheme, whether wise or foolish, should be regarded as anaccepted scheme. But if Mrs. Trevelyan should be indiscreet, --if, for instance, Colonel Osborne should show himself at NuncombePutney, --then, for the sake of the family, Miss Stanbury would speakout, and would speak out very loudly. All this Dorothy understood, and she could perceive that her aunt had strong suspicion that therewould be indiscretion. 

"I never knew one like her, " said Miss Stanbury, "who, when she'd gotaway from one man, didn't want to have another dangling after her. "

A week had hardly passed after the party at Mrs. MacHugh's, and Mrs. Trevelyan had hardly been three weeks at Nuncombe Putney, before thetidings which Miss Stanbury almost expected reached her ears. 

"The Colonel's been at the Clock House, ma'am, " said Martha. 

Now, it was quite understood in the Close by this time that "theColonel" meant Colonel Osborne. 

"No!"

"I'm told he has though, ma'am, for sure and certain. "

"Who says so?"

"Giles Hickbody was down at Lessboro', and see'd him hisself, --aportly, middle-aged man, --not one of your young scampish-likelovers. "

"That's the man. "

"Oh, yes. He went over to Nuncombe Putney, as sure asanything;--hired Mrs. Clegg's chaise and pair, and asked for Mrs. Trevelyan's house as open as anything. When Giles asked in the yard, they told him as how that was the married lady's young man. "

"I'd like to be at his tail, --so I would, --with a mop-handle, " saidMiss Stanbury, whose hatred for those sins by which the comfort andrespectability of the world are destroyed, was not only sincere, butintense. "Well; and what then?"

"He came back and slept at Mrs. Clegg's that night, --at least, thatwas what he said he should do. "

Miss Stanbury, however, was not so precipitate or uncharitable asto act strongly upon information such as this. Before she even saida word to Dorothy, she made further inquiry. She made very minuteinquiry, writing even to her very old and intimate friend Mrs. Ellison, of Lessboro', --writing to that lady a most cautious andguarded letter. At last it became a fact proved to her mind thatColonel Osborne had been at the Clock House, had been received there, and had remained there for hours, --had been allowed access to Mrs. Trevelyan, and had slept the night at the inn at Lessboro'. The thingwas so terrible to Miss Stanbury's mind, that even false hair, Dr. Colenso, and penny newspapers did not account for it. 

"I shall begin to believe that the Evil One has been allowed to comeamong us in person because of our sins, " she said to Martha;--and shemeant it. 

In the meantime, Mrs. Trevelyan, as may be remembered, had hired Mrs. Crocket's open carriage, and the three young women, Mrs. Trevelyan, Nora, and Priscilla, made a little excursion to Princetown, somewhatafter the fashion of a picnic. At Princetown, in the middle ofDartmoor, about nine miles from Nuncombe Putney, is the prisonestablishment at which are kept convicts undergoing penal servitude. It is regarded by all the country round with great interest, chieflybecause the prisoners now and again escape, and then there comes aperiod of interesting excitement until the escaped felon shall havebeen again taken. How can you tell where he may be, or whether it maynot suit him to find his rest in your own cupboard, or under your ownbed? And then, as escape without notice will of course be the felon'sobject, to attain that he will probably cut your throat, and thethroat of everybody belonging to you. All which considerations givean interest to Princetown, and excite in the hearts of the Devoniansof these parts a strong affection for the Dartmoor prison. Of thosewho visit Princetown comparatively few effect an entrance within thewalls of the gaol. They look at the gloomy place with a mysteriousinterest, feeling something akin to envy for the prisoners who haveenjoyed the privilege of solving the mysteries of prison life, andwho know how men feel when they have their hair cut short, and arefree from moral responsibility for their own conduct, and are movedabout in gangs, and treated like wild beasts. 

But the journey to Princetown, from whatever side it is approached, has the charm of wild and beautiful scenery. The spot itself is uglyenough; but you can go not thither without breathing the sweetest, freshest air, and encountering that delightful sense of romance whichmoorland scenery always produces. The idea of our three friends wasto see the Moor rather than the prison, to learn something of thecountry around, and to enjoy the excitement of eating a sandwichsitting on a hillock, in exchange for the ordinary comforts of a gooddinner with chairs and tables. A bottle of sherry and water and apaper of sandwiches contained their whole banquet; for ladies, thoughthey like good things at picnics, and, indeed, at other times, almostas well as men like them, very seldom prepare dainties for themselvesalone. Men are wiser and more thoughtful, and are careful to have thegood things, even if they are to be enjoyed without companionship. 

Mrs. Crocket's boy, though he was only about three feet high, was amiracle of skill and discretion. He used the machine, as the patentdrag is called, in going down the hills with the utmost care. Henever forced the beast beyond a walk if there was the slightest risein the ground; and as there was always a rise, the journey was slow. But the three ladies enjoyed it thoroughly, and Mrs. Trevelyan was inbetter spirits than she herself had thought to be possible for herin her present condition. Most of us have recognised the fact thata dram of spirits will create, --that a so-called nip of brandy willcreate hilarity, or, at least, alacrity, and that a glass of sherrywill often "pick up" and set in order the prostrate animal and mentalfaculties of the drinker. But we are not sufficiently alive tothe fact that copious draughts of fresh air, --of air fresh andunaccustomed, --will have precisely the same effect. We do know thatnow and again it is very essential to "change the air;" but wegenerally consider that to do that with any chance of advantage, itis necessary to go far afield; and we think also that such change ofthe air is only needful when sickness of the body has come upon us, or when it threatens to come. We are seldom aware that we may imbibelong potations of pleasure and healthy excitement without perhapsgoing out of our own county; that such potations are within a day'sjourney of most of us; and that they are to be had for half-a-crowna head, all expenses told. Mrs. Trevelyan probably did not know thatthe cloud was lifted off her mind, and the load of her sorrow madelight to her, by the special vigour of the air of the Moor; butshe did know that she was enjoying herself, and that the world waspleasanter to her than it had been for months past. 

When they had sat upon their hillocks, and eaten theirsandwiches, --regretting that the basket of provisions had not beenbigger, --and had drunk their sherry and water out of the little hornmug which Mrs. Crocket had lent them, Nora started off across themoorland alone. The horse had been left to be fed in Princetown, andthey had walked back to a bush under which they had rashly left theirbasket of provender concealed. It happened, however, that on that daythere was no escaped felon about to watch what they had done, andthe food and the drink had been found secure. Nora had gone off, andas her sister and Priscilla sat leaning against their hillocks withtheir backs to the road, she could be seen standing now on one littleeminence and now on another, thinking, doubtless, as she stood on theone how good it would be to be Lady Peterborough, and, as she stoodon the other, how much better to be Mrs. Hugh Stanbury. Only, --beforeshe could be Mrs. Hugh Stanbury it would be necessary that Mr. HughStanbury should share her opinion, --and necessary also that he shouldbe able to maintain a wife. "I should never do to be a very poorman's wife, " she said to herself; and remembered as she said it, thatin reference to the prospect of her being Lady Peterborough, the manwho was to be Lord Peterborough was at any rate ready to make her hiswife, and on that side there were none of those difficulties abouthouse, and money, and position which stood in the way of the HughStanbury side of the question. She was not, she thought, fit to bethe wife of a very poor man; but she conceived of herself that shewould do very well as a future Lady Peterborough in the drawing-roomsof Monkhams. She was so far vain as to fancy that she could look, and speak, and move, and have her being after the fashion which isapproved for the Lady Peterboroughs of the world. It was not clearto her that Nature had not expressly intended her to be a LadyPeterborough; whereas, as far as she could see, Nature had notintended her to be a Mrs. Hugh Stanbury, with a precarious income ofperhaps ten guineas a week when journalism was doing well. So shemoved on to another little eminence to think of it there. It wasclear to her that if she should accept Mr. Glascock she would sellherself, and not give herself away; and she had told herself scoresof times before this, that a young woman should give herself away, and not sell herself;--should either give herself away, or keepherself to herself as circumstances might go. She had been quite surethat she would never sell herself. But this was a lesson which shehad taught herself when she was very young, before she had come tounderstand the world and its hard necessities. Nothing, she now toldherself, could be worse than to hang like a mill-stone round the neckof a poor man. It might be a very good thing to give herself away forlove, --but it would not be a good thing to be the means of ruiningthe man she loved, even if that man were willing to be so ruined. And then she thought that she could also love that other man alittle, --could love him sufficiently for comfortable domesticpurposes. And it would undoubtedly be very pleasant to have all thetroubles of her life settled for her. If she were Mrs. Glascock, known to the world as the future Lady Peterborough, would it not bewithin her power to bring her sister and her sister's husband againtogether? The tribute of the Monkhams' authority and influence to hersister's side of the question would be most salutary. She tried tomake herself believe that in this way she would be doing a good deed. Upon the whole, she thought that if Mr. Glascock should give heranother chance she would accept him. And he had distinctly promisedthat he would give her another chance. It might be that thisunfortunate quarrel in the Trevelyan family would deter him. Peopledo not wish to ally themselves with family quarrels. But if thechance came in her way she would accept it. She had made up her mindto that, when she turned round from off the last knoll on which shehad stood, to return to her sister and Priscilla Stanbury. 

 [Illustration: Nora tries to make herself believe. ]

They two had sat still under the shade of a thorn bush, looking atNora as she was wandering about, and talking together more freelythan they had ever done before on the circumstances that had broughtthem together. "How pretty she looks, " Priscilla had said, as Norawas standing with her figure clearly marked by the light. 

"Yes; she is very pretty, and has been much admired. This terribleaffair of mine is a cruel blow to her. "

"You mean that it is bad for her to come and live here--withoutsociety. "

"Not exactly that, --though of course it would be better for her to goout. And I don't know how a girl is ever to get settled in the worldunless she goes out. But it is always an injury to be connected inany way with a woman who is separated from her husband. It must bebad for you. "

"It won't hurt me, " said Priscilla. "Nothing of that kind can hurtme. "

"I mean that people say such ill-natured things. "

"I stand alone, and can take care of myself, " said Priscilla. "I defythe evil tongues of all the world to hurt me. My personal cares arelimited to an old gown and bread and cheese. I like a pair of glovesto go to church with, but that is only the remnant of a prejudice. The world has so very little to give me, that I am pretty nearly surethat it will take nothing away. "

"And you are contented?"

"Well, no; I can't say that I am contented. I hardly think thatanybody ought to be contented. Should my mother die and Dorothyremain with my aunt, or get married, I should be utterly alone in theworld. Providence, or whatever you call it, has made me a lady aftera fashion, so that I can't live with the ploughmen's wives, and atthe same time has so used me in other respects, that I can't livewith anybody else. "

"Why should not you get married, as well as Dorothy?"

"Who would have me? And if I had a husband I should want a goodone, --a man with a head on his shoulders, and a heart. Even if Iwere young and good-looking, or rich, I doubt whether I could pleasemyself. As it is I am as likely to be taken bodily to heaven, as tobecome any man's wife. "

"I suppose most women think so of themselves at some time, and yetthey are married. "

"I am not fit to marry. I am often cross, and I like my own way, andI have a distaste for men. I never in my life saw a man whom I wishedeven to make my intimate friend. I should think any man an idiot whobegan to make soft speeches to me, and I should tell him so. "

"Ah; you might find it different when he went on with it. "

"But I think, " said Priscilla, "that when a woman is married there isnothing to which she should not submit on behalf of her husband. "

"You mean that for me. "

"Of course I mean it for you. How should I not be thinking of you, living as you are under the same roof with us? And I am thinking ofLouey. " Louey was the baby. "What are you to do when after a year ortwo his father shall send for him to have him under his own care?"

"Nothing shall separate me from my child, " said Mrs. Trevelyaneagerly. 

"That is easily said; but I suppose the power of doing as he pleasedwould be with him. "

"Why should it be with him? I do not at all know that it would bewith him. I have not left his house. It is he that has turned meout. "

"There can, I think, be very little doubt what you should do, " saidPriscilla, after a pause, during which she had got up from her seatunder the thorn bush. 

"What should I do?" asked Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"Go back to him. "

"I will to-morrow if he will write and ask me. Nay; how could I helpmyself? I am his creature, and must go or come as he bids me. I amhere only because he has sent me. "

"You should write and ask him to take you. "

"Ask him to forgive me because he has ill-treated me?"

"Never mind about that, " said Priscilla, standing over her companion, who was still lying under the bush. "All that is twopenny-halfpennypride, which should be thrown to the winds. The more right you havebeen hitherto the better you can afford to go on being right. What isit that we all live upon but self-esteem? When we want praise it isonly because praise enables us to think well of ourselves. Every oneto himself is the centre and pivot of all the world. "

"It's a very poor world that goes round upon my pivot, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"I don't know how this quarrel came up, " exclaimed Priscilla, "andI don't care to know. But it seems a trumpery quarrel, --as to whoshould beg each other's pardon first, and all that kind of thing. Sheer and simple nonsense! Ask him to let it all be forgotten. Isuppose he loves you?"

"How can I know? He did once. "

"And you love him?"

"Yes. I love him certainly. "

"I don't see how you can have a doubt. Here is Jack with thecarriage, and if we don't mind he'll pass us by without seeing us. "

Then Mrs. Trevelyan got up, and when they had succeeded in divertingJack's attention for a moment from the horse, they called to Nora, who was still moving about from one knoll to another, and who showedno desire to abandon the contemplations in which she had beenengaged. 

It had been mid-day before they left home in the morning, and theywere due to be at home in time for tea, --which is an epoch in theday generally allowed to be more elastic than some others. When Mrs. Stanbury lived in the cottage her hour for tea had been six; this hadbeen stretched to half-past seven when she received Mrs. Trevelyan atthe Clock House; and it was half-past eight before Jack landed themat their door. It was manifest to them all as they entered the housethat there was an air of mystery in the face of the girl who hadopened the door for them. She did not speak, however, till they wereall within the passage. Then she uttered a few words very solemnly. "There be a gentleman come, " she said. 

"A gentleman!" said Mrs. Trevelyan, thinking in the first moment ofher husband, and in the second of Colonel Osborne. 

"He be for you, miss, " said the girl, bobbing her head at Nora. 

Upon hearing this Nora sank speechless into the chair which stood inthe passage. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

A GENTLEMAN COMES TO NUNCOMBE PUTNEY. 

It soon became known to them all as they remained clustered in thehall that Mr. Glascock was in the house. Mrs. Stanbury came out tothem and informed them that he had been at Nuncombe Putney for thelast five hours, and that he had asked for Mrs. Trevelyan when hecalled. It became evident as the affairs of the evening went on, thatMrs. Stanbury had for a few minutes been thrown into a terrible stateof amazement, thinking that "the Colonel" had appeared. The strangegentleman, however, having obtained admittance, explained who he was, saying that he was very desirous of seeing Mrs. Trevelyan, --and MissRowley. It may be presumed that a glimmer of light did make its wayinto Mrs. Stanbury's mind on the subject; but up to the moment atwhich the three travellers arrived, she had been in doubt on thesubject. Mr. Glascock had declared that he would take a walk, andin the course of the afternoon had expressed high approval of Mrs. Crocket's culinary skill. When Mrs. Crocket heard that she hadentertained the son of a lord, she was very loud in her praise of themanner in which he had eaten two mutton chops and called for a third. He had thought it no disgrace to apply himself to the second halfof an apple pie, and had professed himself to be an ardent admirerof Devonshire cream. "It's them counter-skippers as turns up theirlittle noses at the victuals as is set before them, " said Mrs. Crocket. 

After his dinner Mr. Glascock had returned to the Clock House, andhad been sitting there for an hour with Mrs. Stanbury, not much toher delight or to his, when the carriage was driven up to the door. 

"He is to go back to Lessboro' to-night, " said Mrs. Stanbury in awhisper. 

"Of course you must see him before he goes, " said Mrs. Trevelyan toher sister. There had, as was natural, been very much said betweenthe two sisters about Mr. Glascock. Nora had abstained from assertingin any decided way that she disliked the man, and had alwaysabsolutely refused to allow Hugh Stanbury's name to be mixed up withthe question. Whatever might be her own thoughts about Hugh Stanburyshe had kept them even from her sister. When her sister had told herthat she had refused Mr. Glascock because of Hugh, she had shownherself to be indignant, and had since that said one or two finethings as to her capacity to refuse a brilliant offer simply becausethe man who had made it was indifferent to her. Mrs. Trevelyan hadlearned from her that her suitor had declared his intention topersevere; and here was perseverance with a vengeance! "Of course youmust see him, --at once, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. Nora for a few secondshad remained silent, and then had run up to her room. Her sisterfollowed her instantly. 

"What is the meaning of it all?" said Priscilla to her mother. 

"I suppose he is in love with Miss Rowley, " said Mrs. Stanbury. 

"But who is he?"

Then Mrs. Stanbury told all that she knew. She had seen from hiscard that he was an Honourable Mr. Glascock. She had collected fromwhat he had said that he was an old friend of the two ladies. Herconviction was strong in Mr. Glascock's favour, --thinking, as sheexpressed herself, that everything was right and proper, --but shecould hardly explain why she thought so. 

"I do wish that they had never come, " said Priscilla, who could notrid herself of an idea that there must be danger in having to do withwomen who had men running after them. 

"Of course I'll see him, " said Nora to her sister. "I have notrefused to see him. Why do you scold me?"

"I have not scolded you, Nora; but I do want you to think howimmensely important this is. "

"Of course it is important. "

"And so much the more so because of my misfortunes! Think how good hemust be, how strong must be his attachment, when he comes down hereafter you in this way. "

"But I have to think of my own feelings. "

"You know you like him. You have told me so. And only fancy whatmamma will feel! Such a position! And the man so excellent! Everybodysays that he hasn't a fault in any way. "

"I hate people without faults. "

"Oh, Nora, Nora, that is foolish! There, there; you must go down. Pray, --pray do not let any absurd fancy stand in your way, anddestroy everything. It will never come again, Nora. And, only think;it is all now your own, if you will only whisper one word. "

"Ah!--one word, --and that a falsehood!"

"No, --no. Say you will try to love him, and that will be enough. Andyou do love him?"

"Do I?"

"Yes, you do. It is only the opposition of your nature that makes youfight against him. Will you go now?"

"Let me be for two minutes by myself, " said Nora, "and then I'll comedown. Tell him that I'm coming. " Mrs. Trevelyan stooped over her, kissed her, and then left her. 

Nora, as soon as she was alone, stood upright in the middle of theroom and held her hands up to her forehead. She had been far fromthinking, when she was considering the matter easily among thehillocks, that the necessity for an absolute decision would come uponher so instantaneously. She had told herself only this morning thatit would be wise to accept the man, if he should ever ask a secondtime;--and he had come already. He had been waiting for her in thevillage while she had been thinking whether he would ever come acrossher path again. She thought that it would have been easier for hernow to have gone down with a "yes" in her mouth, if her sister hadnot pressed her so hard to say that "yes. " The very pressure from hersister seemed to imply that such pressure ought to be resisted. Whyshould there have been pressure, unless there were reasons againsther marrying him? And yet, if she chose to take him, who would havea right to complain of her? Hugh Stanbury had never spoken to her aword that would justify her in even supposing that he would considerhimself to be ill-used. All others of her friends would certainlyrejoice, would applaud her, pat her on the back, cover her withcaresses, and tell her that she had been born under a happy star. Andshe did like the man. Nay;--she thought she loved him. She withdrewher hands from her brow, assured herself that her lot in life wascast, and with hurrying fingers attempted to smooth her hair and toarrange her ribbons before the glass. She would go to the encounterboldly and accept him honestly. It was her duty to do so. What mightshe not do for brothers and sisters as the wife of Lord Peterboroughof Monkhams? She saw that that arrangement before the glass could beof no service, and she stepped quickly to the door. If he did notlike her as she was, he need not ask her. Her mind was made up, andshe would do it. But as she went down the stairs to the room in whichshe knew that he was waiting for her, there came over her a coldfeeling of self-accusation, --almost of disgrace. "I do not care, "she said. "I know that I'm right. " She opened the door quickly, thatthere might be no further doubt, and found that she was alone withhim. 

"Miss Rowley, " he said, "I am afraid you will think that I ampersecuting you. "

"I have no right to think that, " she answered. 

"I'll tell you why I have come. My dear father, who has always beenmy best friend, is very ill. He is at Naples, and I must go to him. He is very old, you know, --over eighty; and will never live to comeback to England. From what I hear, I think it probable that I mayremain with him till everything is over. "

"I did not know that he was so old as that. "

"They say that he can hardly live above a month or two. He will neversee my wife, --if I can have a wife; but I should like to tell him, ifit were possible, --that, --that--"

"I understand you, Mr. Glascock. "

"I told you that I should come to you again, and as I may possiblylinger at Naples all the winter, I could not go without seeing you. Miss Rowley, may I hope that you can love me?"

She did not answer him a word, but stood looking away from him withher hands clasped together. Had he asked her whether she would be hiswife, it is possible that the answer which she had prepared wouldhave been spoken. But he had put the question in another form. Didshe love him? If she could only bring herself to say that she couldlove him, she might be lady of Monkhams before the next summer hadcome round. 

"Nora, " he said, "do you think that you can love me?"

"No, " she said, and there was something almost of fierceness in thetone of her voice as she answered him. 

"And must that be your final answer to me?"

"Mr. Glascock, what can I say?" she replied. "I will tell you thehonest truth:--I will tell you everything. I came into this roomdetermined to accept you. But you are so good, and so kind, and soupright, that I cannot tell you a falsehood. I do not love you. Iought not to take what you offer me. If I did, it would be becauseyou are rich, and a lord; and not because I love you. I love some oneelse. There;--pray, pray do not tell of me; but I do. " Then she flungaway from him and hid her face in a corner of the sofa out of thelight. 

Her lover stood silent, not knowing how to go on with theconversation, not knowing how to bring it to an end. After whatshe had now said to him it was impossible that he should press herfurther. It was almost impossible that he should wish to do so. Whena lady is frank enough to declare that her heart is not her own togive, a man can hardly wish to make further prayer for the gift. "Ifso, " he said, "of course I have nothing to hope. "

She was sobbing, and could not answer him. She was half repentant, partly proud of what she had done, --half repentant in that she hadlost what had seemed to her to be so good, and full of remorse inthat she had so unnecessarily told her secret. 

"Perhaps, " said he, "I ought to assure you that what you have told meshall never be repeated by my lips. "

She thanked him for this by a motion of her head and hand, not bywords;--and then he was gone. How he managed to bid adieu to Mrs. Stanbury and her sister, or whether he saw them as he left the house, she never knew. In her corner of the sofa, weeping in the dark, partly proud and partly repentant, she remained till her sister cameto her. "Emily, " she said, jumping up, "say nothing about it; nota word. It is of no use. The thing is done and over, and let italtogether be forgotten. "

"It is done and over, certainly, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"Exactly;--and I suppose a girl may do what she likes with herself inthat way. If I choose to decline to take anything that is pleasant, and nice, and comfortable, nobody has a right to scold me. And Iwon't be scolded. "

"But, my child, who is scolding you?"

"You mean to scold me. But it is of no use. The man has gone, andthere is an end of it. Nothing that you can say or I can think willbring him back again. I don't want anybody to tell me that it wouldbe better to be Lady Peterborough, with everything that the world hasto give, than to live here without a soul to speak to, and to have togo back to those horrible islands next year. You can't think that Iam very comfortable. "

"But what did you say to him, Nora?"

"What did I say to him? What could I say to him? Why didn't he ask meto be his wife without saying anything about love? He asked me if Iloved him. Of course I don't love him. I would have said I did, butit stuck in my throat. I am willing enough, I believe, to sell myselfto the devil, but I don't know how to do it. Never mind. It's done, and now I'll go to bed. "

She did go to bed, and Mrs. Trevelyan explained to the two ladies asmuch as was necessary of what had occurred. When Mrs. Stanbury cameto understand that the gentleman who had been closeted with herwould, probably, in a few months be a lord himself, that he was avery rich man, a member of Parliament, and one of those who aredecidedly born with gold spoons in their mouths, and understood alsothat Nora Rowley had refused him, she was lost in amazement. Mr. Glascock was about forty years of age, and appeared to Nora Rowley, who was nearly twenty years his junior, to be almost an old man. But to Mrs. Stanbury, who was over sixty, Mr. Glascock seemed to bequite in the flower of his age. The bald place at the top of his headsimply showed that he had passed his boyhood, and the grey hairs atthe back of his whiskers were no more than outward signs of manlydiscretion. She could not understand why any girl should refuse suchan offer, unless the man were himself bad in morals, or in temper. But Mrs. Trevelyan had told her while Nora and Mr. Glascock werecloseted together, that he was believed by them all to be good andgentle. Nevertheless she felt a considerable increase of respect fora young lady who had refused the eldest son of a lord. Priscilla, when she heard what had occurred, expressed to her mother a moderatedapproval. According to her views a girl would much more often beright to refuse an offer of marriage than to accept it, let him whomade the offer be who he might. And the fact of the man having beensent away with a refusal somewhat softened Priscilla's anger at hiscoming there at all. 

"I suppose he is a goose, " said she to her mother, "and I hope therewon't be any more of this kind running after them while they are withus. "

Nora, when she was alone, wept till her heart was almost broken. Itwas done, and the man was gone, and the thing was over. She had quitesufficient knowledge of the world to realise perfectly the differencebetween such a position as that which had been offered to her, andthe position which in all probability she would now be called upon tofill. She had had her chance, and Fortune had placed great things ather disposal. It must be said of her also that the great things whichFortune had offered to her were treasures very valuable in her eyes. Whether it be right and wise to covet or to despise wealth and rank, there was no doubt but that she coveted them. She had been instructedto believe in them, and she did believe in them. In some mysteriousmanner of which she herself knew nothing, taught by some preceptorthe nobility of whose lessons she had not recognised though she hadaccepted them, she had learned other things also, --to revere truthand love, and to be ambitious as regarded herself of conferring thegift of her whole heart upon some one whom she could worship as ahero. She had spoken the simple truth when she had told her sisterthat she had been willing to sell herself to the devil, but thatshe had failed in her attempt to execute the contract. But now asshe lay weeping on her bed, tearing herself with remorse, picturingto herself in the most vivid colours all that she had thrown away, telling herself of all that she might have done and all that shemight have been, had she not allowed the insane folly of a momentto get the better of her, she received little or no comfort fromthe reflection that she had been true to her better instincts. Shehad told the man that she had refused him because she loved HughStanbury;--at least, as far as she could remember what had passed, she had so told him. And how mean it was of her to allow herself tobe actuated by an insane passion for a man who had never spoken toher of love, and how silly of her afterwards to confess it! Of whatservice could such a passion be to her life? Even were it returned, she could not marry such a one as Hugh Stanbury. She knew enough ofherself to be quite sure that were he to ask her to do so to-morrow, she would refuse him. Better go and be scorched, and bored todeath, and buried at the Mandarins, than attempt to regulate a poorhousehold which, as soon as she made one of its number, would be onthe sure road to ruin!

For a moment there came upon her, not a thought, hardly anidea, --something of a waking dream that she would write to Mr. Glascock and withdraw all that she had said. Were she to do so hewould probably despise her, and tell her that he despised her;--butthere might be a chance. It was possible that such a declarationwould bring him back to her;--and did it not bring him back to hershe would only be where she was, a poor lost, shipwrecked creature, who had flung herself upon the rocks and thrown away her only chanceof a prosperous voyage across the ocean of life; her only chance, forshe was not like other girls, who at any rate remain on the sceneof action, and may refit their spars and still win their way. Forthere were to be no more seasons in London, no more living in CurzonStreet, no renewed power of entering the ball-rooms and crowdedstaircases in which high-born wealthy lovers can be conquered. Agreat prospect had been given to her, and she had flung it aside!That letter of retractation was, however, quite out of the question. The reader must not suppose that she had ever thought that she couldwrite it. She thought of nothing but of coming misery and remorse. Inher wretchedness she fancied that she had absolutely disclosed to theman who loved her the name of him whom she had been mad enough to saythat she loved. But what did it matter? Let it be as it might, shewas destroyed. 

The next morning she came down to breakfast pale as a ghost; and theywho saw her knew at once that she had done that which had made her awretched woman. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE STANBURY CORRESPONDENCE. 

Half an hour after the proper time, when the others had finishedtheir tea and bread and butter, Nora Rowley came down among them paleas a ghost. Her sister had gone to her while she was dressing, butshe had declared that she would prefer to be alone. She would be downdirectly, she had said, and had completed her toilet without even theassistance of her maid. She drank her cup of tea and pretended to eather toast; and then sat herself down, very wretchedly, to think ofit all again. It had been all within her grasp, --all of which shehad ever dreamed! And now it was gone! Each of her three companionsstrove from time to time to draw her into conversation, but sheseemed to be resolute in her refusal. At first, till her utterprostration had become a fact plainly recognised by them all, shemade some little attempt at an answer when a direct question wasasked of her; but after a while she only shook her head, and wassilent, giving way to absolute despair. 

Late in the evening she went out into the garden, and Priscillafollowed her. It was now the end of July, and the summer was in itsglory. The ladies, during the day, would remain in the drawing-roomwith the windows open and the blinds down, and would sit in theevening reading and working, or perhaps pretending to read and work, under the shade of a cedar which stood upon the lawn. No retirementcould possibly be more secluded than was that of the garden of theClock House. No stranger could see into it, or hear sounds from outof it. Though it was not extensive, it was so well furnished withthose charming garden shrubs which, in congenial soils, become largetrees, that one party of wanderers might seem to be lost from anotheramidst its walls. On this evening Mrs. Stanbury and Mrs. Trevelyanhad gone out as usual, but Priscilla had remained with Nora Rowley. After a while Nora also got up and went through the window all alone. Priscilla, having waited for a few minutes, followed her; and caughther in a long green walk that led round the bottom of the orchard. 

"What makes you so wretched?" she said. 

"Why do you say I am wretched?"

"Because it's so visible. How is one to go on living with you all dayand not notice it?"

"I wish you wouldn't notice it. I don't think it kind of you tonotice it. If I wanted to talk of it, I would say so. "

"It is better generally to speak of a trouble than to keep it tooneself, " said Priscilla. 

"All the same, I would prefer not to speak of mine, " said Nora. 

Then they parted, one going one way and one the other, and Priscillawas certainly angry at the reception which had been given to thesympathy which she had proffered. The next day passed almost withouta word spoken between the two. Mrs. Stanbury had not ventured as yetto mention to her guest the subject of the rejected lover, and hadnot even said much on the subject to Mrs. Trevelyan. Between the twosisters there had been, of course, some discussion on the matter. Itwas impossible that it should be allowed to pass without it; but suchdiscussions always resulted in an assertion on the part of Nora thatshe would not be scolded. Mrs. Trevelyan was very tender with her, and made no attempt to scold her, --tried, at last, simply to consoleher; but Nora was so continually at work scolding herself, that everyword spoken to her on the subject of Mr. Glascock's visit seemed toher to carry with it a rebuke. 

But on the second day she herself accosted Priscilla Stanbury. "Comeinto the garden, " she said, when they two were for a moment alonetogether; "I want to speak to you. " Priscilla, without answering, folded up her work and put on her hat. "Come down to the green walk, "said Nora. "I was savage to you last night, and I want to beg yourpardon. "

"You were savage, " said Priscilla, smiling, "and you shall have mypardon. Who would not pardon you any offence, if you asked it?"

"I am so miserable!" she said. 

"But why?"

"I don't know. I can't tell. And it is of no use talking about itnow, for it is all over. But I ought not to have been cross to you, and I am very sorry. "

"That does not signify a straw; only so far, that when I have beencross, and have begged a person's pardon, --which I don't do as oftenas I ought, --I always feel that it begets kindness. If I could helpyou in your trouble I would. "

"You can't fetch him back again. "

"You mean Mr. Glascock. Shall I go and try?"

Nora smiled and shook her head. "I wonder what he would say if youasked him. But if he came I should do the same thing. "

"I do not in the least know what you have done, my dear. I only seethat you mope about, and are more down in the mouth than any oneought to be, unless some great trouble has come. "

"A great trouble has come. "

"I suppose you have had your choice, --either to accept your lover orto reject him. "

"No; I have not had my choice. "

"It seems to me that no one has dictated to you; or, at least, thatyou have obeyed no dictation. "

"Of course, I can't explain it to you. It is impossible that Ishould. "

"If you mean that you regret what you have done because you have beenfalse to the man, I can sympathise with you. No one has ever a rightto be false, and if you are repenting a falsehood, I will willinglyhelp you to eat your ashes and to wear your sackcloth. But if you arerepenting a truth--"

"I am. "

"Then you must eat your ashes by yourself, for me; and I do not thinkthat you will ever be able to digest them. "

"I do not want anybody to help me, " said Nora proudly. 

"Nobody can help you, if I understand the matter rightly. You havegot to get the better of your own covetousness and evil desires, andyou are in the fair way to get the better of them if you have alreadyrefused to be this man's wife because you could not bring yourself tocommit the sin of marrying him when you did not love him. I supposethat is about the truth of it; and indeed, indeed, I do sympathisewith you. If you have done that, though it is no more than theplainest duty, I will love you for it. One finds so few people thatwill do any duty that taxes their self-indulgence. "

"But he did not ask me to marry him. "

"Then I do not understand anything about it. "

"He asked me to love him. "

"But he meant you to be his wife?"

"Oh yes;--he meant that of course. "

"And what did you say?" asked Priscilla. 

"That I didn't love him, " replied Nora. 

"And that was the truth?"

"Yes;--it was the truth. "

"And what do you regret?--that you didn't tell him a lie?"

"No;--not that, " said Nora slowly. 

"What then? You cannot regret that you have not basely deceived a manwho has treated you with a loving generosity?" They walked on silentfor a few yards, and then Priscilla repeated her question. "Youcannot mean that you are sorry that you did not persuade yourself todo evil?"

"I don't want to go back to the islands, and to lose myself there, and to be nobody;--that is what I mean. And I might have been somuch! Could one step from the very highest rung of the ladder to thevery lowest and not feel it?"

"But you have gone up the ladder, --if you only knew it, " saidPriscilla. "There was a choice given to you between the foulest mireof the clay of the world, and the sun-light of the very God. You havechosen the sun-light, and you are crying after the clay! I cannotpity you; but I can esteem you, and love you, and believe in you. AndI do. You'll get yourself right at last, and there's my hand on it, if you'll take it. " Nora took the hand that was offered to her, heldit in her own for some seconds, and then walked back to the house andup to her own room in silence. 

The post used to come into Nuncombe Putney at about eight in themorning, carried thither by a wooden-legged man who rode a donkey. There is a general understanding that the wooden-legged men incountry parishes should be employed as postmen, owing to the greatsteadiness of demeanour which a wooden leg is generally found toproduce. It may be that such men are slower in their operations thanwould be biped postmen; but as all private employers of labour demandlabourers with two legs, it is well that the lame and halt shouldfind a refuge in the less exacting service of the government. Theone-legged man who rode his donkey into Nuncombe Putney would reachhis post-office not above half an hour after his proper time; but hewas very slow in stumping round the village, and seldom reached theClock House much before ten. On a certain morning two or three daysafter the conversation just recorded it was past ten when he broughttwo letters to the door, one for Mrs. Trevelyan, and one for Mrs. Stanbury. The ladies had finished their breakfast, and were seatedtogether at an open window. As was usual, the letters were given intoPriscilla's hands, and the newspaper which accompanied them intothose of Mrs. Trevelyan, its undoubted owner. When her letter washanded to her, she looked at the address closely and then walked awaywith it into her own room. 

"I think it's from Louis, " said Nora, as soon as the door was closed. "If so, he is telling her to come back. "

"Mamma, this is for you, " said Priscilla. "It is from Aunt Stanbury. I know her handwriting. "

"From your aunt? What can she be writing about? There is somethingwrong with Dorothy. " Mrs. Stanbury held the letter but did not openit. "You had better read it, my dear. If she is ill, pray let hercome home. "

But the letter spoke of nothing amiss as regarded Dorothy, and didnot indeed even mention Dorothy's name. Luckily Priscilla readthe letter in silence, for it was an angry letter. "What is it, Priscilla? Why don't you tell me? Is anything wrong?" said Mrs. Stanbury. 

"Nothing is wrong, mamma, --except that my aunt is a silly woman. "

"Goodness me! what is it?"

"It is a family matter, " said Nora smiling, "and I will go. "

"What can it be?" demanded Mrs. Stanbury again as soon as Nora hadleft the room. 

"You shall hear what it can be. I will read it you, " said Priscilla. "It seems to me that of all the women that ever lived my AuntStanbury is the most prejudiced, the most unjust, and the most givento evil thinking of her neighbours. This is what she has thought fitto write to you, mamma. " Then Priscilla read her aunt's letter, whichwas as follows:--

 The Close, Exeter, July 31, 186--. 

 DEAR SISTER STANBURY, I am informed that the lady who is living with you because she could not continue to live under the same roof with her lawful husband, has received a visit at your house from a gentleman who was named as her lover before she left her own. I am given to understand that it was because of this gentleman's visits to her in London, and because she would not give up seeing him, that her husband would not live with her any longer. 

"But the man has never been here at all, " said Mrs. Stanbury, indismay. 

"Of course he has not been here. But let me go on. "

 I have got nothing to do with your visitors, [continued the letter] and I should not interfere but for the credit of the family. There ought to be somebody to explain to you that much of the abominable disgrace of the whole proceeding will rest upon you, if you permit such goings on in your house. I suppose it is your house. At any rate you are regarded as the mistress of the establishment, and it is for you to tell the lady that she must go elsewhere. I do hope that you have done so, or at least that you will do so now. It is intolerable that the widow of my brother, --a clergyman, --should harbour a lady who is separated from her husband and who receives visits from a gentleman who is reputed to be her lover. I wonder much that your eldest daughter should countenance such a proceeding. 

 Yours truly, JEMIMA STANBURY. 

Mrs. Stanbury, when the letter had been read to her, held up both herhands in despair. "Dear, dear, " she exclaimed. "Oh, dear!"

"She had such pleasure in writing it, " said Priscilla, "that oneought hardly to begrudge it her. " The blackest spot in the characterof Priscilla Stanbury was her hatred for her aunt in Exeter. She knewthat her aunt had high qualities, and yet she hated her aunt. She waswell aware that her aunt was regarded as a shining light by very manygood people in the county, and yet she hated her aunt. She could notbut acknowledge that her aunt had been generous to her brother, andwas now very generous to her sister, and yet she hated her aunt. Itwas now a triumph to her that her aunt had fallen into so terriblea quagmire, and she was by no means disposed to let the sinning oldwoman easily out of it. 

"It is as pretty a specimen, " she said, "as I ever knew of malice andeaves-dropping combined. "

"Don't use such hard words, my dear. "

"Look at her words to us, " said Priscilla. "What business has she totalk to you about the credit of the family and abominable disgrace?You have held your head up in poverty, while she has been rolling inmoney. "

"She has been very good to Hugh, --and now to Dorothy. "

"If I were Dorothy I would have none of her goodness. She likes someone to trample on, --some one of the name to patronise. She shan'ttrample on you and me, mamma. "

Then there was a discussion as to what should be done; or rathera discourse in which Priscilla explained what she thought fit todo. Nothing, she decided, should be said to Mrs. Trevelyan on thesubject; but an answer should be sent to Aunt Stanbury. Priscillaherself would write this answer, and herself would sign it. There wassome difference of opinion on this point, as Mrs. Stanbury thoughtthat if she might be allowed to put her name to it, even thoughPriscilla should write it, the wording of it would be made, in somedegree, mild, --to suit her own character. But her daughter wasimperative, and she gave way. 

"It shall be mild enough in words, " said Priscilla, "and very short. "

Then she wrote her letter as follows:--

 Nuncombe Putney, August 1, 186--. 

 DEAR AUNT STANBURY, You have found a mare's nest. The gentleman you speak of has never been here at all, and the people who bring you news have probably hoaxed you. I don't think that mamma has ever disgraced the family, and you can have no reason for thinking that she ever will. You should, at any rate, be sure of what you are saying before you make such cruel accusations. 

 Yours truly, PRISCILLA STANBURY. 

 P. S. --Another gentleman did call here, --not to see Mrs. Trevelyan; but I suppose mamma's house need not be closed against all visitors. 

Poor Dorothy had passed evil hours from the moment in which heraunt had so far certified herself as to Colonel Osborne's visit toNuncombe as to make her feel it to be incumbent on her to interfere. After much consideration Miss Stanbury had told her niece thedreadful news, and had told also what she intended to do. Dorothy, who was in truth horrified at the iniquity of the fact which wasrelated, and who never dreamed of doubting the truth of her aunt'sinformation, hardly knew how to interpose. "I am sure mamma won't letthere be anything wrong, " she had said. 

"And you don't call this wrong?" said Miss Stanbury, in a tone ofindignation. 

"But perhaps mamma will tell them to go. "

"I hope she will. I hope she has. But he was allowed to be therefor hours. And now three days have passed and there is no sign ofanything being done. He came and went and may come again when hepleases. " Still Dorothy pleaded. "I shall do my duty, " said MissStanbury. 

"I am quite sure mamma will do nothing wrong, " said Dorothy. But theletter was written and sent, and the answer to the letter reached thehouse in the Close in due time. 

When Miss Stanbury had read and re-read the very short reply whichher niece had written, she became at first pale with dismay, andthen red with renewed vigour and obstinacy. She had made herself, asshe thought, quite certain of her facts before she had acted on herinformation. There was some equivocation, some most unworthy deceitin Priscilla's letter. Or could it be possible that she herself hadbeen mistaken? Another gentleman had been there;--not, however, withthe object of seeing Mrs. Trevelyan! So said Priscilla. But she hadmade herself sure that the man in question was a man from London, a middle-aged man from London, who had specially asked for Mrs. Trevelyan, and who had at once been known to Mrs. Clegg, at theLessboro' inn, to be Mrs. Trevelyan's lover. Miss Stanbury wasvery unhappy, and at last sent for Giles Hickbody. Giles Hickbodyhad never pretended to know the name. He had seen the man and haddescribed him, "Quite a swell, ma'am; and a Lon'oner, and one as'dbe up to anything; but not a young 'un; no, not just a young 'un, zartainly. " He was cross-examined again now, and said that all heknew about the man's name was that there was a handle to it. This wasended by Miss Stanbury sending him down to Lessboro' to learn thevery name of the gentleman, and by his coming back with that of theHonourable George Glascock written on a piece of paper. "They saysnow as he was arter the other young 'ooman, " said Giles Hickbody. Then was the confusion of Miss Stanbury complete. 

It was late when Giles returned from Lessboro', and nothing couldbe done that night. It was too late to write a letter for thenext morning's post. Miss Stanbury, who was as proud of her owndiscrimination as she was just and true, felt that a day ofhumiliation had indeed come for her. She hated Priscilla almost asvigorously as Priscilla hated her. To Priscilla she would not writeto own her fault; but it was incumbent on her to confess it to Mrs. Stanbury. It was incumbent on her also to confess it to Dorothy. Allthat night she did not sleep, and the next morning she went aboutabashed, wretched, hardly mistress of her own maids. She must confessit also to Martha, and Martha would be very stern to her. Martha hadpooh-poohed the whole story of the lover, seeming to think that therecould be no reasonable objection to a lover past fifty. 

"Dorothy, " she said at last, about noon, "I have been overhasty about your mother and this man. I am sorry for it, andmust--beg--everybody's--pardon. "

"I knew mamma would do nothing wrong, " said Dorothy. 

"To do wrong is human, and she, I suppose, is not more free thanothers; but in this matter I was misinformed. I shall write and begher pardon; and now I beg your pardon. "

"Not mine, Aunt Stanbury. "

"Yes, yours and your mother's, and the lady's also, --for against herhas the fault been most grievous. I shall write to your mother andexpress my contrition. " She put off the evil hour of writing as longas she could, but before dinner the painful letter had been written, and carried by herself to the post. It was as follows:--

 The Close, August 3, 186--. 

 DEAR SISTER STANBURY, I have now learned that the information was false on which my former letter was based. I am heartily sorry for any annoyance I may have given you. I can only inform you that my intentions were good and upright. Nevertheless, I humbly beg your pardon. 

 Yours truly, JEMIMA STANBURY. 

Mrs. Stanbury, when she received this, was inclined to let the matterdrop. That her sister-in-law should express such abject contritionwas to her such a lowering of the great ones of the earth, that theapology conveyed to her more pain than pleasure. She could not hinderherself from sympathising with all that her sister-in-law had feltwhen she had found herself called upon to humiliate herself. Butit was not so with Priscilla. Mrs. Stanbury did not observe thather daughter's name was scrupulously avoided in the apology; butPriscilla observed it. She would not let the matter drop, withoutan attempt at the last word. She therefore wrote back again asfollows;--

 Nuncombe Putney, August 4, 186--. 

 DEAR AUNT STANBURY, I am glad you have satisfied yourself about the gentleman who has so much disquieted you. I do not know that the whole affair would be worth a moment's consideration, were it not that mamma and I, living as we do so secluded a life, are peculiarly apt to feel any attack upon our good name, --which is pretty nearly all that is left to us. If ever there were women who should be free from attack, at any rate from those of their own family, we are such women. We never interfere with you, or with anybody; and I think you might abstain from harassing us by accusations. 

 Pray do not write to mamma in such a strain again, unless you are quite sure of your ground. 

 Yours truly, PRISCILLA STANBURY. 

"Impudent!" said Miss Stanbury to Martha, when she had read theletter. "Ill-conditioned, impudent vixen!"

"She was provoked, miss, " said Martha. 

"Well; yes; yes;--and I suppose it is right that you should tell meof it. I dare say it is part of what I ought to bear for being an oldfool, and too cautious about my own flesh and blood. I will bear it. There. I was wrong, and I will say that I have been justly punished. There, --there!"

How very much would Miss Stanbury's tone have been changed hadshe known that at that very moment Colonel Osborne was eating hisbreakfast at Mrs. Crocket's inn, in Nuncombe Putney!

CHAPTER XIX. 

BOZZLE, THE EX-POLICEMAN. 

 [Illustration]

When Mr. Trevelyan had gone through the miserable task of breaking uphis establishment in Curzon Street, and had seen all his furniturepacked, including his books, his pictures, and his pet Italianornaments, it was necessary that he should go and live somewhere. Hewas very wretched at this time, --so wretched that life was a burdento him. He was a man who loved his wife;--to whom his child was verydear; and he was one too to whom the ordinary comforts of domesticlife were attractive and necessary. There are men to whom releasefrom the constraint imposed by family ties will be, at any rate fora time, felt as a release. But he was not such a man. There was nodelight to him in being able to dine at his club, and being free togo whither he pleased in the evening. As it was, it pleased him togo no whither in the evenings; and his mornings were equally blankto him. He went so often to Mr. Bideawhile, that the poor old lawyerbecame quite tired of the Trevelyan family quarrel. Even LadyMilborough, with all her power of sympathising, began to feel thatshe would almost prefer on any morning that her dear young friend, Louis Trevelyan, should not be announced. Nevertheless, she alwayssaw him when he came, and administered comfort according to herlight. Of course he would have his wife back before long. That wasthe only consolation she was able to offer; and she offered it sooften that he began gradually to feel that something might be donetowards bringing about so desirable an event. After what had occurredthey could not live again in Curzon Street, --nor even in London forawhile; but Naples was open to them. Lady Milborough said so much tohim of the advantages which always came in such circumstances fromgoing to Naples, that he began to regard such a trip as almost thenatural conclusion of his adventure. But then there came that verydifficult question;--what step should be first taken? Lady Milboroughproposed that he should go boldly down to Nuncombe Putney, and makethe arrangement. "She will only be too glad to jump into your arms, "said Lady Milborough. Trevelyan thought that if he went to NuncombePutney, his wife might perhaps jump into his arms; but what wouldcome after that? How would he stand then in reference to hisauthority? Would she own that she had been wrong? Would she promiseto behave better in future? He did not believe that she was yetsufficiently broken in spirit to make any such promise. And he toldhimself again and again that it would be absurd in him to allow herto return to him without such subjection, after all that he had gonethrough in defence of his marital rights. If he were to write to hera long letter, argumentative, affectionate, exhaustive, it might bebetter. He was inclined to believe of himself that he was good atwriting long, affectionate, argumentative, and exhaustive letters. But he would not do even this as yet. He had broken up his house, andscattered all his domestic gods to the winds, because she had behavedbadly to him; and the thing done was too important to allow ofredress being found so easily. 

So he lived on a wretched life in London. He could hardly endure toshow himself at his club, fearing that every one would be talking ofhim as the man who was separated from his wife, --perhaps as the manof whose wife Colonel Osborne was the dear friend. No doubt for a dayor two there had been much of such conversation; but it had died awayfrom the club long before his consciousness had become callous. Atfirst he had gone into a lodging in Mayfair; but this had been butfor a day or two. After that he had taken a set of furnished chambersin Lincoln's Inn, immediately under those in which Stanbury lived;and thus it came to pass that he and Stanbury were very much throwntogether. As Trevelyan would always talk of his wife this was rathera bore; but our friend bore with it, and would even continue toinstruct the world through the columns of the D. R. While Trevelyanwas descanting on the peculiar cruelty of his own position. 

"I wish to be just, and even generous; and I do love her with all myheart, " he said one afternoon, when Hugh was very hard at work. 

"'It is all very well for gentlemen to call themselves reformers, '"Hugh was writing, "'but have these gentlemen ever realised tothemselves the meaning of that word? We think that they have neverdone so as long as--' Of course you love her, " said Hugh, with hiseyes still on the paper, still leaning on his pen, but finding by thecessation of sound that Trevelyan had paused, and therefore knowingthat it was necessary that he should speak. 

"As much as ever, " said Trevelyan, with energy. 

"'As long as they follow such a leader, in such a cause, intowhichever lobby he may choose to take them--' Exactly so, --exactly, "said Stanbury; "just as much as ever. "

"You are not listening to a word, " said Trevelyan. 

"I haven't missed a single expression you have used, " said Stanbury. "But a fellow has to do two things at a time when he's on the dailypress. "

"I beg your pardon for interrupting you, " said Trevelyan, angrily, getting up, taking his hat, and stalking off to the house of LadyMilborough. In this way he became rather a bore to his friends. Hecould not divest his mind of the injury which had accrued to him fromhis wife's conduct, nor could he help talking of the grief with whichhis mind was laden. And he was troubled with sore suspicions, which, as far as they concerned his wife, had certainly not been merited. Ithad seemed to him that she had persisted in her intimacy with ColonelOsborne in a manner that was not compatible with that wife-likeindifference which he regarded as her duty. Why had she written tohim and received letters from him when her husband had plainly toldher that any such communication was objectionable? She had doneso, and as far as Trevelyan could remember her words, had plainlydeclared that she would continue to do so. He had sent her away intothe most remote retirement he could find for her; but the post wasopen to her. He had heard much of Mrs. Stanbury, and of Priscilla, from his friend Hugh, and thoroughly believed that his wife was inrespectable hands. But what was to prevent Colonel Osborne fromgoing after her, if he chose to do so? And if he did so choose, Mrs. Stanbury could not prevent their meeting. He was racked withjealousy, and yet he did not cease to declare to himself that he knewhis wife too well to believe that she would sin. He could not ridhimself of his jealousy, but he tried with all his might to make theman whom he hated the object of it, rather than the woman whom heloved. 

He hated Colonel Osborne with all his heart. It was a regret to himthat the days of duelling were over, so that he could not shoot theman. And yet, had duelling been possible to him, Colonel Osborne haddone nothing that would have justified him in calling his enemy out, or would even have enabled him to do so with any chance of inducinghis enemy to fight. Circumstances, he thought, were cruel to himbeyond compare, in that he should have been made to suffer so greattorment without having any of the satisfaction of revenge. Even LadyMilborough, with all her horror as to the Colonel, could not tellhim that the Colonel was amenable to any punishment. He was advisedthat he must take his wife away and live at Naples because of thisman, --that he must banish himself entirely if he chose to repossesshimself of his wife and child;--and yet nothing could be done tothe unprincipled rascal by whom all his wrongs and sufferings wereoccasioned! Thinking it very possible that Colonel Osborne wouldfollow his wife, he had a watch set upon the Colonel. He had found aretired policeman, --a most discreet man, as he was assured, --who, fora consideration, undertook the management of interesting jobs of thiskind. The man was one Bozzle, who had not lived without a certainreputation in the police courts. In these days of his madness, therefore, he took Mr. Bozzle into his pay; and after a while he gota letter from Bozzle with the Exeter post-mark. Colonel Osborne hadleft London with a ticket for Lessboro'. Bozzle also had taken aplace by the same train for that small town. The letter was writtenin the railway carriage, and, as Bozzle explained, would be posted byhim as he passed through Exeter. A further communication should bemade by the next day's post, in a letter which Mr. Bozzle proposed toaddress to Z. A. , Post-office, Waterloo Place. 

On receiving this first letter, Trevelyan was in an agony ofdoubt, as well as misery. What should he do? Should he go to LadyMilborough, or to Stanbury; or should he at once follow ColonelOsborne and Mr. Bozzle to Lessboro'? It ended in his resolving atlast to wait for the letter which was to be addressed to Z. A. But hespent an interval of horrible suspense, and of insane rage. Let thelaws say what they might, he would have the man's blood, if he foundthat the man had even attempted to wrong him. Then, at last, thesecond letter reached him. Colonel Osborne and Mr. Bozzle had each ofthem spent the day in the neighbourhood of Lessboro', not exactly ineach other's company, but very near to each other. "The Colonel" hadordered a gig, on the day after his arrival at Lessboro', for thevillage of Cockchaffington; and, for all Mr. Bozzle knew, the Colonelhad gone to Cockchaffington. Mr. Bozzle was ultimately inclinedto think that the Colonel had really spent his day in going toCockchaffington. Mr. Bozzle himself, knowing the wiles of suchmen as Colonel Osborne, and thinking at first that that journeyto Cockchaffington might only be a deep ruse, had walked over toNuncombe Putney. There he had had a pint of beer and some bread andcheese at Mrs. Crocket's house, and had asked various questions, towhich he did not receive very satisfactory answers. But he inspectedthe Clock House very minutely, and came to a decided opinion as tothe point at which it would be attacked, if burglary were the objectof the assailants. And he observed the iron gates, and the steps, and the shape of the trees, and the old pigeon-house-looking fabricin which the clock used to be placed. There was no knowing wheninformation might be wanted, or what information might not be of use. But he made himself tolerably sure that Colonel Osborne did not visitNuncombe Putney on that day; and then he walked back to Lessboro'. Having done this, he applied himself to the little memorandum book inwhich he kept the records of these interesting duties, and entered aclaim against his employer for a conveyance to Nuncombe Putney andback, including driver and ostler; and then he wrote his letter. After that he had a hot supper, with three glasses of brandy andwater, and went to bed with a thorough conviction that he had earnedhis bread on that day. 

The letter to Z. A. Did not give all these particulars, but itdid explain that Colonel Osborne had gone off, apparently, toCockchaffington, and that he, --Bozzle, --had himself visited NuncombePutney. "The hawk hasn't been nigh the dovecot as yet, " said Mr. Bozzle in his letter, meaning to be both mysterious and facetious. 

It would be difficult to say whether the wit or the mystery disgustedTrevelyan the most. He had felt that he was defiling himself withdirt when he first went to Mr. Bozzle. He knew that he was havingrecourse to means that were base and low, --which could not be otherthan base or low, let the circumstances be what they might. But Mr. Bozzle's conversation had not been quite so bad as Mr. Bozzle'sletters; as it may have been that Mr. Bozzle's successful activitywas more insupportable than his futile attempts. But, nevertheless, something must be done. It could not be that Colonel Osborne shouldhave gone down to the close neighbourhood of Nuncombe Putney withoutthe intention of seeing the lady whom his obtrusive pertinacity haddriven to that seclusion. It was terrible to Trevelyan that ColonelOsborne should be there, and not the less terrible because such a oneas Mr. Bozzle was watching the Colonel on his behalf. Should he go toNuncombe Putney himself? And if so, when he got to Nuncombe Putneywhat should he do there? At last, in his suspense and his grief, heresolved that he would tell the whole to Hugh Stanbury. 

"Do you mean, " said Hugh, "that you have put a policeman on histrack?"

"The man was a policeman once. "

"What we call a private detective. I can't say I think you wereright. "

"But you see that it was necessary, " said Trevelyan. 

"I can't say that it was necessary. To speak out, I can't understandthat a wife should be worth watching who requires watching. "

"Is a man to do nothing then? And even now it is not my wife whom Idoubt. "

"As for Colonel Osborne, if he chooses to go to Lessboro', whyshouldn't he? Nothing that you can do, or that Bozzle can do, canprevent him. He has a perfect right to go to Lessboro'. "

"But he has not a right to go to my wife. "

"And if your wife refuses to see him; or having seen him, --for a manmay force his way in anywhere with a little trouble, --if she sendshim away with a flea in his ear, as I believe she would--"

"She is so frightfully indiscreet. "

"I don't see what Bozzle can do. "

"He has found out at any rate that Osborne is there, " said Trevelyan. "I am not more fond of dealing with such fellows than you areyourself. But I think it is my duty to know what is going on. Whatought I to do now?"

"I should do nothing, --except dismiss Bozzle. "

"You know that that is nonsense, Stanbury. "

"Whatever I did I should dismiss Bozzle. " Stanbury was now quite inearnest, and, as he repeated his suggestion for the dismissal of thepoliceman, pushed his writing things away from him. "If you ask myopinion, you know, I must tell you what I think. I should get rid ofBozzle as a beginning. If you will only think of it, how can yourwife come back to you if she learns that you have set a detective towatch her?"

"But I haven't set the man to watch her. "

"Colonel Osborne is nothing to you, except as he is concerned withher. This man is now down in her neighbourhood; and, if she learnsthat, how can she help feeling it as a deep insult? Of course the manwatches her as a cat watches a mouse. "

"But what am I to do? I can't write to the man and tell him to comeaway. Osborne is down there, and I must do something. Will you godown to Nuncombe Putney yourself, and let me know the truth?"

After much debating of the subject, Hugh Stanbury said that he wouldhimself go down to Nuncombe Putney alone. There were difficultiesabout the D. R. ; but he would go to the office of the newspaper andovercome them. How far the presence of Nora Rowley at his mother'shouse may have assisted in bringing him to undertake the journey, perhaps need not be accurately stated. He acknowledged to himselfthat the claims of friendship were strong upon him; and that as hehad loudly disapproved of the Bozzle arrangement, he ought to lend ahand to some other scheme of action. Moreover, having professed hisconviction that no improper visiting could possibly take place underhis mother's roof, he felt bound to shew that he was not afraid totrust to that conviction himself. He declared that he would be readyto proceed to Nuncombe Putney to-morrow;--but only on condition thathe might have plenary power to dismiss Bozzle. 

"There can be no reason why you should take any notice of the man, "said Trevelyan. 

"How can I help noticing him when I find him prowling about theplace? Of course I shall know who he is. "

"I don't see that you need know anything about him. "

"My dear Trevelyan, you cannot have two ambassadors engaged inthe same service without communication with each other. And anycommunication with Mr. Bozzle, except that of sending him back toLondon, I will not have. " The controversy was ended by the writing ofa letter from Trevelyan to Bozzle, which was confided to Stanbury, inwhich the ex-policeman was thanked for his activity and requested toreturn to London for the present. "As we are now aware that ColonelOsborne is in the neighbourhood, " said the letter, "my friend Mr. Stanbury will know what to do. "

As soon as this was settled, Stanbury went to the office of the D. R. And made arrangement as to his work for three days. Jones could dothe article on the Irish Church upon a pinch like this, although hehad not given much study to the subject as yet; and Puddlethwaite, who was great in City matters, would try his hand on the presentstate of society in Rome, a subject on which it was essential thatthe D. R. Should express itself at once. Having settled these littletroubles Stanbury returned to his friend, and in the evening theydined together at a tavern. 

"And now, Trevelyan, let me know fairly what it is that you wish, "said Stanbury. 

"I wish to have my wife back again. "

"Simply that. If she will agree to come back, you will make nodifficulty. "

"No; not quite simply that. I shall desire that she shall be guidedby my wishes as to any intimacies she may form. "

"That is all very well; but is she to give any undertaking? Do youintend to exact any promise from her? It is my opinion that she willbe willing enough to come back, and that when she is with you therewill be no further cause for quarrelling. But I don't think she willbind herself by any exacted promise; and certainly not through athird person. "

"Then say nothing about it. Let her write a letter to me proposing tocome, --and she shall come. "

"Very well. So far I understand. And now what about Colonel Osborne?You don't want me to quarrel with him I suppose?"

"I should like to keep that for myself, " said Trevelyan, grimly. 

"If you will take my advice you will not trouble yourself about him, "said Stanbury. "But as far as I am concerned, I am not to meddle ormake with him? Of course, " continued Stanbury, after a pause, "if Ifind that he is intruding himself in my mother's house, I shall tellhim that he must not come there. "

"But if you find him installed in your mother's house as avisitor, --how then?"

"I do not regard that as possible. "

"I don't mean living there, " said Trevelyan, "but coming backwardsand forwards;--going on in habits of intimacy with, --with--?" Hisvoice trembled so as he asked these questions, that he could notpronounce the word which was to complete them. 

"With Mrs. Trevelyan, you mean. "

"Yes; with my wife. I don't say that it is so; but it may be so. Youwill be bound to tell me the truth. "

"I will certainly tell you the truth. "

"And the whole truth. "

"Yes; the whole truth. "

"Should it be so I will never see her again, --never. And as forhim;--but never mind. " Then there was another short period ofsilence, during which Stanbury smoked his pipe and sipped his whiskytoddy. "You must see, " continued Trevelyan, "that it is absolutelynecessary that I should do something. It is all very well for you tosay that you do not like detectives. Neither do I like them. But whatwas I to do? When you condemn me you hardly realise the difficultiesof my position. "

"It is the deuce of a nuisance certainly, " said Stanbury, through thecloud of smoke, --thinking now not at all of Mrs. Trevelyan, but ofMrs. Trevelyan's sister. 

"It makes a man almost feel that he had better not marry at all, "said Trevelyan. 

"I don't see that. Of course there may come troubles. The tiles mayfall on your head, you know, as you walk through the streets. As faras I can see, women go straight enough nineteen times out of twenty. But they don't like being, --what I call looked after. "

"And did I look after my wife more than I ought?"

"I don't mean that; but if I were married, --which I never shall be, for I shall never attain to the respectability of a fixed income, --Ifancy I shouldn't look after my wife at all. It seems to me thatwomen hate to be told about their duties. "

"But if you saw your wife, quite innocently, falling into an improperintimacy, --taking up with people she ought not to know, --doing thatin ignorance, which could not but compromise yourself;--wouldn't youspeak a word then?"

"Oh! I might just say, in an off-hand way, that Jones was a rascal, or a liar, or a fool, or anything of that sort. But I would nevercaution her against Jones. By George, I believe a woman can standanything better than that. "

"You have never tried it, my friend. "

"And I don't suppose I ever shall. As for me, I believe Aunt Stanburywas right when she said that I was a radical vagabond. I dare say Ishall never try the thing myself, and therefore it's very easy tohave a theory. But I must be off. Good night, old fellow. I'll do thebest I can; and, at any rate, I'll let you know the truth. "

There had been a question during the day as to whether Stanburyshould let his sister know by letter that he was expected; but it hadbeen decided that he should appear at Nuncombe without any previousnotification of his arrival. Trevelyan had thought that this was verynecessary, and when Stanbury had urged that such a measure seemedto imply suspicion, he had declared that in no other way could thetruth be obtained. He, Trevelyan, simply wanted to know the factsas they were occurring. It was a fact that Colonel Osborne was downin the neighbourhood of Nuncombe Putney. That, at least, had beenascertained. It might very possibly be the case that he would berefused admittance to the Clock House, --that all the ladies therewould combine to keep him out. But, --so Trevelyan urged, --the truthon this point was desired. It was essentially necessary to hishappiness that he should know what was being done. 

"Your mother and sister, " said he, "cannot be afraid of your comingsuddenly among them. "

Stanbury, so urged, had found it necessary to yield, but yet he hadfelt that he himself was almost acting like a detective policeman, inpurposely falling down upon them without a word of announcement. Hadchance circumstances made it necessary that he should go in such amanner he would have thought nothing of it. It would simply have beena pleasant joke to him. 

As he went down by the train on the following day, he almost feltashamed of the part which he had been called upon to perform. 

CHAPTER XX. 

SHEWING HOW COLONEL OSBORNE WENT TO COCKCHAFFINGTON. 

Together with Miss Stanbury's first letter to her sister-in-law aletter had also been delivered to Mrs. Trevelyan. Nora Rowley, as hersister had left the room with this in her hand, had expressed heropinion that it had come from Trevelyan; but it had in truth beenwritten by Colonel Osborne. And when that second letter from MissStanbury had been received at the Clock House, --that in which she inplain terms begged pardon for the accusation conveyed in her firstletter, --Colonel Osborne had started on his deceitful little journeyto Cockchaffington, and Mr. Bozzle, the ex-policeman who had him inhand, had already asked his way to Nuncombe Putney. 

When Colonel Osborne learned that Louis Trevelyan had broken up hisestablishment in Curzon Street, and had sent his wife away into abarbarous retirement in Dartmoor, --for such was the nature of theinformation on the subject which was spread among Trevelyan's friendsin London;--and when he was made aware also that all this was doneon his account, --because he was so closely intimate with Trevelyan'swife, and because Trevelyan's wife was, and persisted in continuingto be, so closely intimate with him, --his vanity was gratified. Although it might be true, --and no doubt was true, --that he said muchto his friends and to himself of the deep sorrow which he felt thatsuch a trouble should befall his old friend and his old friend'sdaughter; nevertheless, as he curled his grey whiskers before theglass, and made the most of such remnant of hair as was left onthe top of his head, as he looked to the padding of his coat, andcompleted a study of the wrinkles beneath his eyes, so that inconversation they might be as little apparent as possible, he feltmore of pleasure than of pain in regard to the whole affair. It wasvery sad that it should be so, but it was human. Had it been in hispower to set the whole matter right by a word, he would probably havespoken that word; but as this was not possible, as Trevelyan had inhis opinion made a gross fool of himself, as Emily Trevelyan wasvery nice, and not the less nice in that she certainly was fondof himself, as great tyranny had been used towards her, and as hehimself had still the plea of old family friendship to protect hisconscience, --to protect his conscience unless he went so far as tomake that plea an additional sting to his conscience, --he thoughtthat, as a man, he must follow up the matter. Here was a young, andfashionable, and very pretty woman banished to the wilds of Dartmoorfor his sake. And, as far as he could understand, she would not havebeen so banished had she consented to say that she would give upher acquaintance with him. In such circumstances as these was itpossible that he should do nothing? Various ideas ran through hishead. He began to think that if Trevelyan were out of the way, hemight, --might perhaps be almost tempted to make this woman his wife. She was so nice that he almost thought that he might be rash enoughfor that, although he knew well the satisfaction of being a bachelor;but as the thought suggested itself to him, he was well aware thathe was thinking of a thing quite distant from him. The reader is notto suppose that Colonel Osborne meditated any making-away with thehusband. Our Colonel was certainly not the man for a murder. Nor didhe even think of running away with his friend's daughter. Though hetold himself that he could dispose of his wrinkles satisfactorily, still he knew himself and his powers sufficiently to be aware thathe was no longer fit to be the hero of such a romance as that. Heacknowledged to himself that there was much labour to be gone throughin running away with another man's wife; and that the results, inrespect to personal comfort, are not always happy. But what if Mrs. Trevelyan were to divorce herself from her husband on the score ofher husband's cruelty? Various horrors were related as to the man'streatment of his wife. By some it was said that she was in the prisonon Dartmoor, --or, if not actually in the prison, an arrangement whichthe prison discipline might perhaps make difficult, --that she was inthe custody of one of the prison warders who possessed a prim cottageand a grim wife, just outside the prison walls. Colonel Osborne didnot himself believe even so much as this, but he did believe thatMrs. Trevelyan had been banished to some inhospitable region, to somedreary comfortless abode, of which, as the wife of a man of fortune, she would have great ground to complain. So thinking, he did notprobably declare to himself that a divorce should be obtained, and that, in such event, he would marry the lady, --but ideas cameacross his mind in that direction. Trevelyan was a cruel Bluebeard;Emily, --as he was studious to call Mrs. Trevelyan, --was a dearinjured saint. And as for himself, though he acknowledged to himselfthat the lumbago pinched him now and again, so that he could not risefrom his chair with all the alacrity of youth, yet, when he walkedalong Pall Mall with his coat properly buttoned, he could not butobserve that a great many young women looked at him with admiringeyes. 

It was thus with no settled scheme that the Colonel went to work, and made inquiries, and ascertained Mrs. Trevelyan's address inDevonshire. When he learned it, he thought that he had done much;though, in truth, there had been no secrecy in the matter. Scoresof people knew Mrs. Trevelyan's address besides the newsvendor whosupplied her paper, from whose boy Colonel Osborne's servant obtainedthe information. But when the information had been obtained, it wasexpedient that it should be used; and therefore Colonel Osborne wrotethe following letter:--

 Acrobats Club, July 31, 186--. 

 DEAR EMILY, Twice the Colonel wrote Dearest Emily, and twice he tore the sheet onwhich the words were written. He longed to be ardent, but still itwas so necessary to be prudent! He was not quite sure of the lady. Women sometimes tell their husbands, even when they have quarrelledwith them. And, although ardent expressions in writing to prettywomen are pleasant to male writers, it is not pleasant for agentleman to be asked what on earth he means by that sort of thing athis time of life. The Colonel gave half an hour to the consideration, and then began the letter, Dear Emily. If prudence be the soulof valour, may it not be considered also the very mainspring, or, perhaps, the pivot of love?

 DEAR EMILY, I need hardly tell you with what dismay I have heard of all that has taken place in Curzon Street. I fear that you must have suffered much, and that you are suffering now. It is an inexpressible relief to me to hear that you have your child with you, and Nora. But, nevertheless, to have your home taken away from you, to be sent out of London, to be banished from all society! And for what? The manner in which the minds of some men work is quite incomprehensible. 

 As for myself, I feel that I have lost the company of a friend, whom indeed I can very ill spare. I have a thousand things to say to you, and among them one or two which I feel that I must say, --that I ought to say. As it happens, an old schoolfellow of mine is Vicar of Cockchaffington, a village which I find by the map is very near to Nuncombe Putney. I saw him in town last spring, and he then asked me to pay him a visit. There is something in his church which people go to see, and though I don't understand churches much, I shall go and see it. I shall run down on Wednesday, and shall sleep at the inn at Lessboro'. I see that Lessboro' is a market town, and I suppose there is an inn. I shall go over to my friend on the Thursday, but shall return to Lessboro'. Though a man be ever so eager to see a church door-way, he need not sleep at the parsonage. On the following day, I will get over to Nuncombe Putney, and I hope that you will see me. Considering my long friendship with you, and my great attachment to your father and mother, I do not think that the strictest martinet would tell you that you need hesitate in the matter. 

 I have seen Mr. Trevelyan twice at the club, but he has not spoken to me. Under such circumstances I could not of course speak to him. Indeed, I may say that my feelings towards him just at present are of such a nature as to preclude me from doing so with any appearance of cordiality. 

 Dear Emily, Believe me now, as always, your affectionate friend, FREDERIC OSBORNE. 

When he read that letter over to himself a second time he felt quitesure that he had not committed himself. Even if his friend were tosend the letter to her husband, it could not do him any harm. He wasaware that he might have dilated more on the old friendship betweenhimself and Sir Marmaduke, but he experienced a certain distaste tothe mention of things appertaining to years long past. It did notquite suit him in his present frame of mind to speak of his regard inthose quasi-paternal terms which he would have used had it satisfiedhim to represent himself simply as her father's friend. His languagetherefore had been a little doubtful, so that the lady might, ifshe were so minded, look upon him in that tender light in which herhusband had certainly chosen to regard him. 

When the letter was handed to Mrs. Trevelyan, she at once took itwith her up to her own room, so that she might be alone when she readit. The handwriting was quite familiar to her, and she did not choosethat even her sister should see it. She had told herself twenty timesover that, while living at Nuncombe Putney, she was not living underthe guardianship of Mrs. Stanbury. She would consent to live underthe guardianship of no one, as her husband did not choose to remainwith her and protect her. She had done no wrong, and she would submitto no other authority, than that of her legal lord and master. Nor, according to her views of her own position, was it in his power todepute that authority to others. He had caused the separation, andnow she must be the sole judge of her own actions. In itself, acorrespondence between her and her father's old friend was in nodegree criminal or even faulty. There was no reason, moral, social, or religious, why an old man, over fifty, who had known her all herlife, should not write to her. But yet she could not say aloud beforeMrs. Stanbury, and Priscilla, and her sister, that she had received aletter from Colonel Osborne. She felt that the colour had come to hercheek, and that she could not even walk out of the room as though theletter had been a matter of indifference to her. 

And would it have been a matter of indifference had there been nobodythere to see her? Mrs. Trevelyan was certainly not in love withColonel Osborne. She was not more so now than she had been when herfather's friend, purposely dressed for the occasion, had kissed herin the vestry of the church in which she was married, and had givenher a blessing, which was then intended to be semi-paternal, --as froman old man to a young woman. She was not in love with him, --neverwould be, never could be in love with him. Reader, you may believein her so far as that. But where is the woman, who, when she isneglected, thrown over, and suspected by the man that she loves, willnot feel the desire of some sympathy, some solicitude, some show ofregard from another man? This woman's life, too, had not hithertobeen of such a nature that the tranquillity of the Clock House atNuncombe Putney afforded to her all that she desired. She had beenthere now a month, and was almost sick from the want of excitement. And she was full of wrath against her husband. Why had he sent herthere to break her heart in a disgraceful retirement, when she hadnever wronged him? From morning to night she had no employment, noamusement, nothing to satisfy her cravings. Why was she to be doomedto such an existence? She had declared that as long as she couldhave her boy with her, she would be happy. She was allowed to haveher boy; but she was anything but happy. When she received ColonelOsborne's letter, --while she held it in her hand still unopened, shenever for a moment thought that that could make her happy. But therewas in it something of excitement. And she painted the man to herselfin brighter colours now than she had ever given to him in her formerportraits. He cared for her. He was gracious to her. He appreciatedher talents, her beauty, and her conduct. He knew that she deserveda treatment very different from that accorded to her by her husband. Why should she reject the sympathy of her father's oldest friend, because her husband was madly jealous about an old man? Her husbandhad chosen to send her away, and to leave her, so that she must acton her own judgment. Acting on her own judgment, she read ColonelOsborne's letter from first to last. She knew that he was wrong tospeak of coming to Nuncombe Putney; but yet she thought that shewould see him. She had a dim perception that she was standing on theedge of a precipice, on broken ground which might fall under herwithout a moment's warning, and yet she would not retreat from thedanger. Though Colonel Osborne was wrong, very wrong in coming to seeher, yet she liked him for coming. Though she would be half afraidto tell her news to Mrs. Stanbury, and more than half afraid to tellPriscilla, yet she liked the excitement of the fear. Nora would scoldher; but Nora's scolding she thought she could answer. And then itwas not the fact that Colonel Osborne was coming down to Devonshireto see her. He was coming as far as Lessboro' to see his friend atCockchaffington. And when at Lessboro', was it likely that he shouldleave the neighbourhood without seeing the daughter of his old ally?And why should he do so? Was he to be unnatural in his conduct, uncivil and unfriendly, because Mr. Trevelyan had been foolish, suspicious, and insane?

So arguing with herself, she answered Colonel Osborne's letter beforeshe had spoken on the subject to any one in the house, --and this washer answer:--

 MY DEAR COLONEL OSBORNE, I must leave it to your own judgment to decide whether you will come to Nuncombe Putney or not. There are reasons which would seem to make it expedient that you should stay away, --even though circumstances are bringing you into the immediate neighbourhood. But of these reasons I will leave you to be the judge. I will never let it be said that I myself have had cause to dread the visit of any old friend. Nevertheless, if you stay away, I shall understand why you do so. 

 Personally, I shall be glad to see you, --as I have always been. It seems odd to me that I cannot write in warmer tones to my father's and mother's oldest friend. Of course, you will understand that though I shall readily see you if you call, I cannot ask you to stay. In the first place, I am not now living in my own house. I am staying with Mrs. Stanbury, and the place is called the Clock House. 

 Yours very sincerely, EMILY TREVELYAN. 

 The Clock House, Nuncombe Putney, Monday. 

Soon after she had written it, Nora came into her room, and at onceasked concerning the letter which she had seen delivered to hersister that morning. 

"It was from Colonel Osborne, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"From Colonel Osborne! How very wrong!"

"I don't see that it is wrong at all. Because Louis is foolish andmad, that cannot make another man wrong for doing the most ordinarything in the world. "

"I had hoped it had been from Louis, " said Nora. 

"Oh dear, no. He is by no means so considerate. I do not suppose Ishall hear from him, till he chooses to give some fresh order aboutmyself or my child. He will hardly trouble himself to write to me, unless he takes up some new freak to show me that he is my master. "

"And what does Colonel Osborne say?"

"He is coming here. "

"Coming here?" almost shouted Nora. 

"Yes; absolutely here. Does it sound to you as if Lucifer himselfwere about to show his face? The fact is, he happens to have a friendin the neighbourhood whom he has long promised to visit; and as hemust be at Lessboro', he does not choose to go away without thecompliment of a call. It will be as much to you as to me. "

"I don't want to see him in the least, " said Nora. 

"There is his letter. As you seem to be so suspicious, you had betterread it. "

Then Nora read it. 

"And there is a copy of my answer, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. "I shallkeep both, because I know so well what ill-natured things people willsay. "

"Dear Emily, do not send it, " said Nora. 

"Indeed I shall. I will not be frightened by bugbears. And I willnot be driven to confess to any man on earth that I am afraid to seehim. Why should I be afraid of Colonel Osborne? I will not submit toacknowledge that there can be any danger in Colonel Osborne. WereI to do so I should be repeating the insult against myself. If myhusband wished to guide me in such matters, why did he not stay withme?"

Then she went out into the village and posted the letter. Norameanwhile was thinking whether she would call in the assistance ofPriscilla Stanbury; but she did not like to take any such a step inopposition to her sister. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

SHEWING HOW COLONEL OSBORNE WENT TO NUNCOMBE PUTNEY. 

Colonel Osborne was expected at Nuncombe Putney on the Friday, andit was Thursday evening before either Mrs. Stanbury or Priscilla wastold of his coming. Emily had argued the matter with Nora, declaringthat she would make the communication herself, and that she wouldmake it when she pleased and how she pleased. "If Mrs. Stanburythinks, " said she, "that I am going to be treated as a prisoner, orthat I will not judge myself as to whom I may see, or whom I may notsee, she is very much mistaken. " Nora felt that were she to giveinformation to those ladies in opposition to her sister's wishes, she would express suspicion on her own part by doing so; and she wassilent. On that same Thursday Priscilla had written her last defiantletter to her aunt, --that letter in which she had cautioned her auntto make no further accusations without being sure of her facts. ToPriscilla's imagination that coming of Lucifer in person, of whichMrs. Trevelyan had spoken, would hardly have been worse than thecoming of Colonel Osborne. When, therefore, Mrs. Trevelyan declaredthe fact on the Thursday evening, vainly endeavouring to speak ofthe threatened visit in an ordinary voice, and as of an ordinarycircumstance, it was as though a thunderbolt had fallen upon them. 

"Colonel Osborne coming here!" said Priscilla, mindful of theStanbury correspondence, --mindful of the evil tongues of the world. 

"And why not?" demanded Mrs. Trevelyan, who had heard nothing of theStanbury correspondence. 

"Oh dear, oh dear!" ejaculated Mrs. Stanbury, who, of course, wasaware of all that had passed between the Clock House and the house inthe Close, though the letters had been written by her daughter. 

Nora was determined to stand up for her sister, whatever might be thecircumstances of the case. "I wish Colonel Osborne were not coming, "said she, "because it makes a foolish fuss; but I cannot understandhow anybody can suppose it to be wrong that Emily should see papa'svery oldest friend in the world. "

"But why is he coming?" demanded Priscilla. 

"Because he wants to see an acquaintance at Cockchaffington, " saidMrs. Trevelyan; "and there is a wonderful church-door there. "

"A church-fiddlestick!" said Priscilla. 

The matter was debated throughout all the evening. At one timethere was a great quarrel between the ladies, and then there was areconciliation. The point on which Mrs. Trevelyan stood with thegreatest firmness was this, --that it did not become her, as a marriedwoman whose conduct had always been good and who was more careful asto that than she was even of her name, to be ashamed to meet any man. "Why should I not see Colonel Osborne, or Colonel anybody else whomight call here with the same justification for calling which his oldfriendship gives him?" Priscilla endeavoured to explain to her thather husband's known wishes ought to hinder her from doing so. "Myhusband should have remained with me to express his wishes, " Mrs. Trevelyan replied. 

Neither could Mrs. Stanbury nor could Priscilla bring herself to saythat the man should not be admitted into the house. In the course ofthe debate, in the heat of her anger, Mrs. Trevelyan declared thatwere any such threat held out to her, she would leave the house andsee Colonel Osborne in the street, or at the inn. 

"No, Emily; no, " said Nora. 

"But I will. I will not submit to be treated as a guilty woman, or asa prisoner. They may say what they like; but I won't be shut up. "

"No one has tried to shut you up, " said Priscilla. 

"You are afraid of that old woman at Exeter, " said Mrs. Trevelyan;for by this time the facts of the Stanbury correspondence hadall been elicited in general conversation; "and yet you know howuncharitable and malicious she is. "

"We are not afraid of her, " said Priscilla. "We are afraid of nothingbut of doing wrong. "

"And will it be wrong to let an old gentleman come into the house, "said Nora, "who is nearly sixty, and who has known us ever since wewere born?"

"If he is nearly sixty, Priscilla, " said Mrs. Stanbury, "that doesseem to make a difference. " Mrs. Stanbury herself was only justsixty, and she felt herself to be quite an old woman. 

"They may be devils at eighty, " said Priscilla. 

"Colonel Osborne is not a devil at all, " said Nora. 

"But mamma is so foolish, " said Priscilla. "The man's age does notmatter in the least. "

"I beg your pardon, my dear, " said Mrs. Stanbury, very humbly. 

At that time the quarrel was raging, but afterwards came thereconciliation. Had it not been for the Stanbury correspondence thefact of Colonel Osborne's threatened visit would have been admittedas a thing necessary--as a disagreeable necessity; but how wasthe visit to be admitted and passed over in the teeth of thatcorrespondence? Priscilla felt very keenly the peculiar crueltyof her position. Of course Aunt Stanbury would hear of the visit. Indeed, any secrecy in the matter was not compatible with Priscilla'sideas of honesty. Her aunt had apologised humbly for having saidthat Colonel Osborne had been at Nuncombe. That apology, doubtless, had been due. Colonel Osborne had not been at Nuncombe when theaccusation had been made, and the accusation had been unjust andfalse. But his coming had been spoken of by Priscilla in her ownletters as an occurrence which was quite out of the question. Heranger against her aunt had been for saying that the man had come, not for objecting to such a visit. And now the man was coming, andAunt Stanbury would know all about it. How great, how terrible, howcrushing would be Aunt Stanbury's triumph!

"I must write and tell her, " said Priscilla. 

"I am sure I shall not object, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"And Hugh must be told, " said Mrs. Stanbury. 

"You may tell all the world, if you like, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

In this way it was settled among them that Colonel Osborne was tobe received. On the next morning, Friday morning, Colonel Osborne, doubtless having heard something of Mrs. Crocket from his friendat Cockchaffington, was up early, and had himself driven over toNuncombe Putney before breakfast. The ever-watchful Bozzle was, ofcourse, at his heels, --or rather, not at his heels on the first twomiles of the journey; for Bozzle, with painful zeal, had made himselfaware of all the facts, and had started on the Nuncombe Putney roadhalf an hour before the Colonel's fly was in motion. And when thefly passed him he was lying discreetly hidden behind an old oak. Thedriver, however, had caught a glimpse of him as he was topping ahill, and having seen him about on the previous day, and perceivingthat he was dressed in a decent coat and trousers, and that, nevertheless, he was not a gentleman, began to suspect that hewas--somebody. There was a great deal said afterwards about Bozzle inMrs. Clegg's yard at Lessboro'; but the Lessboro' mind was never ableto satisfy itself altogether respecting Bozzle and his mission. Asto Colonel Osborne and his mission, the Lessboro' mind did satisfyitself with much certainty. The horse was hardly taken from out ofColonel Osborne's fly in Mrs. Crocket's yard when Bozzle steppedinto the village by a path which he had already discovered, and soonbusied himself among the tombs in the churchyard. Now, one corner ofthe churchyard was immediately opposite to the iron gate leading intothe Clock House. "Drat 'un, " said the wooden-legged postman, stillsitting on his donkey, to Mrs. Crocket's ostler, "if there be'ant thechap as was here yesterday when I was a starting, and I zeed 'un inLezbro' street thick very morning. " "He be'ant arter no good, that'un, " said the ostler. After that a close watch was kept upon thewatcher. 

 [Illustration: The wooden-legged postman of Nuncombe Putney. ]

In the meantime, Colonel Osborne had ordered his breakfast at theStag and Antlers, and had asked questions as to the position of theClock House. He was altogether ignorant of Mr. Bozzle, although Mr. Bozzle had been on his track now for two days and two nights. He haddetermined, as he came on to Nuncombe Putney, that he would not beshame-faced about his visit to Mrs. Trevelyan. It is possible thathe was not so keen in the matter as he had been when he planned hisjourney in London; and, it may be, that he really tried to makehimself believe that he had come all the way to the confines ofDartmoor to see the porch of Cockchaffington Church. The sessionin London was over, and it was necessary for such a man as ColonelOsborne that he should do something with himself before he went downto the Scotch grouse. He had long desired to see something of themost picturesque county in England; and now, as he sat eating hisbreakfast in Mrs. Crocket's parlour, he almost looked upon his dearEmily as a subsidiary attraction. "Oh, that's the Clock House, "he said to Mrs. Crocket. "No, I have not the pleasure of knowingMrs. Stanbury; very respectable lady, so I have heard; widow of aclergyman; ah, yes; son up in London; I know him;--always writingbooks is he? Very clever, I dare say. But there's a lady, --indeed twoladies, --whom I do know. Mrs. Trevelyan is there, I think, --and MissRowley. "

"You be'ant Muster Trevelyan, be you?" said Mrs. Crocket, looking athim very hard. 

"No, I'm not Mr. Trevelyan. "

"Nor yet 'the Colonel' they doo be talking about?"

"Well, yes, I am a colonel. I don't know why anybody should talkabout me. I'll just step out now, however, and see my friends. "

"It's madam's lover, " said Mrs. Crocket to herself, "as sure as eggsis eggs. " As she said so, Colonel Osborne boldly walked across thevillage and pulled the bell at the iron gate, while Bozzle, crouchingamong the tombs, saw the handle in his hand. "There he is, " saidPriscilla. Everybody in the Clock House had known that the fly, which they had seen, had brought "the Colonel" into Nuncombe Putney. Everybody had known that he had breakfasted at the Stag and Antlers. And everybody now knew that he was at the gate ringing the bell. "Into the drawing-room, " said Mrs. Stanbury, with a fearful, tremulous whisper, to the girl who went across the little gardenin front to open the iron gate. The girl felt as though Apollyonwere there, and as though she were called upon to admit Apollyon. Mrs. Stanbury having uttered her whisper, hurried away up-stairs. Priscilla held her ground in the parlour, determined to be near thescene of action if there might be need. And it must be acknowledgedthat she peeped from behind the curtain, anxious to catch a glimpseof the terrible man, whose coming to Nuncombe Putney she regarded asso severe a misfortune. 

The plan of the campaign had all been arranged. Mrs. Trevelyan andNora together received Colonel Osborne in the drawing-room. It wasunderstood that Nora was to remain there during the whole visit. "Itis horrible to think that such a precaution should be necessary, "Mrs. Trevelyan had said, "but perhaps it may be best. There is noknowing what the malice of people may not invent. "

"My dear girls, " said the Colonel, "I am delighted to see you, " andhe gave a hand to each. 

"We are not very cheerful here, " said Mrs. Trevelyan, "as you mayimagine. "

"But the scenery is beautiful, " said Nora, "and the people we areliving with are kind and nice. "

"I am very glad of that, " said the Colonel. Then there was a pause, and it seemed, for a moment or two, that none of them knew how tobegin a general conversation. Colonel Osborne was quite sure, by thistime, that he had come down to Devonshire with the express object ofseeing the door of the church at Cockchaffington, and Mrs. Trevelyanwas beginning to think that he certainly had not come to see her. "Have you heard from your father since you have been here?" asked theColonel. 

Then there was an explanation about Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley. Mr. Trevelyan's name was not mentioned; but Mrs. Trevelyan statedthat she had explained to her mother all the painful circumstances ofher present life. Sir Marmaduke, as Colonel Osborne was aware, wasexpected to be in England in the spring, and Lady Rowley would, ofcourse, come with him. Nora thought that they might probably now comebefore that time; but Mrs. Trevelyan declared that it was out of thequestion that they should do so. She was sure that her father couldnot leave the islands except when he did so in obedience to officialorders. The expense of doing so would be ruinous to him. And whatgood would he do? In this way there was a great deal of familyconversation, in which Colonel Osborne was able to take a part; butnot a word was said about Mr. Trevelyan. 

Nor did "the Colonel" find an opportunity of expressing a spark ofthat sentiment, for the purpose of expressing which he had madethis journey to Devonshire. It is not pleasant to make love in thepresence of a third person, even when that love is all fair and aboveboard; but it is quite impracticable to do so to a married lady, whenthat married lady's sister is present. No more futile visit thanthis of Colonel Osborne's to the Clock House was ever made. And yet, though not a word was spoken to which Mr. Trevelyan himself couldhave taken the slightest exception, the visit, futile as it was, could not but do an enormous deal of harm. Mrs. Crocket had alreadyguessed that the fine gentleman down from London was the lover of themarried lady at the Clock House, who was separated from her husband. The wooden-legged postman and the ostler were not long in connectingthe man among the tombstones with the visitor to the house. Trevelyan, as we are aware, already knew that Colonel Osborne was inthe neighbourhood. And poor Priscilla Stanbury was now exposed to theterrible necessity of owning the truth to her aunt. "The Colonel, "when he had sat an hour with his young friends, took his leave; and, as he walked back to Mrs. Crocket's, and ordered that his fly mightbe got ready for him, his mind was heavy with the disagreeablefeeling that he had made an ass of himself. The whole affair hadbeen a failure; and though he might be able to pass off the porch atCockchaffington among his friends, he could not but be aware himselfthat he had spent his time, his trouble, and his money for nothing. He became aware, as he returned to Lessboro', that had he intended tomake any pleasant use whatever of his position in reference to Mrs. Trevelyan, the tone of his letter and his whole mode of proceedingshould have been less patriarchal. And he should have contrived ameeting without the presence of Nora Rowley. 

As soon as he had left them, Mrs. Trevelyan went to her own room, andNora at once rejoined Priscilla. 

"Is he gone?" asked Priscilla. 

"Oh, yes;--he has gone. "

"What would I have given that he had never come!"

"And yet, " said Nora, "what harm has he done? I wish he had not come, because, of course, people will talk! But nothing was more naturalthan that he should come over to see us when he was so near us. "

"Nora!"

"What do you mean?"

"You don't believe all that? In the neighbourhood! I believe he cameon purpose to see your sister, and I think that it was a dastardlyand most ungentleman-like thing to do. "

"I am quite sure you are wrong, then, --altogether wrong, " said Nora. 

"Very well. We must have our own opinions. I am glad you can be socharitable. But he should not have come here, --to this house, eventhough imperative business had brought him into the very village. But men in their vanity never think of the injury they may do to awoman's name. Now I must go and write to my aunt. I am not going tohave it said hereafter that I deceived her. And then I shall write toHugh. Oh dear; oh dear!"

"I am afraid we are a great trouble to you. "

"I will not deceive you, because I like you. This is a great troubleto me. I have meant to be so prudent, and with all my prudence I havenot been able to keep clear of rocks. And I have been so indignantwith Aunt Stanbury! Now I must go and eat humble-pie. "

Then she eat humble-pie, --after the following fashion:--

 DEAR AUNT STANBURY, After what has passed between us, I think it right to tell you that Colonel Osborne has been at Nuncombe Putney, and that he called at the Clock House this morning. We did not see him. But Mrs. Trevelyan and Miss Rowley, together, did see him. He remained here perhaps an hour. 

 I should not have thought it necessary to mention this to you, the matter being one in which you are not concerned, were it not for our former correspondence. When I last wrote, I had no idea that he was coming, --nor had mamma. And when you first wrote, he was not even expected by Mrs. Trevelyan. The man you wrote about was another gentleman;--as I told you before. All this is most disagreeable and tiresome;--and would be quite nonsensical, but that circumstances seem to make it necessary. 

 As for Colonel Osborne, I wish he had not been here; but his coming would do no harm, --only that it will be talked about. 

 I think you will understand how it is that I feel myself constrained to write to you. I do hope that you will spare mamma, who is disturbed and harassed when she gets angry letters. If you have anything to say to myself, I don't mind it. 

 Yours truly, PRISCILLA STANBURY. 

 The Clock House, Friday, August 5. 

She wrote also to her brother Hugh; but Hugh himself reached NuncombePutney before the letter reached him. 

Mr. Bozzle watched the Colonel out of the house, and watched himout of the village. When the Colonel was fairly started, Mr. Bozzlewalked back to Lessboro'. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

SHEWING HOW MISS STANBURY BEHAVED TO HER TWO NIECES. 

 [Illustration]

The triumph of Miss Stanbury when she received her niece's letter wascertainly very great, --so great that in its first flush she could notrestrain herself from exhibiting it to Dorothy. "Well, --well, --whatdo you think, Dolly?"

"About what, aunt? I don't know who the letter is from. "

"Nobody writes to me now so constant as your sister Priscilla. Theletter is from Priscilla. Colonel Osborne has been at the ClockHouse, after all. I knew that he would be there. I knew it! I knewit!"

Dorothy, when she heard this, was dumbfounded. She had rested herdefence of her mother and sister on the impossibility of any suchvisit being admitted. According to her lights the coming of ColonelOsborne, after all that had been said, would be like the coming ofLucifer himself. The Colonel was, to her imagination, a horribleroaring lion. She had no idea that the erratic manoeuvres of sucha beast might be milder and more innocent than the wooing of anyturtle-dove. She would have asked whether the roaring lion had goneaway again, and, if so, whether he had taken his prey with him, were it not that she was too much frightened at the moment to askany question. That her mother and sister should have been wilfullyconcerned in such iniquity was quite incredible to her, but yet shedid not know how to defend them. "But are you quite sure of it, AuntStanbury? May there not be another mistake?"

"No mistake this time, I think, my dear. Any way, Priscilla says thathe is there. " Now in this there was a mistake. Priscilla had saidnothing of the kind. 

"You don't mean that he is staying at the Clock House, AuntStanbury?"

"I don't know where he is now. I'm not his keeper. And, I'm glad tosay, I'm not the lady's keeper either. Ah, me! It's a bad business. You can't touch pitch and not be defiled, my dear. If your motherwanted the Clock House, I would sooner have taken it for her myselfthan that all this should have happened, --for the family's sake. "

But Miss Stanbury, when she was alone, and when she had read herniece's three letters again and again, began to understand somethingof Priscilla's honesty, and began also to perceive that there mighthave been a great difficulty respecting the Colonel, for whichneither her niece nor her sister-in-law could fairly be held tobe responsible. It was perhaps the plainest characteristic of allthe Stanburys that they were never wilfully dishonest. Ignorant, prejudiced, and passionate they might be. In her anger Miss Stanbury, of Exeter, could be almost malicious; and her niece at NuncombePutney was very like her aunt. Each could say most cruel things, mostunjust things, when actuated by a mistaken consciousness of perfectright on her own side. But neither of them could lie, --even bysilence. Let an error be brought home to either of them, --so as tobe acknowledged at home, --and the error would be assuredly confessedaloud. And, indeed, with differences in the shades, Hugh and Dorothywere of the same nature. They were possessed of sweeter tempers thantheir aunt and sister, but they were filled with the same eagerreadiness to believe themselves to be right, --and to own themselvesto others to be wrong, when they had been constrained to make suchconfession to themselves. The chances of life, and something probablyof inner nature, had made Dorothy mild and obedient; whereas, inregard to Hugh, the circumstances of his life and disposition hadmade him obstinate and self-reliant. But in all was to be found thesame belief in self, --which amounted almost to conceit, --the samewarmth of affection, and the same love of justice. 

When Miss Stanbury had again perused the correspondence, and had cometo see, dimly, how things had gone at Nuncombe Putney, --when theconviction came upon her mind that Priscilla had entertained a horroras to the coming of this Colonel equal to that which she herselfhad felt, --when her imagination painted to her all that her niecehad suffered, her heart was softened somewhat. She had declared toDorothy that pitch, if touched, would certainly defile; and she had, at first, intended to send the same opinion, couched in very forciblewords, to her correspondents at the Clock House. They should notcontinue to go astray for want of being told that they were goingastray. It must be acknowledged, too, that there was a certainamount of ignoble wrath in the bosom of Miss Stanbury because hersister-in-law had taken the Clock House. She had never been told, andhad not even condescended to ask Dorothy, whether the house was takenand paid for by her nephew on behalf of his mother, or whether itwas paid for by Mr. Trevelyan on behalf of his wife. In the lattercase, Mrs. Stanbury would, she thought, be little more than anupper servant, or keeper, --as she expressed it to herself. Such anarrangement appeared to her to be quite disgraceful in a Stanbury;but yet she believed that such must be the existing arrangement, asshe could not bring herself to conceive that Hugh Stanbury could keepsuch an establishment over his mother's head out of money earned bywriting for a penny newspaper. There would be a triumph of democracyin this which would vanquish her altogether. She had, therefore, beenanxious enough to trample on Priscilla and upon all the affairs ofthe Clock House; but yet she had been unable to ignore the nobilityof Priscilla's truth, and having acknowledged it to herself she foundherself compelled to acknowledge it aloud. She sat down to think insilence, and it was not till she had fortified herself by her firstdraught of beer, and till she had finished her first portion of breadand cheese, that she spoke. "I have written to your sister herself, this time, " she said. "I don't know that I ever wrote a line to herbefore in my life. "

"Poor Priscilla!" Dorothy did not mean to be severe on her aunt, either in regard to the letters which had not been written, or to theone letter which now had been written. But Dorothy pitied her sister, whom she felt to be in trouble. 

"Well; I don't know about her being so poor. Priscilla, I'll bebound, thinks as well of herself as any of us do. "

"She'd cut her fingers off before she'd mean to do wrong, " saidDorothy. 

"But what does that come to? What's the good of that? It isn'tmeaning to do right that will save us. For aught I know, the Radicalsmay mean to do right. Mr. Beales means to do right--perhaps. "

"But, aunt, --if everybody did the best they could?"

"Tush, my dear! you are getting beyond your depth. There are suchthings still, thank God! as spiritual pastors and masters. Entrustyourself to them. Do what they think right. " Now if aught were knownin Exeter of Miss Stanbury, this was known, --that if any clergymanvolunteered to give to her, unasked and uninvited, counsel, eitherghostly or bodily, that clergyman would be sent from her presencewith a wigging which he would not soon forget. The thing had beentried more than once, and the wigging had been complete. There was nomore attentive listener in church than Miss Stanbury; and she would, now and again, appeal to a clergyman on some knotty point. But forthe ordinary authority of spiritual pastors and masters she shewedmore of abstract reverence than of practical obedience. 

"I'm sure Priscilla does the best she can, " said Dorothy, going backto the old subject. 

"Ah, --well, --yes. What I want to say about Priscilla is this. It is athousand pities she is so obstinate, so pig-headed, so certain thatshe can manage everything for herself better than anybody else canfor her. " Miss Stanbury was striving to say something good of herniece, but found the task to be difficult and distasteful to her. 

"She has managed for mamma ever so many years; and since she took itwe have hardly ever been in debt, " said Dorothy. 

"She'll do all that, I don't doubt. I don't suppose she cares muchfor ribbons and false hair for herself. "

"Who? Priscilla! The idea of Priscilla with false hair!"

"I dare say not;--I dare say not. I do not think she'd spend hermother's money on things of that kind. "

"Aunt Stanbury, you don't know her. "

"Ah; very well. Perhaps I don't. But, come, my dear, you are veryhard upon me, and very anxious to take your sister's part. Andwhat is it all about? I've just written to her as civil a letteras one woman ever wrote to another. And if I had chosen, I couldhave, --could have, --h--m--m. " Miss Stanbury, as she hesitated forwords in which to complete her sentence, revelled in the strength ofthe vituperation which she could have poured upon her niece's head, had she chosen to write her last letter about Colonel Osborne in hersevere strain. 

"If you have written kindly to her, I am so much obliged to you, "said Dorothy. 

"The truth is, Priscilla has meant to be right. Meaning won't gofor much when the account is taken, unless the meaning comes from aproper source. But the poor girl has done as well as she has knownhow. I believe it is Hugh's fault more than anybody else's. " Thisaccusation was not pleasant to Dorothy, but she was too intent justnow on Priscilla's case to defend her brother. "That man never oughtto have been there; and that woman never ought to have been there. There cannot be a doubt about that. If Priscilla were sitting thereopposite to me, she would own as much. I am sure she would. " MissStanbury was quite right if she meant to assert that Priscilla hadowned as much to herself. "And because I think so, I am willing toforgive her part in the matter. To me, personally, she has alwaysbeen rude, --most uncourteous, --and, --and, --and unlike a younger womanto an older one, and an aunt, and all that. I suppose it is becauseshe hates me. "

"Oh, no, Aunt Stanbury!"

"My dear, I suppose it is. Why else should she treat me in such away? But I do believe of her that she would rather eat an honest, drycrust, than dishonest cake and ale. "

"She would rather starve than pick up a crumb that was dishonest, "said Dorothy, fairly bursting out into tears. 

"I believe it. I do believe it. There; what more can I say? ClockHouse, indeed! What matter what house you live in, so that you canpay the rent of it honestly?"

"But the rent is paid--honestly, " said Dorothy, amidst her sobs. 

"It's paid, I don't doubt. I dare say the woman's husband and yourbrother see to that among them. Oh, that my boy, Hugh, as he usedto be, should have brought us all to this! But there's no knowingwhat they won't do among them. Reform, indeed! Murder, sacrilege, adultery, treason, atheism;--that's what Reform means; besides everykind of nastiness under the sun. " In which latter category MissStanbury intended especially to include bad printer's ink, and papermade of straw. 

The reader may as well see the letter which was as civil a letteras ever one woman wrote to another, so that the collection of theStanbury correspondence may be made perfect. 

 The Close, August 6, 186--. 

 MY DEAR NIECE, Your letter has not astonished me nearly as much as you expected it would. I am an older woman than you, and, though you will not believe it, I have seen more of the world. I knew that the gentleman would come after the lady. Such gentlemen always do go after their ladies. As for yourself, I can see all that you have done, and pretty nearly hear all that you have said, as plain as a pike-staff. I do you the credit of believing that the plan is none of your making. I know who made the plan, and a very bad plan it is. 

 As to my former letters and the other man, I understand all about it. You were very angry that I should accuse you of having this man at the house; and you were right to be angry. I respect you for having been angry. But what does all that say as to his coming, --now that he has come?

 If you will consent to take an old woman's advice, get rid of the whole boiling of them. I say it in firm love and friendship, for I am, --

 Your affectionate aunt, JEMIMA STANBURY. 

The special vaunted courtesy of this letter consisted, no doubt, inthe expression of respect which it contained, and in that declarationof affection with which it terminated. The epithet was one whichMiss Stanbury would by no means use promiscuously in writing to hernearest relatives. She had not intended to use it when she commencedher letter to Priscilla. But the respect of which she had spokenhad glowed, and had warmed itself into something of temporary love;and feeling at the moment that she was an affectionate aunt, MissStanbury had so put herself down in her letter. Having done such adeed she felt that Dorothy, though Dorothy knew nothing about it, ought in her gratitude to listen patiently to anything that she mightnow choose to say against Priscilla. 

But Dorothy was in truth very miserable, and in her misery wrote along letter that afternoon to her mother, --which, however, it willnot be necessary to place entire among the Stanbury records, --beggingthat she might be informed as to the true circumstances of the case. She did not say a word of censure in regard either to her mother orsister; but she expressed an opinion in the mildest words which shecould use, that if anything had happened which had compromised theirnames since their residence at the Clock House, she, Dorothy, hadbetter go home and join them. The meaning of which was that it wouldnot become her to remain in the house in the Close, if the house inthe Close would be disgraced by her presence. Poor Dorothy had taughtherself to think that the iniquity of roaring lions spread itselfvery widely. 

In the afternoon she made some such proposition to her aunt inambiguous terms. "Go home!" said Miss Stanbury. "Now?"

"If you think it best, Aunt Stanbury. "

"And put yourself in the middle of all this iniquity and abomination!I don't suppose you want to know the woman?"

"No, indeed!"

"Or the man?"

"Oh, Aunt Stanbury!"

"It's my belief that no decent gentleman in Exeter would look at youagain if you were to go and live among them at Nuncombe Putney whileall this is going on. No, no. Let one of you be saved out of it, atleast. "

Aunt Stanbury had more than once made use of expressions whichbrought the faintest touch of gentle pink up to her niece's cheeks. We must do Dorothy the justice of saying that she had never dreamedof being looked at by any gentleman, whether decent or indecent. Herlife at Nuncombe Putney had been of such a nature, that though sheknew that other girls were looked at, and even made love to, and thatthey got married and had children, no dim vision of such a careerfor herself had ever presented itself to her eyes. She had knownvery well that her mother and sister and herself were peopleapart, --ladies, and yet so extremely poor, that they could onlymaintain their rank by the most rigid seclusion. To live, and workunseen, was what the world had ordained for her. Then her callto Exeter had come upon her, and she had conceived that she washenceforth to be the humble companion of a very imperious old aunt. Her aunt, indeed, was imperious, but did not seem to require humilityin her companion. All the good things that were eaten and drunk weredivided between them with the strictest impartiality. Dorothy'scushion and hassock in the church and in the cathedral were the sameas her aunt's. Her bed-room was made very comfortable for her. Heraunt never gave her any orders before company, and always spoke ofher before the servants as one whom they were to obey and respect. Gradually Dorothy came to understand the meaning of this;--but heraunt would sometimes say things about young men which she did notquite understand. Could it be that her aunt supposed that any youngman would come and wish to marry her, --her, Dorothy Stanbury? Sheherself had not quite so strong an aversion to men in general as thatwhich Priscilla felt, but she had not as yet found that any of thosewhom she had seen at Exeter were peculiarly agreeable to her. Beforeshe went to bed that night her aunt said a word to her which startledher more than she had ever been startled before. On that evening MissStanbury had a few friends to drink tea with her. There were Mr. AndMrs. Crumbie, and Mrs. MacHugh of course, and the Cheritons fromAlphington, and the Miss Apjohns from Helion Villa, and old Mr. Powelall the way from Haldon, and two of the Wrights from their housein the Northernhay, and Mr. Gibson;--but the Miss Frenches fromHeavitree were not there. "Why don't you have the Miss Frenches, aunt?" Dorothy had asked. 

"Bother the Miss Frenches! I'm not bound to have them every time. There's Camilla has been and got herself a band-box on the back ofher head a great deal bigger than the place inside where her brainsought to be. " But the band-box at the back of Camilla French's headwas not the sole cause of the omission of the two sisters from thelist of Miss Stanbury's visitors on this occasion. 

The party went off very much as usual. There were two whist tables, for Miss Stanbury could not bear to cut out. At other houses than herown, when there was cutting out, it was quite understood that MissStanbury was to be allowed to keep her place. "I'll go away, and sitout there by myself, if you like, " she would say. But she was neverthus banished; and at her own house she usually contrived thatthere should be no system of banishment. She would play dummy whist, preferring it to the four-handed game; and, when hard driven, andwith a meet opponent, would not even despise double-dummy. It wastold of her and of Mrs. MacHugh that they had played double-dummyfor a whole evening together; and they who were given to calumnyhad declared that the candles on that evening had been lighted veryearly. On the present occasion a great many sixpenny points werescored, and much tea and cake were consumed. Mr. Gibson never playedwhist, --nor did Dorothy. That young John Wright and Mary Cheritonshould do nothing but talk to each other was a thing of course, as they were to be married in a month or two. Then there was IdaCheriton, who could not very well be left at home; and Mr. Gibsonmade himself pleasant to Dorothy and Ida Cheriton, instead of makinghimself pleasant to the two Miss Frenches. Gentlemen in provincialtowns quite understand that, from the nature of social circumstancesin the provinces, they should always be ready to be pleasant at leastto a pair at a time. At a few minutes before twelve they were allgone, and then came the shock. 

"Dolly, my dear, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?"

"Think of him, Aunt Stanbury?"

"Yes; think of him;--think of him. I suppose you know how to think?"

"He seems to me always to preach very drawling sermons. "

"Oh, bother his sermons! I don't care anything about his sermons now. He is a very good clergyman, and the Dean thinks very much abouthim. "

"I am glad of that, Aunt Stanbury. "

Then came the shock. "Don't you think it would be a very good thingif you were to become Mrs. Gibson?"

It may be presumed that Miss Stanbury had assured herself that shecould not make progress with Dorothy by "beating about the bush. "There was an inaptitude in her niece to comprehend the advantagesof the situations, which made some direct explanation absolutelynecessary. Dorothy stood half-smiling, half-crying, when she heardthe proposition, her cheeks suffused with that pink colour, and withboth her hands extended with surprise. 

"I've been thinking about it ever since you've been here, " said MissStanbury. 

"I think he likes Miss French, " said Dorothy, in a whisper. 

"Which of them? I don't believe he likes them at all. Maybe, if theygo on long enough, they may be able to toss up for him. But I don'tthink it of him. Of course they're after him, but he'll be too wisefor them. And he's more of a fool than I take him to be if he don'tprefer you to them. " Dorothy remained quite silent. To such anaddress as this it was impossible that she should reply a word. Itwas incredible to her that any man should prefer herself to either ofthe young women in question; but she was too much confounded for theexpression even of her humility. "At any rate you're wholesome, andpleasant and modest, " said Miss Stanbury. 

Dorothy did not quite like being told that she was wholesome; but, nevertheless, she was thankful to her aunt. 

"I'll tell you what it is, " continued Miss Stanbury; "I hate allmysteries, especially with those I love. I've saved two thousandpounds, which I've put you down for in my will. Now, if you and hecan make it up together, I'll give you the money at once. There's noknowing how often an old woman may alter her will; but when you'vegot a thing, you've got it. Mr. Gibson would know the meaning of abird in the hand as well as anybody. Now those girls at Heavitreewill never have above a few hundreds each, and not that whiletheir mother lives. " Dorothy made one little attempt at squeezingher aunt's hand, wishing to thank her aunt for this affectionategenerosity; but she had hardly accomplished the squeeze, when shedesisted, feeling strangely averse to any acknowledgment of such aboon as that which had been offered to her. "And now, good night, mydear. If I did not think you a very sensible young woman, I shouldnot trust you by saying all this. " Then they parted, and Dorothy soonfound herself alone in her bedroom. 

To have a husband of her own, a perfect gentleman too, and aclergyman;--and to go to him with a fortune! She believed that twothousand pounds represented nearly a hundred a year. It was a largefortune in those parts, --according to her understanding of ladies'fortunes. And that she, the humblest of the humble, should beselected for so honourable a position! She had never quite known, quite understood as yet, whether she had made good her footing inher aunt's house in a manner pleasant to her aunt. More than once ortwice she had spoken even of going back to her mother, and thingshad been said which had almost made her think that her aunt had beenangry with her. But now, after a month or two of joint residence, heraunt was offering to her--two thousand pounds and a husband!

But was it within her aunt's power to offer to her the husband? Mr. Gibson had always been very civil to her. She had spoken more to Mr. Gibson than to any other man in Exeter. But it had never occurred toher for a moment that Mr. Gibson had any special liking for her. Wasit probable that he would ever entertain any feeling of that kindfor her? It certainly had occurred to her before now that Mr. Gibsonwas sometimes bored by the Miss Frenches;--but then gentlemen do getbored by ladies. 

And at last she asked herself another question, --had she any specialliking for Mr. Gibson? As far as she understood such matterseverything was blank there. Thinking of that other question, she wentto sleep. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

COLONEL OSBORNE AND MR. BOZZLE RETURN TO LONDON. 

Hugh Stanbury went down on the Saturday, by the early express toExeter, on his road to Lessboro'. He took his ticket through toLessboro', not purposing to stay at Exeter; but, from the exigenciesof the various trains, it was necessary that he should remain forhalf an hour at the Exeter Station. This took place on the Saturday, and Colonel Osborne's visit to the Clock House had been made on theFriday. Colonel Osborne had returned to Lessboro', had slept againat Mrs. Clegg's house, and returned to London on the Saturday. It sohappened that he also was obliged to spend half an hour at the ExeterStation, and that his half-hour, and Hugh Stanbury's half-hour, wereone and the same. They met, therefore, as a matter of course, uponthe platform. Stanbury was the first to see the other, and he foundthat he must determine on the spur of the moment what he would say, and what he would do. He had received no direct commission fromTrevelyan as to his meeting with Colonel Osborne. Trevelyan haddeclared that, as to the matter of quarrelling, he meant to retainthe privilege of doing that for himself; but Stanbury had quiteunderstood that this was only the vague expression of an angry man. The Colonel had taken a glass of sherry, and had lighted a cigar, and was quite comfortable, --having thrown aside, for a time, thatconsciousness of the futility of his journey which had perplexedhim, --when Stanbury accosted him. 

"What! Mr. Stanbury, --how do you do? Fine day, isn't it? Are yougoing up or down?"

"I'm going to see my own people at Nuncombe Putney, a village beyondLessboro', " said Hugh. 

"Ah;--indeed. " Colonel Osborne of course perceived at once that asthis man was going to the house at which he had just been visiting, it would be better that he should himself explain what he had done. If he were to allow this mention of Nuncombe Putney to pass withoutsaying that he himself had been there, he would be convicted ofat least some purpose of secrecy in what he had been doing. "Verystrange, " said he; "I was at Nuncombe Putney myself yesterday. "

"I know you were, " said Stanbury. 

"And how did you know it?" There had been a tone of anger inStanbury's voice which Colonel Osborne had at once appreciated, andwhich made him assume a similar tone. As they spoke there was a manstanding in a corner close by the bookstall, with his eye upon them, and that man was Bozzle, the ex-policeman, --who was doing his dutywith sedulous activity by seeing "the Colonel" back to London. NowBozzle did not know Hugh Stanbury, and was angry with himself that heshould be so ignorant. It is the pride of a detective ex-policeman toknow everybody that comes in his way. 

"Well, I had been so informed. My friend Trevelyan knew that you werethere, --or that you were going there. "

"I don't care who knew that I was going there, " said the Colonel. 

"I won't pretend to understand how that may be, Colonel Osborne; butI think you must be aware, after what took place in Curzon Street, that it would have been better that you should not have attempted tosee Mrs. Trevelyan. Whether you have seen her I do not know. "

"What business is it of yours, Mr. Stanbury, whether I have seen thatlady or not?"

"Unhappily for me, her husband has made it my business. "

"Very unhappily for you, I should say. "

"And the lady is staying at my mother's house. "

"I presume the lady is not a prisoner in your mother's house, andthat your mother's hospitality is not so restricted but that herguest may see an old friend under her roof. " This Colonel Osbornesaid with an assumed look of almost righteous indignation, whichwas not at all lost upon Bozzle. They had returned back towards thebookstall, and Bozzle, with his eyes fixed on a copy of the "D. R. "which he had just bought, was straining his ears to the utmost tocatch what was being said. 

"You best know whether you have seen her or not. "

"I have seen her. "

"Then I shall take leave to tell you, Colonel Osborne, that you haveacted in a most unfriendly way, and have done that which must tend tokeep an affectionate husband apart from his wife. "

"Sir, I don't at all understand this kind of thing addressed to me. The father of the lady you are speaking of has been my most intimatefriend for thirty years. " After all, the Colonel was a mean man whenhe could take pride in his youth, and defend himself on the score ofhis age, in one and the same proceeding. 

"I have nothing further to say, " replied Stanbury. 

"You have said too much already, Mr. Stanbury. "

"I think not, Colonel Osborne. You have, I fear, done an incredibledeal of mischief by going to Nuncombe Putney; and, after all thatyou have heard on the subject, you must have known that it would bemischievous. I cannot understand how you can force yourself about aman's wife against the man's expressed wish. "

"Sir, I didn't force myself upon anybody. Sir, I went down to see anold friend, --and a remarkable piece of antiquity. And, when anotherold friend was in the neighbourhood, close by, --one of the oldestfriends I have in the world, --wasn't I to go and see her? God blessmy soul! What business is it of yours? I never heard such impudencein my life!" Let the charitable reader suppose that Colonel Osbornedid not know that he was lying, --that he really thought, when hespoke, that he had gone down to Lessboro' to see the remarkable pieceof antiquity. 

"Good morning, " said Hugh Stanbury, turning on his heels and walkingaway. Colonel Osborne shook himself, inflated his cheeks, and blewforth the breath out of his mouth, put his thumbs up to the armholesof his waistcoat, and walked about the platform as though he thoughtit to be incumbent on him to show that he was somebody, --somebodythat ought not to be insulted, --somebody, perhaps, whom a very prettywoman might prefer to her own husband, in spite of a small differencein age. He was angry, but not quite so much angry as proud. And hewas safe, too. He thought that he was safe. When he should come toaccount for himself and his actions to his old friend, Sir Marmaduke, he felt that he would be able to show that he had been, in allrespects, true to friendship. Sir Marmaduke had unfortunately givenhis daughter to a jealous, disagreeable fellow, and the fault alllay in that. As for Hugh Stanbury, --he would simply despise HughStanbury, and have done with it. 

Mr. Bozzle, though he had worked hard in the cause, had heard but aword or two. Eaves-droppers seldom do hear more than that. A porterhad already told him who was Hugh Stanbury, --that he was Mr. HughStanbury, and that his aunt lived at Exeter. And Bozzle, knowing thatthe lady about whom he was concerned was living with a Mrs. Stanburyat the house he had been watching, put two and two together withhis natural cleverness. "God bless my soul! what business is it ofyours?" Those words were nearly all that Bozzle had been able tohear; but even those sufficiently indicated a quarrel. "The lady" wasliving with Mrs. Stanbury, having been so placed by her husband; andyoung Stanbury was taking the lady's part! Bozzle began to fear thatthe husband had not confided in him with that perfect faith which hefelt to be essentially necessary to the adequate performance of theduties of his great profession. A sudden thought, however, struckhim. Something might be done on the journey up to London. He atonce made his way back to the ticket-window and exchanged histicket, --second-class for first-class. It was a noble deed, theexpense falling all upon his own pocket; for, in the natural courseof things, he would have charged his employers with the fullfirst-class fare. He had seen Colonel Osborne seat himself in acarriage, and within two minutes he was occupying the opposite place. The Colonel was aware that he had noticed the man's face lately, butdid not know where. 

"Very fine summer weather, sir, " said Bozzle. 

"Very fine, " said the Colonel, burying himself behind a newspaper. 

"They is getting up their wheat nicely in these parts, sir. "

The answer to this was no more than a grunt. But Bozzle was notoffended. Not to be offended is the special duty of all policemen, inand out of office; and the journey from Exeter to London was long, and was all before him. 

"A very nice little secluded village is Nuncombe Putney, " saidBozzle, as the train was leaving the Salisbury Station. 

At Salisbury two ladies had left the carriage, no one else had gotin, and Bozzle was alone with the Colonel. 

"I dare say, " said the Colonel, who by this time had relinquished hisshield, and who had begun to compose himself for sleep, or to pretendto compose himself, as soon as he heard Bozzle's voice. He had beenlooking at Bozzle, and though he had not discovered the man's trade, had told himself that his companion was a thing of dangers, --a thingto be avoided, by one engaged, as had been he himself, on a specialand secret mission. 

"Saw you there, --calling at the Clock House, " said Bozzle. 

"Very likely, " said the Colonel, throwing his head well back into thecorner, shutting his eyes, and uttering a slight preliminary snore. 

"Very nice family of ladies at the Clock House, " said Bozzle. TheColonel answered him by a more developed snore. "Particularly Mrs. T----" said Bozzle. 

The Colonel could not stand this. He was so closely implicated withMrs. Trevelyan at the present moment that he could not omit to noticean address so made to him. "What the devil is that to you, sir?" saidhe, jumping up and confronting Bozzle in his wrath. 

But policemen have always this advantage in their difficulties, thatthey know to a fraction what the wrath of men is worth, and what itcan do. Sometimes it can dismiss a policeman, and sometimes breakhis head. Sometimes it can give him a long and troublesome job, andsometimes it may be wrath to the death. But in nineteen out of twentycases it is not a fearful thing, and the policeman knows well whenhe need not fear it. On the present occasion Bozzle was not at allafraid of Colonel Osborne's wrath. 

"Well, sir, not much, indeed, if you come to that. Only you wasthere, sir. "

"Of course I was there, " said the Colonel. 

"And a very nice young gentleman is Mr. Stanbury, " said Bozzle. 

To this Colonel Osborne made no reply, but again had resort to hisnewspaper in the most formal manner. 

"He's going down to his family, no doubt, " continued Bozzle. 

"He may be going to the devil for what I know, " said the Colonel, whocould not restrain himself. 

"I suppose they're all friends of Mrs. T. 's?" asked Bozzle. 

"Sir, " said the Colonel, "I believe that you're a spy. "

"No, Colonel, no; no, no; I'm no spy. I wouldn't demean myself to besuch. A spy is a man as has no profession, and nothing to justify hislooking into things. Things must be looked into, Colonel; or how's aman to know where he is? or how's a lady to know where she is? Butas for spies, except in the way of evidence, I don't think nothingof 'em. " Soon after this two more passengers entered the train, andnothing more was said between Bozzle and the Colonel. 

The Colonel, as soon as he reached London, went home to his lodgings, and then to his club, and did his best to enjoy himself. On thefollowing Monday he intended to start for Scotland. But he could notquite enjoy himself, --because of Bozzle. He felt that he was beingwatched; and there is nothing that any man hates so much as that, especially when a lady is concerned. Colonel Osborne knew that hisvisit to Nuncombe Putney had been very innocent; but he did not likethe feeling that even his innocence had been made the subject ofobservation. 

Bozzle went away at once to Trevelyan, whom he found at his chambers. He himself had had no very deep-laid scheme in his addresses toColonel Osborne. He had begun to think that very little would come ofthe affair, --especially after Hugh Stanbury had appeared upon thescene, --and had felt that there was nothing to be lost by presentinghimself before the eyes of the Colonel. It was necessary that heshould make a report to his employer, and the report might be madea little more full after a few words with the man whom he had been"looking into. " "Well, Mr. Trewillian, " he said, seating himselfon a chair close against the wall, and holding his hat between theknees, --"I've seen the parties, and know pretty much all about it. "

"All I want to know, Mr. Bozzle, is, whether Colonel Osborne has beenat the Clock House?"

"He has been there, Mr. Trewillian. There is no earthly doubt aboutthat. From hour to hour I can tell you pretty nearly where he's beensince he left London. " Then Bozzle took out his memorandum-book. 

"I don't care about all that, " said Trevelyan. 

"I dare say not, sir; but it may be wanted all the same. Anygentleman acting in our way can't be too particular, --can't havetoo many facts. The smallest little, --tiddly things, "--and Bozzleas he said this seemed to enjoy immensely the flavour of his ownepithet, --"the smallest little 'tiddly' things do so often turn uptrumps when you get your evidence into court. "

"I'm not going to get any evidence into court. "

"Maybe not, sir. A gentleman and lady is always best out of court aslong as things can hang on any way;--but sometimes things won't hangon no way. "

Trevelyan, who was conscious that the employment of Bozzle wasdiscreditable, and whose affairs in Devonshire were now in the handsof, at any rate, a more honourable ally, was at present mainlyanxious to get rid of the ex-policeman. "I have no doubt you've beenvery careful, Mr. Bozzle, " said he. 

"There isn't no one in the business could be more so, Mr. Trewillian. "

"And you have found out what it was necessary that I should know. Colonel Osborne did go to the Clock House?"

"Was let in at the front door on Friday the 5th, by Sarah French, thehousemaid, at 10. 37 a. M. , and was let out again by the same youngwoman at 11. 41 a. M. Perhaps you'd like to have a copy of the entry, Mr. Trewillian?"

"No, no, no. "

"It doesn't matter. Of course it'll be with me when it's wanted. Whowas with him, exactly, at that time, I can't say. There is things, Mr. Trewillian, one can't see. But I don't think as he saw neitherMrs. Stanbury, nor Miss Stanbury, --not to speak to. I did just haveone word, promiscuous, with Sarah French, after he was gone. Whetherthe other young lady was with 'em or not, and if so for how long, I--can't--say. There is things, Mr. Trewillian, which one can't see. "

How Trevelyan hated the man as he went on with his odiousdetails, --details not one of which possessed the slightestimportance. "It's all right, I dare say, Mr. Bozzle. And now aboutthe account. "

"Quite so, Mr. Trewillian. But there was one question;--just onequestion. "

"What question?" said Trevelyan, almost angrily. 

"And there's another thing I must tell you, too, Mr. Trewillian. Icome back to town in the same carriage with the Colonel. I thought itbetter. "

"You did not tell him who you were?"

"No, Mr. Trewillian; I didn't tell him that. I don't think he'd sayif you was to ask him that I told him much of anything. No, Mr. Trewillian, I didn't tell him nothing. I don't often tell folks muchtill the time comes. But I thought it better, and I did have a wordor two with the gent, --just a word or two. He's not so very downy, isn't the Colonel;--for one that's been at it so long, Mr. Trewillian. "

"I dare say not. But if you could just let me have the account, Mr. Bozzle, --"

"The account? Oh, yes;--that is necessary; ain't it? These sort ofinquiries do come a little expensive, Mr. Trewillian; because timegoes for so much; and when one has to be down on a thing, sharp, youknow, and sure, so that counsel on the other side can't part you fromit, though he shakes you like a dog does a rat, --and one has to getoneself up ready for all that, you know, Mr. Trewillian, --as I wassaying, one can't count one's shillings when one has such a job asthis in hand. Clench your nail;--that's what I say; be it even so. Clench your nail;--that's what you've got to do. "

"I dare say we shan't quarrel about the money, Mr. Bozzle. "

"Oh dear no. I find I never has any words about the money. Butthere's that one question. There's a young Mr. Stanbury has gonedown, as knows all about it. What's he up to?"

"He's my particular friend, " said Trevelyan. 

"Oh--h. He do know all about it, then?"

"We needn't talk about that, if you please, Mr. Bozzle. "

"Because there was words between him and the Colonel upon theplatform;--and very angry words. The young man went at the Colonelquite open-mouthed, --savage-like. It's not the way such things shouldbe done, Mr. Trewillian; and though of course it's not for me tospeak;--she's your lady, --still, when you has got a thing of thiskind in hand, one head is better than a dozen. As for myself, Mr. Trewillian, I never wouldn't look at a case, --not if I knewit, --unless I was to have it all to myself. But of course there wasno bargain, and so I says nothing. "

After considerable delay the bill was made out on the spot, Mr. Bozzle copying down the figures painfully from his memorandum-book, with his head much inclined on one side. Trevelyan asked him, almostin despair, to name the one sum; but this Bozzle declined to do, saying that right was right. He had a scale of pilfering of his own, to which he had easily reconciled his conscience; and beyond thathe prided himself on the honesty of his accounts. At last the billwas made out, was paid, and Bozzle was gone. Trevelyan, when he wasalone, threw himself back on a sofa, and almost wept in despair. Towhat a depth of degradation had he not been reduced!

CHAPTER XXIV. 

NIDDON PARK. 

As Hugh Stanbury went over to Lessboro', and from thence to NuncombePutney, he thought more of himself and Nora Rowley than he did of Mr. And Mrs. Trevelyan. As to Mrs. Trevelyan and Colonel Osborne, he feltthat he knew everything that it was necessary that he should know. The man had been there, and had seen Mrs. Trevelyan. Of that therecould be no doubt. That Colonel Osborne had been wickedly indifferentto the evil consequences of such a visit, and that all the womenconcerned had been most foolish in permitting him to make it, was hispresent conviction. But he did not for a moment doubt that the visithad in itself been of all things the most innocent. Trevelyan hadsworn that if his wife received the man at Nuncombe Putney, hewould never see her again. She had seen him, and this oath would beremembered, and there would be increased difficulties. But thesedifficulties, whatever they might be, must be overcome. When he hadtold himself this, then he allowed his mind to settle itself on NoraRowley. 

Hitherto he had known Miss Rowley only as a fashionable girl livingwith the wife of an intimate friend of his own in London. He hadnever been staying in the same house with her. Circumstances hadnever given to him the opportunity of assuming the manner of anintimate friend, justifying him in giving advice, and authorisinghim to assume that semi-paternal tone which is by far the easiestpreliminary to love-making. When a man can tell a young lady whatshe ought to read, what she ought to do, and whom she ought to know, nothing can be easier than to assure her that, of all her duties, her first duty is to prefer himself to all the world. And any younglady who has consented to receive lessons from such a teacher, willgenerally be willing to receive this special lesson among others. But Stanbury had hitherto had no such opportunities. In London MissRowley had been a fashionable young lady, living in Mayfair, and hehad been, --well, anything but a fashionable young man. Nevertheless, he had seen her often, had sat by her very frequently, was quite surethat he loved her dearly, and had, perhaps, some self-flatteringidea in his mind that had he stuck to his honourable profession as abarrister, and were he possessed of some comfortable little fortuneof his own, he might, perhaps, have been able, after due siegeoperations, to make this charming young woman his own. Things werequite changed now. For the present, Miss Rowley certainly could notbe regarded as a fashionable London young lady. The house in which hewould see her was, in some sort, his own. He would be sleeping underthe same roof with her, and would have all the advantages which sucha position could give him. He would have no difficulty now in asking, if he should choose to ask; and he thought that she might be somewhatsofter, somewhat more likely to yield at Nuncombe Putney, than shewould have been in London. She was at Nuncombe in weak circumstances, to a certain degree friendless; with none of the excitement ofsociety around her, with no elder sons buzzing about her andfilling her mind, if not her heart, with the glories of luxuriousprimogeniture. Hugh Stanbury certainly did not dream that anyspecial elder son had as yet been so attracted as to have made ajourney to Nuncombe Putney on Nora's behalf. But should he on thisaccount, --because she would be, as it were, without means of defencefrom his attack, --should he therefore take advantage of her weakness?She would, of course, go back to her London life after some shortabsence, and would again, if free, have her chance among the favouredones of the earth. What had he to offer to her? He had taken theClock House for his mother, and it would be quite as much as he coulddo, when Mrs. Trevelyan should have left the village, to keep up thatestablishment and maintain himself in London, --quite as much as hecould do, even though the favours of the "D. R. " should flow uponhim with their fullest tides. In such circumstances, would it behonourable in him to ask a girl to love him because he found herdefenceless in his mother's house?

"If there bain't another for Nuncombe, " said Mrs. Clegg's Ostler toMrs. Clegg's Boots, as Stanbury was driven off in a gig. 

"That be young Stanbury, a-going of whome. "

"They be all a-going for the Clock House. Since the old 'ooman tookto thick there house, there be folk a-comin' and a-goin' every dayloike. "

"It's along of the madam that they keeps there, Dick, " said theBoots. 

"I didn't care if there'd be madams allays. They're the best as isgoing for trade anyhow, " said the ostler. What the ostler said wastrue. When there comes to be a feeling that a woman's character is inany way tarnished, there comes another feeling that everybody on theone side may charge double, and that everybody on the other side mustpay double, for everything. Hugh Stanbury could not understand why hewas charged a shilling a mile, instead of ninepence, for the gig toNuncombe Putney. He got no satisfactory answer, and had to pay theshilling. The truth was, that gigs to Nuncombe Putney had gone up, since a lady, separated from her husband, with a colonel runningafter her, had been taken in at the Clock House. 

"Here's Hugh!" said Priscilla, hurrying to the front door. And Mrs. Stanbury hurried after her. Her son Hugh was the apple of her eye, the best son that ever lived, generous, noble, a thoroughman, --almost a god!

"Dear, dear, oh dear! Who'd have expected it? God bless you, my boy!Why didn't you write? Priscilla, what is there in the house that hecan eat?"

"Plenty of bread and cheese, " said Priscilla, laughing, with her handinside her brother's arm. For though Priscilla hated all other men, she did not hate her brother Hugh. "If you wanted things nice to eatdirectly you got here, you ought to have written. "

"I shall want my dinner, like any other Christian, --in due time, "said Hugh. "And how is Mrs. Trevelyan, --and how is Miss Rowley?"

He soon found himself in company with those two ladies, andexperienced some immediate difficulty in explaining the cause of hissudden coming. But this was soon put aside by Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"When did you see my husband?" she asked. 

"I saw him yesterday. He was quite well. "

"Colonel Osborne has been here, " she said. 

"I know that he has been here. I met him at the station at Exeter. Perhaps I should not say so, but I wish he had remained away. "

"We all wish it, " said Priscilla. 

Then Nora spoke. "But what could we do, Mr. Stanbury? It seemed sonatural that he should call when he was in the neighbourhood. We haveknown him so long; and how could we refuse to see him?"

"I will not let any one think that I'm afraid to see any man onearth, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. "If he had ever in his life said a wordthat he should not have said, a word that would have been an insult, of course it would have been different. But the notion of it ispreposterous. Why should I not have seen him?"

"I think he was wrong to come, " said Hugh. 

"Of course he was wrong;--wickedly wrong, " said Priscilla. 

Stanbury, finding that the subject was openly discussed betweenthem, declared plainly the mission that had brought him to Nuncombe. "Trevelyan heard that he was coming, and asked me to let him know thetruth. "

"Now you can tell him the truth, " said Mrs. Trevelyan, with somethingof indignation in her tone, as though she thought that Stanbury hadtaken upon himself a task of which he ought to be ashamed. 

"But Colonel Osborne came specially to pay a visit toCockchaffington, " said Nora, "and not to see us. Louis ought to knowthat. "

"Nora, how can you demean yourself to care about such trash?" saidMrs. Trevelyan. "Who cares why he came here? His visit to me was athing of course. If Mr. Trevelyan disapproves of it, let him say so, and not send secret messengers. "

"Am I a secret messenger?" said Hugh Stanbury. 

"There has been a man here, inquiring of the servants, " saidPriscilla. So that odious Bozzle had made his foul mission knownto them! Stanbury, however, thought it best to say nothing ofBozzle, --not to acknowledge that he had ever heard of Bozzle. "I amsure Mrs. Trevelyan does not mean you, " said Priscilla. 

"I do not know what I mean, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. "I am so harassedand fevered by these suspicions that I am driven nearly mad. " Thenshe left the room for a minute and returned with two letters. "There, Mr. Stanbury; I got that note from Colonel Osborne, and wrote to himthat reply. You know all about it now. Can you say that I was wrongto see him?"

"I am sure that he was wrong to come, " said Hugh. 

"Wickedly wrong, " said Priscilla, again. 

"You can keep the letters, and show them to my husband, " said Mrs. Trevelyan; "then he will know all about it. " But Stanbury declined tokeep the letters. 

He was to remain the Sunday at Nuncombe Putney and return to Londonon the Monday. There was, therefore, but one day on which he couldsay what he had to say to Nora Rowley. When he came down to breakfaston the Sunday morning he had almost made up his mind that he hadnothing to say to her. As for Nora, she was in a state of mind muchless near to any fixed purpose. She had told herself that she lovedthis man, --had indeed done so in the clearest way, by acknowledgingthe fact of her love to another suitor, by pleading to that othersuitor the fact of her love as an insuperable reason why he shouldbe rejected. There was no longer any doubt about it to her. WhenPriscilla had declared that Hugh Stanbury was at the door, her hearthad gone into her mouth. Involuntarily she had pressed her hands toher sides, and had held her breath. Why had he come there? Had hecome there for her? Oh! if he had come there for her, and if shemight dare to forget all the future, how sweet, --sweetest of allthings in heaven or earth, --might be an August evening with him amongthe lanes! But she, too, had endeavoured to be very prudent. Shehad told herself that she was quite unfit to be the wife of a poorman, --that she would be only a burden round his neck, and not an aidto him. And in so telling herself, she had told herself also that shehad been a fool not to accept Mr. Glascock. She should have draggedout from her heart the image of this man who had never even whispereda word of love in her ears, and should have constrained herself toreceive with affection a man in loving whom there ought to be nodifficulty. But when she had been repeating those lessons to herself, Hugh Stanbury had not been in the house. Now he was there;--and whatmust be her answer if he should whisper that word of love? She had anidea that it would be treason in her to disown the love she felt, ifquestioned concerning her heart by the man to whom it had been given. 

They all went to church on the Sunday morning, and up to that timeNora had not been a moment alone with the man. It had been decidedthat they should dine early, and then ramble out, when the eveningwould be less hot than the day had been, to a spot called NiddonPark. This was nearly three miles from Nuncombe, and was a beautifulwild slope of ground, full of ancient, blighted, blasted, but stillhalf-living oaks, --oaks that still brought forth leaves, --overlookinga bend of the river Teign. Park, in the usual sense of the word, there was none, nor did they who lived round Nuncombe Putney knowwhether Niddon Park had ever been enclosed. But of all the spots inthat lovely neighbourhood, Priscilla Stanbury swore that it was theloveliest; and, as it had never yet been seen by Mrs. Trevelyan orher sister, it was determined that they would walk there on thisAugust afternoon. There were four of them, --and, as was natural, theyfell into parties of two and two. But Priscilla walked with Nora, andHugh Stanbury walked with his friend's wife. Nora was talkative, butdemure in her manner, and speaking now and again as though she weregiving words and not thoughts. She felt that there was something tohide, and was suffering from disappointment that their party shouldnot have been otherwise divided. Had Hugh spoken to her and asked herto be his wife, she could not have accepted him, because she knewthat they were both poor, and that she was not fit to keep a poorman's house. She had declared to herself most plainly that that mustbe her course;--but yet she was disappointed, and talked on with theknowledge that she had something to conceal. 

 [Illustration: Niddon Park. ]

When they were seated beneath an old riven, withered oak, lookingdown upon the river, they were still divided in the same way. Inseating herself she had been very anxious not to disarrange thatarrangement, --almost equally anxious not to seem to adhere to itwith any special purpose. She was very careful that there should benothing seen in her manner that was in any way special, --but in themeantime she was suffering an agony of trouble. He did not care forher in the least. She was becoming sure of that. She had given allher love to a man who had none to give her in return. As she thoughtof this she almost longed for the offer of that which she knew shecould not have accepted had it been offered to her. But she talkedon about the scenery, about the weather, --descanting on the pleasureof living where such loveliness was within reach. Then there came apause for a moment. "Nora, " said Priscilla, "I do not know what youare thinking about, but it is not of the beauty of Niddon Park. " Thenthere came a faint sound as of an hysterical sob, and then a gurglein the throat, and then a pretence at laughter. 

"I don't believe I am thinking of anything at all, " said Nora. 

After which Hugh insisted on descending to the bank of the river, but, as the necessity of re-climbing the slope was quite manifest, none of the girls would go with him. "Come, Miss Rowley, " said he, "will you not show them that a lady can go up and down a hill as wellas a man?"

"I had rather not go up and down the hill, " said she. 

Then he understood that she was angry with him; and in some sortsurmised the cause of her anger. Not that he believed that she lovedhim; but it seemed possible to him that she resented the absence ofhis attention. He went down, and scrambled out on the rocks intothe bed of the river, while the girls above looked down upon him, watching the leaps that he made. Priscilla and Mrs. Trevelyan calledto him, bidding him beware; but Nora called not at all. He waswhistling as he made his jumps, but still he heard their voices, andknew that he did not hear Nora's voice. He poised himself on the edgeof a rock in the middle of the stream, and looked up the river anddown the river, turning himself carefully on his narrow foothold; buthe was thinking only of Nora. Could there be anything nobler than tostruggle on with her, if she only would be willing? But then she wasyoung; and should she yield to such a request from him, she would notknow what she was yielding. He turned again, jumping from rock torock till he reached the bank, and then made his way again up to thewithered oak. 

"You would not have repented it if you had come down with me, " hesaid to Nora. 

"I am not so sure of that, " she answered. 

When they started to return she stepped on gallantly with Priscilla;but Priscilla was stopped by some chance, having some word to say toher brother, having some other word to say to Mrs. Trevelyan. Couldit be that her austerity had been softened, and that in kindness shecontrived that Nora should be left some yards behind them with herbrother? Whether it were kindness, or an unkind error, so it was. Nora, when she perceived what destiny was doing for her, would notinterfere with destiny. If he chose to speak to her she would hearhim and would answer him. She knew very well what answer she wouldgive him. She had her answer quite ready at her fingers' ends. Therewas no doubt about her answer. 

They had walked half a mile together and he had spoken of nothing butthe scenery. She had endeavoured to appear to be excited. Oh, yes, the scenery of Devonshire was delightful. She hardly wanted anythingmore to make her happy. If only this misery respecting her sistercould be set right!

"And you, you yourself, " said he, "do you mean that there is nothingyou want in leaving London?"

"Not much, indeed. "

"It sometimes seemed to me that that kind of life was, --was verypleasant to you. "

"What kind of life, Mr. Stanbury?"

"The life that you were living, --going out, being admired, and havingthe rich and dainty all around you. "

"I don't dislike people because they are rich, " she said. 

"No; nor do I; and I despise those who affect to dislike them. Butall cannot be rich. "

"Nor all dainty, as you choose to call them. "

"But they who have once been dainty, --as I call them, --never liketo divest themselves of their daintiness. You have been one of thedainty, Miss Rowley. "

"Have I?"

"Certainly; I doubt whether you would be happy if you thought thatyour daintiness had departed from you. "

"I hope, Mr. Stanbury, that nothing nice and pleasant has departedfrom me. If I have ever been dainty, dainty I hope I may remain. Iwill never, at any rate, give it up of my own accord. " Why she saidthis, she could never explain to herself. She had certainly notintended to rebuff him when she had been saying it. But he spoke nota word to her further as they walked home, either of her mode of lifeor of his own. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

HUGH STANBURY SMOKES HIS PIPE. 

 [Illustration]

Nora Rowley, when she went to bed, after her walk to Niddon Park incompany with Hugh Stanbury, was full of wrath against him. But shecould not own her anger to herself, nor could she even confess toherself, --though she was breaking her heart, --that there reallyexisted for her the slightest cause of grief. But why had he been sostern to her? Why had he gone out of his way to be uncivil to her? Hehad called her "dainty, " meaning to imply by the epithet that she wasone of the butterflies of the day, caring for nothing but sunshineand an opportunity of fluttering her silly wings. She had understoodwell what he meant. Of course he was right to be cold to her ifhis heart was cold, but he need not have insulted her by hisill-concealed rebukes. Had he been kind to her, he might have rebukedher as much as he liked. She quite appreciated the delightfulintimacy of a loving word of counsel from the man she loved, --hownice it is, as it were, to play at marriage, and to hear beforehandsomething of the pleasant weight of gentle marital authority. Butthere had been nothing of that in his manner to her. He had told herthat she was dainty, --and had so told it her, as she thought, thatshe might learn thereby, that under no circumstances would he haveany other tale to tell her. If he had no other tale, why had he notbeen silent? Did he think that she was subject to his rebuke merelybecause she lived under his mother's roof? She would soon shew himthat her residence at the Clock House gave him no such authority overher. Then, amidst her wrath and despair, she cried herself asleep. 

While she was sobbing in bed, he was sitting, with a short, blackpipe stuck into his mouth, on the corner of the churchyard wallopposite. Before he had left the house he and Priscilla had spokentogether for some minutes about Mrs. Trevelyan. "Of course she waswrong to see him, " said Priscilla. "I hesitate to wound her by sosaying, because she has been ill-used, --though I did tell her so, when she asked me. She could have lost nothing by declining hisvisit. "

"The worst of it is that Trevelyan swears that he will never receiveher again if she received him. "

"He must unswear it, " said Priscilla, "that is all. It is out of thequestion that a man should take a girl from her home, and make herhis wife, and then throw her off for so little of an offence as this. She might compel him by law to take her back. "

"What would she get by that?"

"Little enough, " said Priscilla; "and it was little enough she got bymarrying him. She would have had bread, and meat, and raiment withoutbeing married, I suppose. "

"But it was a love-match. "

"Yes;--and now she is at Nuncombe Putney, and he is roaming about inLondon. He has to pay ever so much a year for his love-match, and sheis crushed into nothing by it. How long will she have to remain here, Hugh?"

"How can I say? I suppose there is no reason against her remaining asfar as you are concerned?"

"For me personally, none. Were she much worse than I think she is, Ishould not care in the least for myself, if I thought that we weredoing her good, --helping to bring her back. She can't hurt me. I amso fixed, and dry, and established, that nothing anybody says willaffect me. But mamma doesn't like it. "

"What is it she dislikes?"

"The idea that she is harbouring a married woman, of whom people say, at least, that she has a lover. "

"Is she to be turned out because people are slanderers?"

"Why should mamma suffer because this woman, who is a stranger toher, has been imprudent? If she were your wife, Hugh--"

"God forbid!"

"If we were in any way bound to her, of course we would do our duty. But if it makes mamma unhappy I am sure you will not press it. Ithink Mrs. Merton has spoken to her. And then Aunt Stanbury haswritten such letters!"

"Who cares for Aunt Jemima?"

"Everybody cares for her, --except you and I. And now this man who hasbeen here asking the servant questions has upset her greatly. Evenyour coming has done so, knowing, as she does, that you have come, not to see us, but to make inquiries about Mrs. Trevelyan. She is soannoyed by it, that she does not sleep. "

"Do you wish her to be taken away at once?" asked Hugh, almost in anangry tone. 

"Certainly not. That would be impossible. We have agreed to take her, and must bear with it. And I would not have her moved from this, if Ithought that if she stayed awhile it might be arranged that she mightreturn from us direct to her husband. "

"I shall try that, of course;--now. "

"But if he will not have her;--if he be so obstinate, so foolish, andso wicked, do not leave her here longer than you can help. " Then Hughexplained that Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley were to be in England inthe spring, and that it would be very desirable that the poor womanshould not be sent abroad to look for a home before that. "If it mustbe so, it must, " said Priscilla. "But eight months is a long time. "

Hugh went out to smoke his pipe on the church-wall in a moody, unhappy state of mind. He had hoped to have done so well in regardto Mrs. Trevelyan! Till he had met Colonel Osborne, he felt sure, almost sure, that she would have refused to see that pernicioustroubler of the peace of families. In this he found that he had beendisappointed; but he had not expected that Priscilla would have beenso much opposed to the arrangement which he had made about the house, and then he had been buoyed up by the anticipation of some delight inmeeting Nora Rowley. There was, at any rate, the excitement of seeingher to keep his spirits from flagging. He had seen her, and had hadthe opportunity of which he had so long been thinking. He had seenher, and had had every possible advantage on his side. What could anyman desire better than the privilege of walking home with the girlhe loved through country lanes of a summer evening? They had been anhour together, --or might have been, had he chosen to prolong theinterview. But the words which had been spoken between them had hadnot the slightest interest, --unless it were that they had tended tomake the interval between him and her wider than ever. He had askedher, --he thought that he had asked, --whether it would grieve her toabandon that delicate, dainty mode of life to which she had beenaccustomed; and she had replied, that she would never abandon it ofher own accord. Of course she had intended him to take her at herword. 

He blew forth quick clouds of heavy smoke, as he attempted to makehimself believe that this was all for the best. What would such a oneas he was do with a wife? Or, seeing as he did see, that marriageitself was quite out of the question, how could it be good either forhim or her that they should be tied together by a long engagement?Such a future would not at all suit the purpose of his life. In hislife absolute freedom would be needed;--freedom from unnecessaryties, freedom from unnecessary burdens. His income was mostprecarious, and he certainly would not make it less so by submissionto any closer literary thraldom. And he believed himself to be aBohemian, --too much of a Bohemian to enjoy a domestic fireside withchildren and slippers. To be free to go where he liked, and when heliked; to think as he pleased; to be driven nowhere by conventionalrules; to use his days, Sundays as well as Mondays, as he pleasedto use them; to turn Republican, if his mind should take him thatway, --or Quaker, or Mormon, or Red Indian, if he wished it, and in soturning to do no damage to any one but himself;--that was the lifewhich he had planned for himself. His Aunt Stanbury had not readhis character altogether wrongly, as he thought, when she had oncedeclared that decency and godliness were both distasteful to him. Would it not be destruction to such a one as he was, to fall into aninterminable engagement with any girl, let her be ever so sweet?

But yet, he felt as he sat there, filling pipe after pipe, smokingaway till past midnight, that though he could not bear the idea oftrammels, though he was totally unfit for matrimony, either presentor in prospect, --he felt that he had within his breast a doubleidentity, and that that other division of himself would be utterlycrushed if it were driven to divest itself of the idea of love. Whence was to come his poetry, the romance of his life, the springsof clear water in which his ignoble thoughts were to be dipped tillthey should become pure, if love was to be banished altogether fromthe list of delights that were possible to him? And then he beganto speculate on love, --that love of which poets wrote, and of whichhe found that some sparkle was necessary to give light to his life. Was it not the one particle of divine breath given to man, of whichhe had heard since he was a boy? And how was this love to be comeat, and was it to be a thing of reality, or merely an idea? Wasit a pleasure to be attained, or a mystery that charmed by thedifficulties of the distance, --a distance that never could be sopassed that the thing should really be reached? Was love to beever a delight, vague as is that feeling of unattainable beautywhich far-off mountains give, when you know that you can neverplace yourself amidst their unseen valleys? And if love could bereached, --the love of which the poets sing, and of which his ownheart was ever singing, --what were to be its pleasures? To press ahand, to kiss a lip, to clasp a waist, to hear even the low voice ofthe vanquished, confessing loved one as she hides her blushing cheekupon your shoulder, --what is it all but to have reached the oncemysterious valley of your far-off mountain, and to have found that itis as other valleys, --rocks and stones, with a little grass, and athin stream of running water? But beyond that pressure of the hand, and that kissing of the lips, --beyond that short-lived pressure ofthe plumage which is common to birds and men, --what could love dobeyond that? There were children with dirty faces, and householdbills, and a wife who must, perhaps, always darn the stockings, --andbe sometimes cross. Was love to lead only to this, --a dull life, witha woman who had lost the beauty from her cheeks, and the gloss fromher hair, and the music from her voice, and the fire from her eye, and the grace from her step, and whose waist an arm should no longerbe able to span? Did the love of the poets lead to that, and thatonly? Then, through the cloud of smoke, there came upon him somedim idea of self-abnegation, --that the mysterious valley amongthe mountains, the far-off prospect of which was so charming tohim, --which made the poetry of his life, was, in fact, the capacityof caring more for other human beings than for himself. The beauty ofit all was not so much in the thing loved as in the loving. "Were shea cripple, hunchbacked, eyeless, " he said to himself, "it might bethe same. Only she must be a woman. " Then he blew off a great cloudof smoke, and went into bed lost amidst poetry, philosophy, love, andtobacco. 

It had been arranged over-night that he was to start the next morningat half-past seven, and Priscilla had promised to give him hisbreakfast before he went. Priscilla, of course, kept her word. Shewas one of those women who would take a grim pleasure in comingdown to make the tea at any possible hour, --at five, at four, if itwere needed, --and who would never want to go to bed again when theceremony was performed. But when Nora made her appearance, --Nora, whohad been called dainty, --both Priscilla and Hugh were surprised. Theycould not say why she was there, --nor could Nora tell herself. Shehad not forgiven him. She had no thought of being gentle and lovingto him. She declared to herself that she had no wish of sayinggood-bye to him once again. But yet she was in the room, waitingfor him, when he came down to his breakfast. She had been unable tosleep, and had reasoned with herself as to the absurdity of lying inbed awake, when she preferred to be up and out of the house. It wastrue that she had not been out of her bed at seven any morning sinceshe had been at Nuncombe Putney; but that was no reason why sheshould not be more active on this special morning. There was a noisein the house, and she never could sleep when there was a noise. Shewas quite sure that she was not going down because she wished to seeHugh Stanbury, but she was equally sure that it would be a disgraceto her to be deterred from going down, simply because the man wasthere. So she descended to the parlour, and was standing near theopen window when Stanbury bustled into the room, some quarter ofan hour after the proper time. Priscilla was there also, guessingsomething of the truth, and speculating whether these two youngpeople, should they love each other, would be the better or the worsefor such love. There must be marriages, --if only that the worldmight go on in accordance with the Creator's purpose. But, as faras Priscilla could see, blessed were they who were not called uponto assist in the scheme. To her eyes all days seemed to be days ofwrath, and all times, times of tribulation. And it was all merevanity and vexation of spirit. To go on and bear it till onewas dead, --helping others to bear it, if such help might be ofavail, --that was her theory of life. To make it pleasant by eating, and drinking, and dancing, or even by falling in love, was, to hermind, a vain crunching of ashes between the teeth. Not to have illthings said of her and of hers, not to be disgraced, not to berendered incapable of some human effort, not to have actually tostarve, --such was the extent of her ambition in this world. And forthe next, --she felt so assured of the goodness of God that she couldnot bring herself to doubt of happiness in a world that was to beeternal. Her doubt was this, whether it was really the next worldwhich would be eternal. Of eternity she did not doubt;--but mightthere not be many worlds? These things, however, she kept almostentirely to herself. "You down!" Priscilla had said. 

"Well, yes; I could not sleep when I heard you all moving. And themorning is so fine, and I thought that perhaps you would go out andwalk after your brother has gone. " Priscilla promised that she wouldwalk, and then the tea was made. 

"Your sister and I are going out for an early walk, " said Nora, whenshe was greeted by Stanbury. Priscilla said nothing, but thought sheunderstood it all. 

"I wish I were going with you, " said Hugh. Nora, remembering how verylittle he had made of his opportunity on the evening before, did notbelieve him. 

The eggs and fried bacon were eaten in a hurry, and very little wassaid. Then there came the moment for parting. The brother and sisterkissed each other, and Hugh took Nora by the hand. "I hope you makeyourself happy here, " he said. 

"Oh, yes;--if it were only for myself I should want nothing. "

"I will do the best I can with Trevelyan. "

"The best will be to make him, and every one, understand that thefault is altogether his, and not Emily's. "

"The best will be to make each think that there has been no realfault, " said Hugh. 

"There should be no talking of faults, " said Priscilla. "Let thehusband take his wife back, --as he is bound to do. "

These words occupied hardly a minute in the saying, but during thatminute Hugh Stanbury held Nora by the hand. He held it fast. Shewould not attempt to withdraw it, but neither would she return hispressure by the muscle of a single finger. What right had he to pressher hand; or to make any sign of love, any pretence of loving, whenhe had gone out of his way to tell her that she was not good enoughfor him? Then he started, and Nora and Priscilla put on their hatsand left the house. 

"Let us go to Niddon Park, " said Nora. 

"To Niddon Park again?"

"Yes; it is so beautiful! And I should like to see it by the morninglight. There is plenty of time. "

So they walked to Niddon Park in the morning, as they had done on thepreceding evening. Their conversation at first regarded Trevelyan andhis wife, and the old trouble; but Nora could not keep herself fromspeaking of Hugh Stanbury. 

"He would not have come, " she said, "unless Louis had sent him. "

"He would not have come now, I think. "

"Of course not;--why should he?--before Parliament was hardly over, too? But he won't remain in town now, --will he?"

"He says somebody must remain, --and I think he will be in London tillnear Christmas. "

"How disagreeable! But I suppose he doesn't care. It's all the sameto a man like him. They don't shut the clubs up, I dare say. Will hecome here at Christmas?"

"Either then or for the New Year;--just for a day or two. "

"We shall be gone then, I suppose?" said Nora. 

"That must depend on Mr. Trevelyan, " said Priscilla. 

"What a life for two women to lead;--to depend upon the caprice of aman who must be mad! Do you think that Mr. Trevelyan will care forwhat your brother says to him?"

"I do not know Mr. Trevelyan. "

"He is very fond of your brother, and I suppose men friends do listento each other. They never seem to listen to women. Don't you thinkthat, after all, they despise women? They look on them as dainty, foolish things. "

"Sometimes women despise men, " said Priscilla. 

"Not very often;--do they? And then women are so dependent on men. Awoman can get nothing without a man. "

"I manage to get on somehow, " said Priscilla. 

"No, you don't, Miss Stanbury, --if you think of it. You want mutton. And who kills the sheep?"

"But who cooks it?"

"But the men-cooks are the best, " said Nora; "and the men-tailors, and the men to wait at table, and the men-poets, and themen-painters, and the men-nurses. All the things that women do, mendo better. "

"There are two things they can't do, " said Priscilla. 

"What are they?"

"They can't suckle babies, and they can't forget themselves. "

"About the babies, of course not. As for forgetting themselves, --I amnot quite so sure that I can forget myself. --That is just where yourbrother went down last night. "

They had at this moment reached the top of the steep slope belowwhich the river ran brawling among the rocks, and Nora seated herselfexactly where she had sat on the previous evening. 

"I have been down scores of times, " said Priscilla. 

"Let us go now. "

"You wouldn't go when Hugh asked you yesterday. "

"I didn't care then. But do come now, --if you don't mind the climb. "Then they went down the slope and reached the spot from whence HughStanbury had jumped from rock to rock across the stream. "You havenever been out there, have you?" said Nora. 

"On the rocks? Oh, dear, no! I should be sure to fall. "

"But he went; just like a goat. "

"That's one of the things that men can do, I suppose, " saidPriscilla. "But I don't see any great glory in being like a goat. "

"I do. I should like to be able to go, and I think I'll try. It is somean to be dainty and weak. "

"I don't think it at all dainty to keep dry feet. "

"But he didn't get his feet wet, " said Nora. "Or if he did, he didn'tmind. I can see at once that I should be giddy and tumble down if Itried it. "

"Of course you would. "

"But he didn't tumble down. "

"He has been doing it all his life, " said Priscilla. 

"He can't do it up in London. When I think of myself, Miss Stanbury, I am so ashamed. There is nothing that I can do. I couldn't write anarticle for a newspaper. "

"I think I could. But I fear no one would read it. "

"They read his, " said Nora, "or else he wouldn't be paid for writingthem. " Then they climbed back again up the hill, and during theclimbing there were no words spoken. The slope was not much of ahill, --was no more than the fall from the low ground of the valley tothe course which the river had cut for itself; but it was steep whileit lasted; and both the young women were forced to pause for a minutebefore they could proceed upon their journey. As they walked homePriscilla spoke of the scenery, and of the country, and of thenature of the life which she and her mother and sister had passed atNuncombe Putney. Nora said but little till they were just enteringthe village, and then she went back to the subject of her thoughts. "I would sooner, " said she, "write for a newspaper than do anythingelse in the world. "

"Why so?"

"Because it is so noble to teach people everything! And then a manwho writes for a newspaper must know so many things himself! Ibelieve there are women who do it, but very few. One or two have doneit, I know. "

"Go and tell that to Aunt Stanbury, and hear what she will say aboutsuch women. "

"I suppose she is very, --prejudiced. "

"Yes; she is; but she is a clever woman. I am inclined to think womenhad better not write for newspapers. "

"And why not?" Nora asked. 

"My reasons would take me a week to explain, and I doubt whether Ihave them very clear in my own head. In the first place there is thatdifficulty about the babies. Most of them must get married you know. "

"But not all, " said Nora. 

"No; thank God; not all. "

"And if you are not married you might write for a newspaper. At anyrate, if I were you, I should be very proud of my brother. "

"Aunt Stanbury is not at all proud of her nephew, " said Priscilla, asthey entered the house. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

A THIRD PARTY IS SO OBJECTIONABLE. 

Hugh Stanbury went in search of Trevelyan immediately on his returnto London, and found his friend at his rooms in Lincoln's Inn. 

"I have executed my commission, " said Hugh, endeavouring to speak ofwhat he had done in a cheery voice. 

"I am much obliged to you, Stanbury; very much;--but I do not knowthat I need trouble you to tell me anything about it. "

"And why not?"

"I have learned it all from that--man. "

"What man?"

"From Bozzle. He has come back, and has been with me, and has learnedeverything. "

"Look here, Trevelyan;--when you asked me to go down to Devonshire, you promised me that there should be nothing more about Bozzle. Iexpect you to put that rascal, and all that he has told you, out ofyour head altogether. You are bound to do so for my sake, and youwill be very wise to do so for your own. "

"I was obliged to see him when he came. "

"Yes, and to pay him, I do not doubt. But that is all done, andshould be forgotten. "

"I can't forget it. Is it true or untrue that he found that man downthere? Is it true or untrue that my wife received Colonel Osborne atyour mother's house? Is it true or untrue that Colonel Osborne wentdown there with the express object of seeing her? Is it true oruntrue that they had corresponded? It is nonsense to bid me to forgetall this. You might as well ask me to forget that I had desired herneither to write to him, nor to see him. "

"If I understand the matter, " said Trevelyan, "you are incorrect inone of your assertions. "

"In which?"

"You must excuse me if I am wrong, Trevelyan; but I don't think youever did tell your wife not to see this man, or not to write to him?"

"I never told her! I don't understand what you mean. "

"Not in so many words. It is my belief that she has endeavoured toobey implicitly every clear instruction that you have given her. "

"You are wrong;--absolutely and altogether wrong. Heaven and earth!Do you mean to tell me now, after all that has taken place, that shedid not know my wishes?"

"I have not said that. But you have chosen to place her in such aposition, that though your word would go for much with her, shecannot bring herself to respect your wishes. "

"And you call that being dutiful and affectionate!"

"I call it human and reasonable; and I think that it is compatiblewith duty and affection. Have you consulted her wishes?"

"Always!"

"Consult them now then, and bid her come back to you. "

"No;--never! As far as I can see, I will never do so. The moment sheis away from me this man goes to her, and she receives him. She musthave known that she was wrong, --and you must know it. "

"I do not think that she is half so wrong as you yourself, " saidStanbury. To this Trevelyan made no answer, and they both remainedsilent some minutes. Stanbury had a communication to make before hewent, but it was one which he wished to delay as long as there was achance that his friend's heart might be softened;--one which he neednot make if Trevelyan would consent to receive his wife back to hishouse. There was the day's paper lying on the table, and Stanbury hadtaken it up and was reading it, --or pretending to read it. 

"I will tell you what I propose to do, " said Trevelyan. 

"Well. "

"It is best both for her and for me that we should be apart. "

"I cannot understand how you can be so mad as to say so. "

"You don't understand what I feel. Heaven and earth! To have a mancoming and going--. But, never mind. You do not see it, and nothingwill make you see it. And there is no reason why you should. "

"I certainly do not see it. I do not believe that your wife caresmore for Colonel Osborne, except as an old friend of her father's, than she does for the fellow that sweeps the crossing. It is a matterin which I am bound to tell you what I think. "

"Very well. Now, if you have freed your mind, I will tell you mypurpose. I am bound to do so, because your people are concerned init. I shall go abroad. "

"And leave her in England?"

"Certainly. She will be safer here than she can be abroad, --unlessshe should choose to go back with her father to the islands. "

"And take the boy?"

"No;--I could not permit that. What I intend is this. I will giveher £800 a year, as long as I have reason to believe that she has nocommunication whatever, either by word of mouth or by letter, withthat man. If she does, I will put the case immediately into the handsof my lawyer, with instructions to him to ascertain from counsel whatseverest steps I can take. "

"How I hate that word severe, when applied to a woman. "

"I dare say you do, --when applied to another man's wife. But therewill be no severity in my first proposition. As for the child, --ifI approve of the place in which she lives, as I do at present, --heshall remain with her for nine months in the year till he issix years old. Then he must come to me. And he shall come to mealtogether if she sees or hears from that man. I believe that £800a year will enable her to live with all comfort under your mother'sroof. "

"As to that, " said Stanbury, slowly, "I suppose I had better tell youat once, that the Nuncombe Putney arrangement cannot be considered aspermanent. "

"Why not?"

"Because my mother is timid and nervous, and altogether unused to theworld. "

"That unfortunate woman is to be sent away, --even from NuncombePutney!"

"Understand me, Trevelyan. "

"I understand you. I understand you most thoroughly. Nor do I wonderat it in the least. Do not suppose that I am angry with your mother, or with you, or with your sister. I have no right to expect that theyshould keep her after that man has made his way into their house. Ican well conceive that no honest, high-minded lady would do so. "

"It is not that at all. "

"But it is that. How can you tell me that it isn't? And yet you wouldhave me believe that I am not disgraced!" As he said this Trevelyangot up, and walked about the room, tearing his hair with his hands. He was in truth a wretched man, from whose mind all expectation ofhappiness was banished, who regarded his own position as one ofincurable ignominy, looking upon himself as one who had been madeunfit for society by no fault of his own. What was he to do with thewretched woman who could be kept from the evil of her perniciousvanity by no gentle custody, whom no most distant retirementwould make safe from the effects of her own ignorance, folly, andobstinacy? "When is she to go?" he asked in a low, sepulchraltone, --as though these new tidings that had come upon him had beenfatal--laden with doom, and finally subversive of all chance even oftranquillity. 

"When you and she may please. "

"That is all very well;--but let me know the truth. I would not haveyour mother's house--contaminated; but may she remain there for aweek?"

Stanbury jumped from his seat with an oath. "I tell you what itis, Trevelyan;--if you speak of your wife in that way, I will notlisten to you. It is unmanly and untrue to say that her presencecan--contaminate any house. "

"That is very fine. It may be chivalrous in you to tell me on herbehalf that I am a liar, --and that I am not a man. "

"You drive me to it. "

"But what am I to think when you are forced to declare that thisunfortunate woman can not be allowed to remain at your mother'shouse, --a house which has been especially taken with reference to ashelter for her? She has been received, --with the idea that she wouldbe discreet. She has been indiscreet, past belief, and she is to beturned out, --most deservedly. Heaven and earth! Where shall I finda roof for her head?" Trevelyan as he said this was walking aboutthe room with his hands stretched up towards the ceiling; and ashis friend was attempting to make him comprehend that there was nointention on the part of any one to banish Mrs. Trevelyan from theClock House, at least for some months to come, --not even till afterChristmas unless some satisfactory arrangement could be soonermade, --the door of the room was opened by the boy, who called himselfa clerk, and who acted as Trevelyan's servant in the chambers, anda third person was shown into the room. That third person was Mr. Bozzle. As no name was given, Stanbury did not at first know Mr. Bozzle, but he had not had his eye on Mr. Bozzle for half a minutebefore he recognised the ex-policeman by the outward attributesand signs of his profession. "Oh, is that you, Mr. Bozzle?" saidTrevelyan, as soon as the great man had made his bow of salutation. "Well;--what is it?"

 [Illustration: That third person was Mr. Bozzle. ]

"Mr. Hugh Stanbury, I think, " said Bozzle, making another bow to theyoung barrister. 

"That's my name, " said Stanbury. 

"Exactly so, Mr. S. The identity is one as I could prove on oath inany court in England. You was on the railway platform at Exeter onSaturday when we was waiting for the 12 express 'buss;--wasn't younow, Mr. S. ?"

"What's that to you?"

"Well;--as it do happen, it is something to me. And, Mr. S. , if youwas asked that question in hany court in England or before even oneof the metropolitan bekes, you wouldn't deny it. "

"Why the devil should I deny it? What's all this about, Trevelyan?"

"Of course you can't deny it, Mr. S. When I'm down on a fact, I amdown on it. Nothing else wouldn't do in my profession. "

"Have you anything to say to me, Mr. Bozzle?" asked Trevelyan. 

"Well;--I have; just a word. "

"About your journey to Devonshire?"

"Well;--in a way it is about my journey to Devonshire. It's all alongof the same job, Mr. Trewillian. "

"You can speak before my friend here, " said Trevelyan. Bozzle hadtaken a great dislike to Hugh Stanbury, regarding the barrister witha correct instinct as one who was engaged for the time in the sameservice with himself, and who was his rival in that service. Whenthus instigated to make as it were a party of three in this delicateand most confidential matter, and to take his rival into hisconfidence, he shook his head slowly and looked Trevelyan hard in theface, --"Mr. Stanbury is my particular friend, " said Trevelyan, "andknows well the circumstances of this unfortunate affair. You can sayanything before him. "

Bozzle shook his head again. "I'd rayther not, Mr. Trewillian, " saidhe. "Indeed I'd rayther not. It's something very particular. "

"If you take my advice, " said Stanbury, "you will not hear himyourself. "

"That's your advice, Mr. S. ?" asked Mr. Bozzle. 

"Yes;--that's my advice. I'd never have anything to do with such afellow as you as long as I could help it. "

"I dare say not, Mr. S. ; I dare say not. We're hexpensive, and we'rehaccurate;--neither of which is much in your line, Mr. S. , if Iunderstand about it rightly. "

"Mr. Bozzle, if you've got anything to tell, tell it, " said Trevelyanangrily. 

"A third party is so objectionable, " pleaded Bozzle. 

"Never mind. That is my affair. "

"It is your affair, Mr. Trewillian. There's not a doubt of that. Thelady is your wife. "

"Damnation!" shouted Trevelyan. 

"But the credit, sir, " said Bozzle. "The credit is mine. And hereis Mr. S. Has been down a interfering with me, and doing no 'varsalgood, as I'll undertake to prove by evidence before the affair isover. "

"The affair is over, " said Stanbury. 

"That's as you think, Mr. S. That's where your information goes to, Mr. S. Mine goes a little beyond that, Mr. S. I've means as you canknow nothing about, Mr. S. I've irons in the fire, what you're asignorant on as the babe as isn't born. "

"No doubt you have, Mr. Bozzle, " said Stanbury. 

"I has. And now if it be that I must speak before a third party, Mr. Trewillian, I'm ready. It ain't that I'm no ways ashamed. I've donemy duty, and knows how to do it. And let a counsel be ever so sharp, I never yet was so 'posed but what I could stand up and hold my own. The Colonel, Mr. Trewillian, got, --a letter, --from your lady, --thismorning. "

"I don't believe it, " said Stanbury, sharply. 

"Very likely not, Mr. S. It ain't in my power to say anythingwhatever about you believing or not believing. But Mr. T. 's ladyhas wrote the letter; and the Colonel, --he has received it. Youdon't look after these things, Mr. S. You don't know the ways of'em. But it's my business. The lady has wrote the letter, and theColonel, --why, he has received it. " Trevelyan had become white withrage when Bozzle first mentioned this continued correspondencebetween his wife and Colonel Osborne. It never occurred to him todoubt the correctness of the policeman's information, and he regardedStanbury's assertion of incredulity as being simply of a piece withhis general obstinacy in the matter. At this moment he began toregret that he had called in the assistance of his friend, and thathe had not left the affair altogether in the hands of that much moresatisfactory, but still more painful, agent, Mr. Bozzle. He had againseated himself, and for a moment or two remained silent on his chair. "It ain't my fault, Mr. Trewillian, " continued Bozzle, "if thislittle matter oughtn't never to have been mentioned before a thirdparty. "

"It is of no moment, " said Trevelyan, in a low voice. "What does itsignify who knows it now?"

"Do not believe it, Trevelyan, " said Stanbury. 

"Very well, Mr. S. Very well. Just as you like. Don't believe it. Only it's true, and it's my business to find them things out. It'smy business, and I finds 'em out. Mr. Trewillian can do as he likesabout it. If it's right, why, then it is right. It ain't for me tosay nothing about that. But there's the fact. The lady, she has wroteanother letter; and the Colonel, --why, he has received it. Thereain't nothing wrong about the post-office. If I was to say what wasinside of that billydou, --why, then I should be proving what I didn'tknow; and when it came to standing up in court, I shouldn't be ableto hold my own. But as for the letter, the lady wrote it, and theColonel, --he received it. "

"That will do, Mr. Bozzle, " said Trevelyan. 

"Shall I call again, Mr. Trewillian?"

"No;--yes. I'll send to you, when I want you. You shall hear fromme. "

"I suppose I'd better be keeping my eyes open about the Colonel'splace, Mr. Trewillian?"

"For God's sake, Trevelyan, do not have anything more to do with thisman!"

"That's all very well for you, Mr. S. , " said Bozzle. "The lady ain'tyour wife. "

"Can you imagine anything more disgraceful than all this?" saidStanbury. 

"Nothing; nothing; nothing!" answered Trevelyan. 

"And I'm to keep stirring, and be on the move?" again suggestedBozzle, who prudently required to be fortified by instructions beforehe devoted his time and talents even to so agreeable a pursuit asthat in which he had been engaged. 

"You shall hear from me, " said Trevelyan. 

"Very well;--very well. I wish you good-day, Mr. Trewillian. Mr. S. , yours most obedient. There was one other point, Mr. Trewillian. "

"What point?" asked Trevelyan, angrily. 

"If the lady was to join the Colonel--"

"That will do, Mr. Bozzle, " said Trevelyan, again jumping up fromhis chair. "That will do. " So saying, he opened the door, and Bozzle, with a bow, took his departure. "What on earth am I to do? How am Ito save her?" said the wretched husband, appealing to his friend. 

Stanbury endeavoured with all his eloquence to prove that this latterpiece of information from the spy must be incorrect. If such a letterhad been written by Mrs. Trevelyan to Colonel Osborne, it must havebeen done while he, Stanbury, was staying at the Clock House. Thisseemed to him to be impossible; but he could hardly explain whyit should be impossible. She had written to the man before, andhad received him when he came to Nuncombe Putney. Why was it evenimprobable that she should have written to him again? Nevertheless, Stanbury felt sure that she had sent no such letter. "I think Iunderstand her feelings and her mind, " said he; "and if so, any suchcorrespondence would be incompatible with her previous conduct. "Trevelyan only smiled at this, --or pretended to smile. He wouldnot discuss the question; but believed implicitly what Bozzle hadtold him in spite of all Stanbury's arguments. "I can say nothingfurther, " said Stanbury. 

"No, my dear fellow. There is nothing further to be said, exceptthis, that I will have my unfortunate wife removed from the decentprotection of your mother's roof with the least possible delay. Ifeel that I owe Mrs. Stanbury the deepest apology for having sentsuch an inmate to trouble her repose. "

"Nonsense!"

"That is what I feel. "

"And I say that it is nonsense. If you had never sent that wretchedblackguard down to fabricate lies at Nuncombe Putney, my mother'srepose would have been all right. As it is, Mrs. Trevelyan can remainwhere she is till after Christmas. There is not the least necessityfor removing her at once. I only meant to say that the arrangementshould not be regarded as altogether permanent. I must go to my worknow. Good-bye. "

"Good-bye, Stanbury. "

Stanbury paused at the door, and then once more turned round. "Isuppose it is of no use my saying anything further; but I wish you tounderstand fully that I regard your wife as a woman much ill-used, and I think you are punishing her, and yourself, too, with a cruelseverity for an indiscretion of the very slightest kind. "

CHAPTER XXVII. 

MR. TREVELYAN'S LETTER TO HIS WIFE. 

Trevelyan, when he was left alone, sat for above a couple of hourscontemplating the misery of his position, and endeavouring to teachhimself by thinking what ought to be his future conduct. It neveroccurred to him during these thoughts that it would be well that heshould at once take back his wife, either as a matter of duty, or ofwelfare, for himself or for her. He had taught himself to believethat she had disgraced him; and, though this feeling of disgracemade him so wretched that he wished that he were dead, he wouldallow himself to make no attempt at questioning the correctness ofhis conviction. Though he were to be shipwrecked for ever, eventhat seemed to be preferable to supposing that he had been wrong. Nevertheless, he loved his wife dearly, and, in the white heat of hisanger endeavoured to be merciful to her. When Stanbury accused himof severity, he would not condescend to defend himself; but he toldhimself then of his great mercy. Was he not as fond of his own boyas any other father, and had he not allowed her to take the childbecause he had felt that a mother's love was more imperious, morecraving in its nature, than the love of a father? Had that beensevere? And had he not resolved to allow her every comfort whichher unfortunate position, --the self-imposed misfortune of herposition, --would allow her to enjoy? She had come to him withouta shilling; and yet, bad as her treatment of him had been, he waswilling to give enough not only to support her, but her sister also, with every comfort. Severe! No; that, at least, was an undeservedaccusation. He had been anything but severe. Foolish he might havebeen, in taking a wife from a home in which she had been unable tolearn the discretion of a matron; too trusting he had been, and toogenerous, --but certainly not severe. But, of course, as he said tohimself, a young man like Stanbury would take the part of a womanwith whose sister he was in love. Then he turned his thoughts uponBozzle, and there came over him a crushing feeling of ignominy, shame, moral dirt, and utter degradation, as he reconsidered hisdealings with that ingenious gentleman. He was paying a rogue towatch the steps of a man whom he hated, to pry into the home secrets, to read the letters, to bribe the servants, to record the movementsof this rival, this successful rival, in his wife's affections! Itwas a filthy thing, --and yet what could he do? Gentlemen of old, hisown grandfather, or his father, would have taken such a fellow asColonel Osborne by the throat and have caned him, and afterwardswould have shot him, or have stood to be shot. All that was changednow, --but it was not his fault that it was changed. He was willingenough to risk his life, could any opportunity of risking it in thiscause be obtained for him. But were he to cudgel Colonel Osborne, he would be simply arrested, and he would then be told that he haddisgraced himself foully by striking a man old enough to be hisfather!

How was he to have avoided the employment of some such man as Bozzle?He had also employed a gentleman, his friend, Stanbury; and what wasthe result? The facts were not altered. Even Stanbury did not attemptto deny that there had been a correspondence, and that there had beena visit. But Stanbury was so blind to all impropriety, or pretendedsuch blindness, that he defended that which all the world agreedin condemning. Of what use had Stanbury been to him? He had wantedfacts, not advice. Stanbury had found out no facts for him; butBozzle, either by fair means or foul, did get at the truth. He didnot doubt but that Bozzle was right about that letter written onlyyesterday, and received on that very morning. His wife, who hadprobably been complaining of her wrongs to Stanbury, must haveretired from that conversation to her chamber, and immediately havewritten this letter to her lover! With such a woman as that what canbe done in these days otherwise than by the aid of such a one asBozzle? He could not confine his wife in a dungeon. He could notsave himself from the disgrace of her misconduct, by any rigours ofsurveillance on his own part. As wives are managed now-a-days, hecould not forbid to her the use of the post-office, --could not hinderher from seeing this hypocritical scoundrel, who carried on hiswickedness under the false guise of family friendship. He had givenher every chance to amend her conduct: but, if she were resolvedon disobedience, he had no means of enforcing obedience. The facts, however, it was necessary that he should know. 

And now, what should he do? How should he go to work to make herunderstand that she could not write even a letter without his knowingit; and that if she did either write to the man or see him he wouldimmediately take the child from her, and provide for her only in suchfashion as the law should demand from him? For himself, and for hisown life, he thought that he had determined what he would do. It wasimpossible that he should continue to live in London. He was ashamedto enter a club. He had hardly a friend to whom it was not an agonyto speak. They who knew him, knew also of his disgrace, and no longerasked him to their houses. For days past he had eaten alone, and satalone, and walked alone. All study was impossible to him. No pursuitwas open to him. He spent his time in thinking of his wife, and ofthe disgrace which she had brought upon him. Such a life as this, heknew, was unmanly and shameful, and it was absolutely necessary forhim that he should in some way change it. He would go out of England, and would travel, --if only he could so dispose of his wife that shemight be safe from any possible communication with Colonel Osborne. If that could be effected, nothing that money could do should bespared for her. If that could not be effected he would remain athome, --and crush her. 

That night before he went to bed he wrote a letter to his wife, whichwas as follows;--

 DEAR EMILY, I have learned, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that you have corresponded with Colonel Osborne since you have been at Nuncombe Putney, and also that you have seen him there. This has been done in direct opposition to my expressed wishes, and I feel myself compelled to tell you that such conduct is disgraceful to you, and disgracing to me. I am quite at a loss to understand how you can reconcile to yourself so flagrant a disobedience of my instructions, and so perverse a disregard to the opinion of the world at large. 

 But I do not write now for the sake of finding fault with you. It is too late for me to have any hope that I can do so with good effect, either as regards your credit or my happiness. Nevertheless, it is my duty to protect both you and myself from further shame; and I wish to tell you what are my intentions with that view. In the first place, I warn you that I keep a watch on you. The doing so is very painful to me, but it is absolutely necessary. You cannot see Colonel Osborne, or write to him, without my knowing it. I pledge you my word that in either case, --that is, if you correspond with him or see him, --I will at once take our boy away from you. I will not allow him to remain, even with a mother, who shall so misconduct herself. Should Colonel Osborne address a letter to you, I desire that you will put it under an envelope addressed to me. 

 If you obey my commands on this head I will leave our boy with you nine months out of every year till he shall be six years old. Such, at least, is my present idea, though I will not positively bind myself to adhere to it. And I will allow you £800 per year for your own maintenance and that of your sister. I am greatly grieved to find from my friend Mr. Stanbury that your conduct in reference to Colonel Osborne has been such as to make it necessary that you should leave Mrs. Stanbury's house. I do not wonder that it should be so. I shall immediately seek for a future home for you, and when I have found one that is suitable, I will have you conveyed to it. 

 I must now further explain my purposes, --and I must beg you to remember that I am driven to do so by your direct disobedience to my expressed wishes. Should there be any further communication between you and Colonel Osborne, not only will I take your child away from you, but I will also limit the allowance to be made to you to a bare sustenance. In such case, I shall put the matter into the hands of a lawyer, and shall probably feel myself driven to take steps towards freeing myself from a connection which will be disgraceful to my name. 

 For myself, I shall live abroad during the greater part of the year. London has become to me uninhabitable, and all English pleasures are distasteful. 

 Yours affectionately, LOUIS TREVELYAN. 

When he had finished this he read it twice, and believed that he hadwritten, if not an affectionate, at any rate a considerate letter. He had no bounds to the pity which he felt for himself in referenceto the injury which was being done to him, and he thought that theoffers which he was making, both in respect to his child and themoney, were such as to entitle him to his wife's warmest gratitude. He hardly recognised the force of the language which he used when hetold her that her conduct was disgraceful, and that she had disgracedhis name. He was quite unable to look at the whole question betweenhim and his wife from her point of view. He conceived it possiblethat such a woman as his wife should be told that her conduct wouldbe watched, and that she should be threatened with the Divorce Court, with an effect that should, upon the whole, be salutary. Therebe men, and not bad men either, and men neither uneducated, orunintelligent, or irrational in ordinary matters, who seem to beabsolutely unfitted by nature to have the custody or guardianship ofothers. A woman in the hands of such a man can hardly save herself orhim from endless trouble. It may be that between such a one and hiswife, events shall flow on so evenly that no ruling, no constraintis necessary, --that even the giving of advice is never called forby the circumstances of the day. If the man be happily forced tolabour daily for his living till he be weary, and the wife be ladenwith many ordinary cares, the routine of life may run on withoutstorms;--but for such a one, if he be without work, the managementof a wife will be a task full of peril. The lesson may be learned atlast; he may after years come to perceive how much and how little ofguidance the partner of his life requires at his hands; and he may betaught how that guidance should be given;--but in the learning of thelesson there will be sorrow and gnashing of teeth. It was so now withthis man. He loved his wife. To a certain extent he still trustedher. He did not believe that she would be faithless to him after thefashion of women who are faithless altogether. But he was jealous ofauthority, fearful of slights, self-conscious, afraid of the world, and utterly ignorant of the nature of a woman's mind. 

He carried the letter with him in his pocket throughout the nextmorning, and in the course of the day he called upon Lady Milborough. Though he was obstinately bent on acting in accordance with his ownviews, yet he was morbidly desirous of discussing the grievousness ofhis position with his friends. He went to Lady Milborough, asking forher advice, but desirous simply of being encouraged by her to do thatwhich he was resolved to do on his own judgment. 

"Down, --after her, --to Nuncombe Putney!" said Lady Milborough, holding up both her hands. 

"Yes; he has been there. And she has been weak enough to see him. "

"My dear Louis, take her to Naples at once, --at once. "

"It is too late for that now, Lady Milborough. "

"Too late! Oh, no. She has been foolish, indiscreet, disobedient, --what you will of that kind. But, Louis, don't send heraway; don't send your young wife away from you. Those whom God hasjoined together, let no man put asunder. "

"I cannot consent to live with a wife with whom neither my wishesnor my word have the slightest effect. I may believe of her what Iplease, but, think what the world will believe! I cannot disgracemyself by living with a woman who persists in holding intercoursewith a man whom the world speaks of as her lover. "

"Take her to Naples, " said Lady Milborough, with all the energy ofwhich she was capable. 

"I can take her nowhere, nor will I see her, till she has given proofthat her whole conduct towards me has been altered. I have written aletter to her, and I have brought it. Will you excuse me if I ask youto take the trouble to read it?"

Then he handed Lady Milborough the letter, which she read veryslowly, and with much care. 

"I don't think I would--would--would--"

"Would what?" demanded Trevelyan. 

"Don't you think that what you say is a little, --just a little proneto make, --to make the breach perhaps wider?"

"No, Lady Milborough. In the first place, how can it be wider?"

"You might take her back, you know; and then if you could only get toNaples!"

"How can I take her back while she is corresponding with this man?"

"She wouldn't correspond with him at Naples. "

Trevelyan shook his head and became cross. His old friend would notat all do as old friends are expected to do when called upon foradvice. 

"I think, " said he, "that what I have proposed is both just andgenerous. "

"But, Louis, why should there be any separation?"

"She has forced it upon me. She is headstrong, and will not beruled. "

"But this about disgracing you. Do you think that you must say that?"

"I think I must, because it is true. If I do not tell her the truth, who is there that will do so? It may be bitter now, but I think thatit is for her welfare. "

"Dear, dear, dear!"

"I want nothing for myself, Lady Milborough. "

"I am sure of that, Louis. "

"My whole happiness was in my home. No man cared less for going outthan I did. My child and my wife were everything to me. I don'tsuppose that I was ever seen at a club in the evening once throughouta season. And she might have had anything that she liked, --anything!It is hard, Lady Milborough; is it not?"

Lady Milborough, who had seen the angry brow, did not dare to suggestNaples again. But yet, if any word might be spoken to prevent thisutter wreck of a home, how good a thing it would be! He had got up toleave her, but she stopped him by holding his hand. "For better, forworse, Louis; remember that. "

"Why has she forgotten it?"

"She is flesh of your flesh, bone of your bone. And for the boy'ssake! Think of your boy, Louis. Do not send that letter. Sleep on it, Louis, and think of it. "

"I have slept on it. "

"There is no promise in it of forgiveness after a while. It iswritten as though you intended that she should never come back toyou. "

"That shall be as she behaves herself. "

"But tell her so. Let there be some one bright spot in what you sayto her, on which her mind may fix itself. If she be not altogetherhardened, that letter will drive her to despair. "

But Trevelyan would not give up the letter, nor indicate by a wordthat he would reconsider the question of its propriety. He escaped assoon as he could from Lady Milborough's room, and almost declared ashe did so, that he would never enter her doors again. She had utterlyfailed to see the matter in the proper light. When she talked ofNaples she must surely have been unable to comprehend the extentof the ill-usage to which he, the husband, had been subjected. Howwas it possible that he should live under the same roof with a wifewho claimed to herself the right of receiving visitors of whom hedisapproved, --a visitor, --a gentleman, --one whom the world called herlover? He gnashed his teeth and clenched his fist as he thought ofhis old friend's ignorance of the very first law in a married man'scode of laws. 

But yet when he was out in the streets he did not post his letter atonce; but thought of it throughout the whole day, trying to provethe weight of every phrase that he had used. Once or twice his heartalmost relented. Once he had the letter in his hand, that he mighttear it. But he did not tear it. He put it back into his pocket, andthought again of his grievance. Surely it was his first duty in suchan emergency to be firm!

It was certainly a wretched life that he was leading. In the eveninghe went all alone to an eating-house for his dinner, and then, sitting with a miserable glass of sherry before him, he again readand re-read the epistle which he had written. Every harsh word thatit contained was, in some sort, pleasant to his ear. She had hithim hard, and should he not hit her again? And then, was it not hisbounden duty to let her know the truth? Yes; it was his duty to befirm. 

So he went out and posted the letter. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

GREAT TRIBULATION. 

 [Illustration]

Trevelyan's letter to his wife fell like a thunderbolt among them atNuncombe Putney. Mrs. Trevelyan was altogether unable to keep it toherself;--indeed she made no attempt at doing so. Her husband hadtold her that she was to be banished from the Clock House because herpresent hostess was unable to endure her misconduct, and of courseshe demanded the reasons of the charge that was thus brought againsther. When she first read the letter, which she did in the presence ofher sister, she towered in her passion. 

"Disgraced him! I have never disgraced him. It is he that hasdisgraced me. Correspondence! Yes;--he shall see it all. Unjust, ignorant, foolish man! He does not remember that the lastinstructions he really gave me, were to bid me see Colonel Osborne. Take my boy away! Yes. Of course, I am a woman and must suffer. Iwill write to Colonel Osborne, and will tell him the truth, and willsend my letter to Louis. He shall know how he has ill-treated me! Iwill not take a penny of his money;--not a penny. Maintain you! Ibelieve he thinks that we are beggars. Leave this house because of myconduct! What can Mrs. Stanbury have said? What can any of them havesaid? I will demand to be told. Free himself from the connection!Oh, Nora, Nora! that it should come to this!--that I should be thusthreatened, who have been as innocent as a baby! If it were not formy child, I think that I should destroy myself!"

Nora said what she could to comfort her sister, insisting chiefly onthe promise that the child should not be taken away. There was nodoubt as to the husband's power in the mind of either of them; andthough, as regarded herself, Mrs. Trevelyan would have defied herhusband, let his power be what it might, yet she acknowledged toherself that she was in some degree restrained by the fear that shewould find herself deprived of her only comfort. 

"We must just go where he bids us, --till papa comes, " said Nora. 

"And when papa is here, what help will there be then? He will not letme go back to the islands, --with my boy. For myself I might die, orget out of his way anywhere. I can see that. Priscilla Stanbury isright when she says that no woman should trust herself to any man. Disgraced! That I should live to be told by my husband that I haddisgraced him, --by a lover!"

There was some sort of agreement made between the two sisters as tothe manner in which Priscilla should be interrogated respecting thesentence of banishment which had been passed. They both agreed thatit would be useless to make inquiry of Mrs. Stanbury. If anything hadreally been said to justify the statement made in Mr. Trevelyan'sletter, it must have come from Priscilla, and have reached Trevelyanthrough Priscilla's brother. They, both of them, had sufficientlylearned the ways of the house to be sure that Mrs. Stanbury had notbeen the person active in the matter. They went down, therefore, together, and found Priscilla seated at her desk in the parlour. Mrs. Stanbury was also in the room, and it had been presumed betweenthe sisters that the interrogations should be made in that lady'sabsence; but Mrs. Trevelyan was too hot in the matter for restraint, and she at once opened out her budget of grievance. 

"I have a letter from my husband, " she said, --and then paused. ButPriscilla, seeing from the fire in her eyes that she was much moved, made no reply, but turned to listen to what might further be said. "Ido not know why I should trouble you with his suspicions, " continuedMrs. Trevelyan, "or read to you what he says about--Colonel Osborne. "As she spoke she was holding her husband's letter open in herhands. "There is nothing in it that you do not know. He saysI have corresponded with him. So I have;--and he shall see thecorrespondence. He says that Colonel Osborne visited me. He did cometo see me and Nora. "

"As any other old man might have done, " said Nora. 

"It was not likely that I should openly confess myself to be afraidto see my father's old friend. But the truth is, my husband does notknow what a woman is. "

She had begun by declaring that she would not trouble her friend withany statement of her husband's complaints against her; but now shehad made her way to the subject, and could hardly refrain herself. Priscilla understood this, and thought that it would be wise tointerrupt her by a word that might bring her back to her originalpurpose. "Is there anything, " said she, "which we can do to helpyou?"

"To help me? No;--God only can help me. But Louis informs me that Iam to be turned out of this house, because you demand that we shouldgo. "

"Who says that?" exclaimed Mrs. Stanbury. 

"My husband. Listen; this is what he says:--'I am greatly grieved tohear from my friend Mr. Stanbury that your conduct in reference toColonel Osborne has been such as to make it necessary that you shouldleave Mrs. Stanbury's house. ' Is that true? Is that true?" In hergeneral mode of carrying herself, and of enduring the troubles ofher life, Mrs. Trevelyan was a strong woman; but now her grief wastoo much for her, and she burst out into tears. "I am the mostunfortunate woman that ever was born!" she sobbed out through hertears. 

"I never said that you were to go, " said Mrs. Stanbury. 

"But your son has told Mr. Trevelyan that we must go, " said Nora, who felt that her sense of injury against Hugh Stanbury was greatlyincreased by what had taken place. To her mind he was the person mostimportant in the matter. Why had he desired that they should be sentaway from the Clock House? She was very angry with him, and declaredto herself that she hated him with all her heart. For this man shehad sent away that other lover, --a lover who had really loved her!And she had even confessed that it was so!

"There is a misunderstanding about this, " said Priscilla. 

"It must be with your brother, then, " said Nora. 

"I think not, " said Priscilla. "I think that it has been with Mr. Trevelyan. " Then she went on to explain, with much difficulty, but still with a slow distinctness that was peculiar to her, whathad really taken place. "We have endeavoured, " she said, "to showyou, --my mother and I, --that we have not misjudged you; but itis certainly true that I told my brother that I did not thinkthe arrangement a good one, --quite as a permanence. " It was verydifficult, and her cheeks were red as she spoke, and her lipsfaltered. It was an exquisite pain to her to have to give the painwhich her words would convey; but there was no help for it, --as shesaid to herself more than once at the time, --there was nothing to bedone but to tell the truth. 

"I never said so, " blurted out Mrs. Stanbury, with her usualweakness. 

"No, mother. It was my saying. In discussing what was best for usall, with Hugh, I told him, --what I have just now explained. "

"Then of course we must go, " said Mrs. Trevelyan, who had gulped downher sobs and was resolved to be firm, --to give way to no more tears, to bear all without sign of womanly weakness. 

"You will stay with us till your father comes, " said Priscilla. 

"Of course you will, " said Mrs. Stanbury, --"you and Nora. We have gotto be such friends, now. "

"No, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. "As to friendship for me, it is out ofthe question. We must pack up, Nora, and go somewhere. Heaven knowswhere!"

Nora was now sobbing. "Why your brother--should want to turn usout, --after he has sent us here--!"

"My brother wants nothing of the kind, " said Priscilla. "Your sisterhas no better friend than my brother. "

"It will be better, Nora, to discuss the matter no further, " saidMrs. Trevelyan. "We must go away, --somewhere; and the sooner thebetter. To be an unwelcome guest is always bad; but to be unwelcomefor such a reason as this is terrible. "

"There is no reason, " said Mrs. Stanbury; "indeed there is none. "

"Mrs. Trevelyan will understand us better when she is less excited, "said Priscilla. "I am not surprised that she should be indignant now. I can only say again that we hope you will stay with us till SirMarmaduke Rowley shall be in England. "

"That is not what your brother means, " said Nora. 

"Nor is it what I mean, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. "Nora, we had bettergo to our own room. I suppose I must write to my husband; indeed, of course I must, that I may send him--the correspondence. I fearI cannot walk out into the street, Mrs. Stanbury, and make you quitof me, till I hear from him. And if I were to go to an inn at once, people would speak evil of me;--and I have no money. "

"My dear, how can you think of such a thing!" said Mrs. Stanbury. 

"But you may be quite sure that we shall be gone within threedays, --or four at the furthest. Indeed, I will pledge myself not toremain longer than that, --even though I should have to go to thepoor-house. Neither I nor my sister will stay in any family, --tocontaminate it. Come, Nora. " And so speaking she sailed out of theroom, and her sister followed her. 

"Why did you say anything about it? Oh dear, oh dear! why did youspeak to Hugh? See what you have done!"

"I am sorry that I did speak, " replied Priscilla slowly. 

"Sorry! Of course you are sorry; but what good is that?"

"But, mother, I do not think that I was wrong. I feel sure that thereal fault in all this is with Mr. Trevelyan, as it has been allthrough. He should not have written to her as he has done. "

"I suppose Hugh did tell him. "

"No doubt;--and I told Hugh; but not after the fashion in which hehas told her. I blame myself mostly for this, --that we ever consentedto come to this house. We had no business here. Who is to pay therent?"

"Hugh insisted upon taking it. "

"Yes;--and he will pay the rent; and we shall be a drag upon him, asthough he had been fool enough to have a wife and a family of hisown. And what good have we done? We had not strength enough to saythat that wicked man should not see her when he came;--for he is awicked man. "

"If we had done that she would have been as bad then as she is now. "

"Mother, we had no business to meddle either with her badness orher goodness. What had we to do with the wife of such a one as Mr. Trevelyan, or with any woman who was separated from her husband?"

"It was Hugh who thought we should be of service to them. "

"Yes;--and I do not blame him. He is in a position to be of serviceto people. He can do work and earn money, and has a right to thinkand to speak. We have a right to think only for ourselves, and weshould not have yielded to him. How are we to get back again out ofthis house to our cottage?"

"They are pulling the cottage down, Priscilla. "

"To some other cottage, mother. Do you not feel while we are livinghere that we are pretending to be what we are not? After all, AuntStanbury was right, though it was not her business to meddle with us. We should never have come here. That poor woman now regards us as herbitter enemies. "

"I meant to do for the best, " said Mrs. Stanbury. 

"The fault was mine, mother. "

"But you meant it for the best, my dear. "

"Meaning for the best is trash. I don't know that I did mean it forthe best. While we were at the cottage we paid our way and werehonest. What is it people say of us now?"

"They can't say any harm. "

"They say that we are paid by the husband to keep his wife, and paidagain by the lover to betray the husband. "

"Priscilla!"

"Yes;--it is shocking enough. But that comes of people going outof their proper course. We were too humble and low to have a rightto take any part in such a matter. How true it is that while onecrouches on the ground, one can never fall. "

The matter was discussed in the Clock House all day, between Mrs. Stanbury and Priscilla, and between Mrs. Trevelyan and Nora, in theirrooms and in the garden; but nothing could come of such discussions. No change could be made till further instructions should have beenreceived from the angry husband; nor could any kind of argument beeven invented by Priscilla which might be efficacious in inducing thetwo ladies to remain at the Clock House, even should Mr. Trevelyanallow them to do so. They all felt the intolerable injustice, asit appeared to them, --of their subjection to the caprice of anunreasonable and ill-conditioned man; but to all of them it seemedplain enough that in this matter the husband must exercise his ownwill, --at any rate till Sir Marmaduke should be in England. Therewere many difficulties throughout the day. Mrs. Trevelyan would notgo down to dinner, sending word that she was ill, and that she would, if she were allowed, have some tea in her own room. And Nora saidthat she would remain with her sister. Priscilla went to them morethan once; and late in the evening they all met in the parlour. Butany conversation seemed to be impossible; and Mrs. Trevelyan, as shewent up to her room at night, again declared that she would rid thehouse of her presence as soon as possible. 

One thing, however, was done on that melancholy day. Mrs. Trevelyanwrote to her husband, and enclosed Colonel Osborne's letter toherself, and a copy of her reply. The reader will hardly require tobe told that no such further letter had been written by her as thatof which Bozzle had given information to her husband. Men whosebusiness it is to detect hidden and secret things, are very apt todetect things which have never been done. What excuse can a detectivemake even to himself for his own existence if he can detect nothing?Mr. Bozzle was an active-minded man, who gloried in detecting, andwho, in the special spirit of his trade, had taught himself tobelieve that all around him were things secret and hidden, whichwould be within his power of unravelling if only the slightest cluewere put in his hand. He lived by the crookednesses of people, andtherefore was convinced that straight doings in the world were quiteexceptional. Things dark and dishonest, fights fought and races runthat they might be lost, plants and crosses, women false to theirhusbands, sons false to their fathers, daughters to their mothers, servants to their masters, affairs always secret, dark, foul, andfraudulent, were to him the normal condition of life. It was to bepresumed that Mrs. Trevelyan should continue to correspond with herlover, --that old Mrs. Stanbury should betray her trust by connivingat the lover's visit, --that everybody concerned should be steeped tothe hips in lies and iniquity. When, therefore, he found at ColonelOsborne's rooms that the Colonel had received a letter with theLessboro' post-mark, addressed in the handwriting of a woman, hedid not scruple to declare that Colonel Osborne had received, onthat morning, a letter from Mr. Trevelyan's "lady. " But in sendingto her husband what she called with so much bitterness, "thecorrespondence, " Mrs. Trevelyan had to enclose simply the copy of onesheet note from herself. 

But she now wrote again to Colonel Osborne, and enclosed to herhusband, not a copy of what she had written, but the note itself. Itwas as follows:--

 Nuncombe Putney, Wednesday, August 10. 

 MY DEAR COLONEL OSBORNE, My husband has desired me not to see you, or to write to you, or to hear from you again. I must therefore beg you to enable me to obey him, --at any rate till papa comes to England. 

 Yours truly, EMILY TREVELYAN. 

And then she wrote to her husband, and in the writing of this letterthere was much doubt, much labour, and many changes. We will give itas it was written when completed:--

 I have received your letter, and will obey your commands to the best of my power. In order that you may not be displeased by any further unavoidable correspondence between me and Colonel Osborne, I have written to him a note, which I now send to you. I send it that you may forward it. If you do not choose to do so, I cannot be answerable either for his seeing me, or for his writing to me again. 

 I send also copies of all the correspondence I have had with Colonel Osborne since you turned me out of your house. When he came to call on me, Nora remained with me while he was here. I blush while I write this;--not for myself, but that I should be so suspected as to make such a statement necessary. 

 You say that I have disgraced you and myself. I have done neither. I am disgraced;--but it is you that have disgraced me. I have never spoken a word or done a thing, as regards you, of which I have cause to be ashamed. 

 I have told Mrs. Stanbury that I and Nora will leave her house as soon as we can be made to know where we are to go. I beg that this may be decided instantly, as else we must walk out into the street without a shelter. After what has been said, I cannot remain here. 

 My sister bids me say that she will relieve you of all burden respecting herself as soon as possible. She will probably be able to find a home with my aunt, Mrs. Outhouse, till papa comes to England. As for myself, I can only say that till he comes, I shall do exactly what you order. 

 EMILY TREVELYAN. 

 Nuncombe Putney, August 10. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

MR. AND MRS. OUTHOUSE. 

Both Mr. Outhouse and his wife were especially timid in taking uponthemselves the cares of other people. Not on that account is it to besupposed that they were bad or selfish. They were both given much tocharity, and bestowed both in time and money more than is ordinarilyconsidered necessary, even from persons in their position. But whatthey gave, they gave away from their own quiet hearth. Had moneybeen wanting to the daughters of his wife's brother, Mr. Outhousewould have opened such small coffer as he had with a free hand. Buthe would have much preferred that his benevolence should be usedin a way that would bring upon him no further responsibility andno questionings from people whom he did not know and could notunderstand. 

The Rev. Oliphant Outhouse had been Rector of St. Diddulph's-in-the-East for the last fifteen years, having marriedthe sister of Sir Marmaduke Rowley, --then simply Mr. Rowley, with acolonial appointment in Jamaica of £120 per annum, --twelve yearsbefore his promotion, while he was a curate in one of the populousborough parishes. He had thus been a London clergyman all his life;but he knew almost as little of London society as though he had helda cure in a Westmoreland valley. He had worked hard, but his work hadbeen altogether among the poor. He had no gift of preaching, and hadacquired neither reputation nor popularity. But he could work;--andhaving been transferred because of that capability to the temporarycuracy of St. Diddulph's, --out of one diocese into another, --he hadreceived the living from the bishop's hands when it became vacant. 

A dreary place was the parsonage of St. Diddulph's-in-the-East forthe abode of a gentleman. Mr. Outhouse had not, in his whole parish, a parishioner with whom he could consort. The greatest men aroundhim were the publicans, and the most numerous were men employed inand around the docks. Dredgers of mud, navvies employed on suburbancanals, excavators, loaders and unloaders of cargo, cattle drivers, whose driving, however, was done mostly on board ship, --such andsuch like were the men who were the fathers of the families of St. Diddulph's-in-the-East. And there was there, not far removed from themuddy estuary of a little stream that makes its black way from theEssex marshes among the houses of the poorest of the poor into theThames, a large commercial establishment for turning the carcasses ofhorses into manure. Messrs. Flowsem and Blurt were in truth the greatpeople of St. Diddulph's-in-the-East; but the closeness of theirestablishment was not an additional attraction to the parsonage. They were liberal, however, with their money, and Mr. Outhouse wasdisposed to think, --custom perhaps having made the establishmentless objectionable to him than it was at first, --that St. Diddulph's-in-the-East would be more of a Pandemonium than it nowwas, if by any sanitary law Messrs. Flowsem and Blurt were compelledto close their doors. "Non olet, " he would say with a grim smile whenthe charitable cheque of the firm would come punctually to hand onthe first Saturday after Christmas. 

But such a house as his would be, as he knew, but a poor residencefor his wife's nieces. Indeed, without positively saying that hewas unwilling to receive them, he had, when he first heard of thebreaking up of the house in Curzon Street, shewn that he would rathernot take upon his shoulders so great a responsibility. He and hiswife had discussed the matter between them, and had come to theconclusion that they did not know what kind of things might have beendone in Curzon Street. They would think no evil, they said; but thevery idea of a married woman with a lover was dreadful to them. Itmight be that their niece was free from blame. They hoped so. Andeven though her sin had been of ever so deep a dye, they would takeher in, --if it were indeed necessary. But they hoped that such helpfrom them might not be needed. They both knew how to give counsel toa poor woman, how to rebuke a poor man, --how to comfort, encourage, or to upbraid the poor. Practice had told them how far they might gowith some hope of doing good;--and at what stage of demoralisationno good from their hands was any longer within the scope of fairexpectation. But all this was among the poor. With what words toencourage such a one as their niece Mrs. Trevelyan, --to encourage heror to rebuke her, as her conduct might seem to make necessary, --theyboth felt that they were altogether ignorant. To them Mrs. Trevelyanwas a fine lady. To Mr. Outhouse, Sir Marmaduke had ever been a finegentleman, given much to worldly things, who cared more for whist anda glass of wine than for anything else, and who thought that he hada good excuse for never going to church in England because he wascalled upon, as he said, to show himself in the governor's pew alwaysonce on Sundays, and frequently twice, when he was at the seat of hisgovernment. Sir Marmaduke manifestly looked upon church as a thingin itself notoriously disagreeable. To Mr. Outhouse it afforded thegreat events of the week. And Mrs. Outhouse would declare that tohear her husband preach was the greatest joy of her life. It maybe understood therefore that though the family connection betweenthe Rowleys and the Outhouses had been kept up with a semblance ofaffection, it had never blossomed forth into cordial friendship. 

When therefore the clergyman of St. Diddulph's received a letter fromhis niece, Nora, begging him to take her into his parsonage till SirMarmaduke should arrive in the course of the spring, and hintingalso a wish that her uncle Oliphant should see Mr. Trevelyan andif possible arrange that his other niece should also come to theparsonage, he was very much perturbed in spirit. There was a longconsultation between him and his wife before anything could besettled, and it may be doubted whether anything would have beensettled, had not Mr. Trevelyan himself made his way to the parsonage, on the second day of the family conference. Mr. And Mrs. Outhouse hadboth seen the necessity of sleeping upon the matter. They had sleptupon it, and the discourse between them on the second day was sodoubtful in its tone that more sleeping would probably have beennecessary had not Mr. Trevelyan appeared and compelled them to adecision. 

"You must remember that I make no charge against her, " saidTrevelyan, after the matter had been discussed for about an hour. 

"Then why should she not come back to you?" said Mr. Outhouse, timidly. 

"Some day she may, --if she will be obedient. But it cannot be now. She has set me at defiance; and even yet it is too clear from thetone of her letter to me that she thinks that she has been right todo so. How could we live together in amity when she addresses me as acruel tyrant?"

"Why did she go away at first?" asked Mrs. Outhouse. 

"Because she would compromise my name by an intimacy which I did notapprove. But I do not come here to defend myself, Mrs. Outhouse. Youprobably think that I have been wrong. You are her friend; and toyou, I will not even say that I have been right. What I want you tounderstand is this. She cannot come back to me now. It would not befor my honour that she should do so. "

"But, sir, --would it not be for your welfare, as a Christian?" askedMr. Outhouse. 

"You must not be angry with me, if I say that I will not discuss thatjust now. I did not come here to discuss it. "

"It is very sad for our poor niece, " said Mrs. Outhouse. 

"It is very sad for me, " said Trevelyan, gloomily;--"very sad, indeed. My home is destroyed; my life is made solitary; I do not evensee my own child. She has her boy with her, and her sister. I havenobody. "

"I can't understand, for the life of me, why you should not livetogether just like any other people, " said Mrs. Outhouse, whosewoman's spirit was arising in her bosom. "When people are married, they must put up with something;--at least, most always. " This sheadded, lest it might be for a moment imagined that she had had anycause for complaint with her Mr. Outhouse. 

"Pray excuse me, Mrs. Outhouse; but I cannot discuss that. Thequestion between us is this, --can you consent to receive your twonieces till their father's return;--and if so, in what way shall Idefray the expense of their living? You will of course understandthat I willingly undertake the expense not only of my wife'smaintenance and of her sister's also, but that I will cheerfullyallow anything that may be required either for their comfort orrecreation. "

"I cannot take my nieces into my house as lodgers, " said Mr. Outhouse. 

"No, not as lodgers; but of course you can understand that it is forme to pay for my own wife. I know I owe you an apology for mentioningit;--but how else could I make my request to you?"

"If Emily and Nora come here they must come as our guests, " said Mrs. Outhouse. 

"Certainly, " said the clergyman. "And if I am told they are in wantof a home they shall find one here till their father comes. But I ambound to say that as regards the elder I think her home should beelsewhere. "

"Of course it should, " said Mrs. Outhouse. "I don't know anythingabout the law, but it seems to me very odd that a young woman shouldbe turned out in this way. You say she has done nothing?"

"I will not argue the matter, " said Trevelyan. 

"That's all very well, Mr. Trevelyan, " said the lady, "but she's myown niece, and if I don't stand up for her I don't know who will. Inever heard such a thing in my life as a wife being sent away aftersuch a fashion as that. We wouldn't treat a cookmaid so; that wewouldn't. As for coming here, she shall come if she pleases, but Ishall always say that it's the greatest shame I ever heard of. "

Nothing came of this visit at last. The lady grew in her anger; andMr. Trevelyan, in his own defence, was driven to declare that hiswife's obstinate intimacy with Colonel Osborne had almost drivenhim out of his senses. Before he left the parsonage he was broughteven to tears by his own narration of his own misery;--whereby Mr. Outhouse was considerably softened, although Mrs. Outhouse becamemore and more stout in the defence of her own sex. But nothing atlast came of it. Trevelyan insisted on paying for his wife, wherevershe might be placed; and when he found that this would not bepermitted to him at the parsonage, he was very anxious to take somesmall furnished house in the neighbourhood, in which the two sistersmight live for the next six months under the wings of their uncleand aunt. But even Mr. Outhouse was moved to pleasantry by thissuggestion, as he explained the nature of the tenements which werecommon at St. Diddulph's. Two rooms, front and back, they mighthave for about five-and-sixpence a week in a house with three otherfamilies. "But perhaps that is not exactly what you'd like, " said Mr. Outhouse. The interview ended with no result, and Mr. Trevelyan tookhis leave, declaring to himself that he was worse off than the foxes, who have holes in which to lay their heads;--but it must be presumedthat his sufferings in this respect were to be by attorney; as it wasfor his wife, and not for himself, that the necessary hole was nowrequired. 

As soon as he was gone Mrs. Outhouse answered Nora's letter, andwithout meaning to be explicit, explained pretty closely what hadtaken place. The spare bedroom at the parsonage was ready to receiveeither one or both of the sisters till Sir Marmaduke should be inLondon, if one or both of them should choose to come. And thoughthere was no nursery at the parsonage, --for Mr. And Mrs. Outhouse hadbeen blessed with no children, --still room should be made for thelittle boy. But they must come as visitors, --"as our own nieces, "said Mrs. Outhouse. And she went on to say that she would havenothing to do with the quarrel between Mr. Trevelyan and his wife. All such quarrels were very bad, --but as to this quarrel she couldtake no part either one side or the other. Then she stated that Mr. Trevelyan had been at the parsonage, but that no arrangement had beenmade, because Mr. Trevelyan had insisted on paying for their boardand lodging. 

This letter reached Nuncombe Putney before any reply was received byMrs. Trevelyan from her husband. This was on the Saturday morning, and Mrs. Trevelyan had pledged herself to Mrs. Stanbury that shewould leave the Clock House on the Monday. Of course, there was noneed that she should do so. Both Mrs. Stanbury and Priscilla wouldnow have willingly consented to their remaining till Sir Marmadukeshould be in England. But Mrs. Trevelyan's high spirit revoltedagainst this after all that had been said. She thought that sheshould hear from her husband on the morrow, but the post on Sundaybrought no letter from Trevelyan. On the Saturday they had finishedpacking up, --so certain was Mrs. Trevelyan that some instructions asto her future destiny would be sent to her by her lord. 

At last they decided on the Sunday that they would both go at onceto St. Diddulph's; or perhaps it would be more correct to say thatthis was the decision of the elder sister. Nora would willingly haveyielded to Priscilla's entreaties, and have remained. But Emilydeclared that she could not, and would not, stay in the house. Shehad a few pounds, --what would suffice for her journey; and as Mr. Trevelyan had not thought proper to send his orders to her, she wouldgo without them. Mrs. Outhouse was her aunt, and her nearest relativein England. Upon whom else could she lean in this time of her greataffliction? A letter, therefore, was written to Mrs. Outhouse, sayingthat the whole party, including the boy and nurse, would be at St. Diddulph's on the Monday evening, and the last cord was put to theboxes. 

"I suppose that he is very angry, " Mrs. Trevelyan said to her sister, "but I do not feel that I care about that now. He shall have nothingto complain of in reference to any gaiety on my part. I will see noone. I will have no--correspondence. But I will not remain here afterwhat he has said to me, let him be ever so angry. I declare, as Ithink of it, it seems to me that no woman was ever so cruelly treatedas I have been. " Then she wrote one further line to her husband. 

 Not having received any orders from you, and having promised Mrs. Stanbury that I would leave this house on Monday, I go with Nora to my aunt, Mrs. Outhouse, to-morrow. 

 E. T. 

On the Sunday evening the four ladies drank tea together, and theyall made an effort to be civil, and even affectionate, to each other. Mrs. Trevelyan had at last allowed Priscilla to explain how it hadcome to pass that she had told her brother that it would be betterboth for her mother and for herself that the existing arrangementsshould be brought to an end, and there had come to be an agreementbetween them that they should all part in amity. But the conversationon the Sunday evening was very difficult. 

"I am sure we shall always think of you both with the greatestkindness, " said Mrs. Stanbury. 

"As for me, " said Priscilla, "your being with us has been a delightthat I cannot describe;--only it has been wrong. "

"I know too well, " said Mrs. Trevelyan, "that in our presentcircumstances we are unable to carry delight with us anywhere. "

"You hardly understand what our life has been, " said Priscilla; "butthe truth is that we had no right to receive you in such a house asthis. It has not been our way of living, and it cannot continue to beso. It is not wonderful that people should talk of us. Had it beencalled your house, it might have been better. "

"And what will you do now?" asked Nora. 

"Get out of this place as soon as we can. It is often hard to goback to the right path; but it may always be done, --or at leastattempted. "

"It seems to me that I take misery with me wherever I go, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"My dear, it has not been your fault, " said Mrs. Stanbury. 

"I do not like to blame my brother, " said Priscilla, "because he hasdone his best to be good to us all;--and the punishment will fallheaviest upon him, because he must pay for it. "

"He should not be allowed to pay a shilling, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

Then the morning came, and at seven o'clock the two sisters, with thenurse and child, started for Lessboro' Station in Mrs. Crocket's opencarriage, the luggage having been sent on in a cart. There were manytears shed, and any one looking at the party would have thought thatvery dear friends were being torn asunder. 

"Mother, " said Priscilla, as soon as the parlour door was shut, andthe two were alone together, "we must take care that we never arebrought again into such a mistake as that. They who protect theinjured should be strong themselves. "

CHAPTER XXX. 

DOROTHY MAKES UP HER MIND. 

It was true that most ill-natured things had been said at Lessboro'and at Nuncombe Putney about Mrs. Stanbury and the visitors at theClock House, and that these ill-natured things had spread themselvesto Exeter. Mrs. Ellison of Lessboro', who was not the mostgood-natured woman in the world, had told Mrs. Merton of Nuncombethat she had been told that the Colonel's visit to the lady had beenmade by express arrangement between the Colonel and Mrs. Stanbury. Mrs. Merton, who was very good-natured, but not the wisest womanin the world, had declared that any such conduct on the part ofMrs. Stanbury was quite impossible. "What does it matter which itis, --Priscilla or her mother?" Mrs. Ellison had said. "These are thefacts. Mrs. Trevelyan has been sent there to be out of the way ofthis Colonel; and the Colonel immediately comes down and sees her atthe Clock House. But when people are very poor they do get driven todo almost anything. "

Mrs. Merton, not being very wise, had conceived it to be her dutyto repeat this to Priscilla; and Mrs. Ellison, not being verygood-natured, had conceived it to be hers to repeat it to Mrs. MacHugh at Exeter. And then Bozzle's coming had become known. 

"Yes, Mrs. MacHugh, a policeman in mufti down at Nuncombe! I wonderwhat our friend in the Close here will think about it! I have alwayssaid, you know, that if she wanted to keep things straight atNuncombe, she should have opened her purse-strings. "

From all which it may be understood, that Priscilla Stanbury's desireto go back to their old way of living had not been without reason. 

It may be imagined that Miss Stanbury of the Close did not receivewith equanimity the reports which reached her. And, of course, whenshe discussed the matter either with Martha or with Dorothy, she fellback upon her own early appreciation of the folly of the Clock Housearrangement. Nevertheless, she had called Mrs. Ellison very badnames, when she learned from her friend Mrs. MacHugh what reportswere being spread by the lady from Lessboro'. 

"Mrs. Ellison! Yes; we all know Mrs. Ellison. The bitterest tongue inDevonshire, and the falsest! There are some people at Lessboro' whowould be well pleased if she paid her way there as well as those poorwomen do at Nuncombe. I don't think much of what Mrs. Ellison says. "

"But it is bad about the policeman, " said Mrs. MacHugh. 

"Of course it's bad. It's all bad. I'm not saying that it's not bad. I'm glad I've got this other young woman out of it. It's all thatyoung man's doing. If I had a son of my own, I'd sooner follow him tothe grave than hear him call himself a Radical. "

Then, on a sudden, there came to the Close news that Mrs. Trevelyanand her sister were gone. On the very Monday on which they went, Priscilla sent a note on to her sister, in which no special allusionwas made to Aunt Stanbury, but which was no doubt written with theintention that the news should be communicated. 

"Gone; are they? As it is past wishing that they hadn't come, it'sthe best thing they could do now. And who is to pay the rent of thehouse, now they have gone?" As this was a point on which Dorothy wasnot prepared to trouble herself at present, she made no answer to thequestion. 

Dorothy at this time was in a state of very great perturbation on herown account. The reader may perhaps remember that she had been muchstartled by a proposition that had been made to her in referenceto her future life. Her aunt had suggested to her that she shouldbecome--Mrs. Gibson. She had not as yet given any answer to thatproposition, and had indeed found it to be quite impossible to speakabout it at all. But there can be no doubt that the suggestion hadopened out to her altogether new views of life. Up to the momentof her aunt's speech to her, the idea of her becoming a marriedwoman had never presented itself to her. In her humility it hadnot occurred to her that she should be counted as one among thecandidates for matrimony. Priscilla had taught her to regardherself, --indeed, they had both so regarded themselves, --as born toeat and drink, as little as might be, and then to die. Now, when shewas told that she could, if she pleased, become Mrs. Gibson, she wasalmost lost in a whirl of new and confused ideas. Since her aunt hadspoken, Mr. Gibson himself had dropped a hint or two which seemed toher to indicate that he also must be in the secret. There had beena party, with a supper, at Mrs. Crumbie's, at which both the MissFrenches had been present. But Mr. Gibson had taken her, DorothyStanbury, out to supper, leaving both Camilla and Arabella behindhim in the drawing-room! During the quarter of an hour afterwardsin which the ladies were alone while the gentlemen were eatingand drinking, both Camilla and Arabella continued to wreak theirvengeance. They asked questions about Mrs. Trevelyan, and suggestedthat Mr. Gibson might be sent over to put things right. But MissStanbury had heard them, and had fallen upon them with a heavy hand. 

"There's a good deal expected of Mr. Gibson, my dears, " she said, "which it seems to me Mr. Gibson is not inclined to perform. "

"It is quite indifferent to us what Mr. Gibson may be inclined toperform, " said Arabella. "I'm sure we shan't interfere with MissDorothy. "

As this was said quite out loud before all the other ladies, Dorothywas overcome with shame. But her aunt comforted her when they wereagain at home. 

"Laws, my dear; what does it matter? When you're Mrs. Gibson, you'llbe proud of it all. "

Was it then really written in the book of the Fates that she, DorothyStanbury, was to become Mrs. Gibson? Poor Dorothy began to feelthat she was called upon to exercise an amount of thought andpersonal decision to which she had not been accustomed. Hitherto, in the things which she had done, or left undone, she had receivedinstructions which she could obey. Had her mother and Priscillatold her positively not to go to her aunt's house, she would haveremained at Nuncombe without complaint. Had her aunt since her cominggiven her orders as to her mode of life, --enjoined, for instance, additional church attendances, or desired her to perform menialservices in the house, --she would have obeyed, from custom, without aword. But when she was told that she was to marry Mr. Gibson, it didseem to her to be necessary to do something more than obey. Did shelove Mr. Gibson? She tried hard to teach herself to think that shemight learn to love him. He was a nice-looking man enough, with sandyhair, and a head rather bald, with thin lips, and a narrow nose, whocertainly did preach drawling sermons; but of whom everybody saidthat he was a very excellent clergyman. He had a house and an income, and all Exeter had long since decided that he was a man who wouldcertainly marry. He was one of those men of whom it may be said thatthey have no possible claim to remain unmarried. He was fair game, and unless he surrendered himself to be bagged before long, wouldsubject himself to just and loud complaint. The Miss Frenches hadbeen aware of this, and had thought to make sure of him among them. It was a little hard upon them that the old maid of the Close, asthey always called Miss Stanbury, should interfere with them whentheir booty was almost won. And they felt it to be the harder becauseDorothy Stanbury was, as they thought, so poor a creature. ThatDorothy herself should have any doubt as to accepting Mr. Gibson, wasan idea that never occurred to them. But Dorothy had her doubts. Whenshe came to think of it, she remembered that she had never as yetspoken a word to Mr. Gibson, beyond such little trifling remarks asare made over a tea-table. She might learn to love him, but she didnot think that she loved him as yet. 

"I don't suppose all this will make any difference to Mr. Gibson, "said Miss Stanbury to her niece, on the morning after the receipt ofPriscilla's note stating that the Trevelyans had left Nuncombe. 

Dorothy always blushed when Mr. Gibson's name was mentioned, and sheblushed now. But she did not at all understand her aunt's allusion. "I don't know what you mean, aunt, " she said. 

"Well, you know, my dear, what they say about Mrs. Trevelyan and theClock House is not very nice. If Mr. Gibson were to turn round andsay that the connection wasn't pleasant, no one would have a right tocomplain. "

The faint customary blush on Dorothy's cheeks which Mr. Gibson's namehad produced now covered her whole face even up to the roots of herhair. "If he believes bad of mamma, I'm sure, Aunt Stanbury, I don'twant to see him again. "

"That's all very fine, my dear, but a man has to think of himself, you know. "

"Of course he thinks of himself. Why shouldn't he? I dare say hethinks of himself more than I do. "

"Dorothy, don't be a fool. A good husband isn't to be caught everyday. "

"Aunt Stanbury, I don't want to catch any man. "

"Dorothy, don't be a fool. "

"I must say it. I don't suppose Mr. Gibson thinks of me the least inthe world. "

"Psha! I tell you he does. "

"But as for mamma and Priscilla, I never could like anybody for amoment who would be ashamed of them. "

She was most anxious to declare that, as far as she knew herselfand her own wishes at present, she entertained no partiality for Mr. Gibson, --no feeling which could become partiality even if Mr. Gibsonwas to declare himself willing to accept her mother and her sisterwith herself. But she did not dare to say so. There was an instinctwithin her which made it almost impossible to her to express anobjection to a suitor before the suitor had declared himself to beone. She could speak out as touching her mother and her sister, --butas to her own feelings she could express neither assent nor dissent. 

"I should like to have it settled soon, " said Miss Stanbury, in amelancholy voice. Even to this Dorothy could make no reply. What didsoon mean? Perhaps in the course of a year or two. "If it could bearranged by the end of this week, it would be a great comfort to me. "Dorothy almost fell off her chair, and was stricken altogether dumb. "I told you, I think, that Brooke Burgess is coming here?"

"You said he was to come some day. "

"He is to be here on Monday. I haven't seen him for more than twelveyears; and now he's to be here next week? Dear, dear! When I thinksometimes of all the hard words that have been spoken, and the harderthoughts that have been in people's minds, I often regret that themoney ever came to me at all. I could have done without it, verywell, --very well. "

"But all the unpleasantness is over now, aunt. "

"I don't know about that. Unpleasantness of that kind is apt torankle long. But I wasn't going to give up my rights. Nobody but acoward does that. They talked of going to law and trying the will, but they wouldn't have got much by that. And then they abused me fortwo years. When they had done and got sick of it, I told them theyshould have it all back again as soon as I am dead. It won't be longnow. This Burgess is the elder nephew, and he shall have it all. "

"Is not he grateful?"

"No. Why should he be grateful? I don't do it for special love ofhim. I don't want his gratitude; nor anybody's gratitude. Look atHugh. I did love him. "

"I am grateful, Aunt Stanbury. "

"Are you, my dear? Then show it by being a good wife to Mr. Gibson, and a happy wife. I want to get everything settled while Burgess ishere. If he is to have it, why should I keep him out of it whilst Ilive? I wonder whether Mr. Gibson would mind coming and living here, Dolly?"

The thing was coming so near to her that Dorothy began to feel thatshe must, in truth, make up her mind, and let her aunt know also howit had been made up. She was sensible enough to-perceive that ifshe did not prepare herself for the occasion she would find herselfhampered by an engagement simply because her aunt had presumed thatit was out of the question that she should not acquiesce. She woulddrift into marriage with Mr. Gibson against her will. Her greatestdifficulty was the fact that her aunt clearly had no doubt on thesubject. And as for herself, hitherto her feelings did not, on eitherside, go beyond doubts. Assuredly it would be a very good thing forher to become Mrs. Gibson, if only she could create for herself someattachment for the man. At the present moment her aunt said nothingmore about Mr. Gibson, having her mind much occupied with the comingof Mr. Brooke Burgess. 

"I remember him twenty years ago and more; as nice a boy as you wouldwish to see. His father was the fourth of the brothers. Dear, dear!Three of them are gone; and the only one remaining is old Barty, whomno one ever loved. "

The Burgesses had been great people in Exeter, having been bothbankers and brewers there, but the light of the family had paled;and though Bartholomew Burgess, of whom Miss Stanbury declared thatno one had ever loved him, still had a share in the bank, it waswell understood in the city that the real wealth in the firm ofCropper and Burgess belonged to the Cropper family. Indeed the mostconsiderable portion of the fortune that had been realised by oldMr. Burgess had come into the possession of Miss Stanbury herself. Bartholomew Burgess had never forgiven his brother's will, andbetween him and Jemima Stanbury the feud was irreconcileable. Thenext brother, Tom Burgess, had been a solicitor at Liverpool, and haddone well there. But Miss Stanbury knew nothing of the Tom Burgessesas she called them. The fourth brother, Harry Burgess, had been aclergyman, and this Brooke Burgess, Junior, who was now coming tothe Close, had been left with a widowed mother, the eldest of alarge family. It need not now be told at length how there had beenill-blood also between this clergyman and the heiress. There had beenattempts at friendship, and at one time Miss Stanbury had receivedthe Rev. Harry Burgess and all his family at the Close;--but theattempts had not been successful; and though our old friend had neverwavered in her determination to leave the money all back to some oneof the Burgess family, and with this view had made a pilgrimage toLondon some twelve years since, and had renewed her acquaintancewith the widow and the children, still there had been no comfortablerelations between her and any of the Burgess family. Old BartyBurgess, whom she met in the Close, or saw in the High Street everyday of her life, was her great enemy. He had tried his best, --so atleast she was convinced, --to drive her out of the pale of society, years upon years ago, by saying evil things of her. She had conqueredin that combat. Her victory had been complete, and she had triumphedafter a most signal fashion. But this triumph did not silence Barty'stongue, nor soften his heart. When she prayed to be forgiven, as sheherself forgave others, she always exempted Barty Burgess from herprayers. There are things which flesh and blood cannot do. She hadnot liked Harry Burgess' widow, nor for the matter of that, HarryBurgess himself. When she had last seen the children she had notliked any of them much, and had had her doubts even as to Brooke. Butwith that branch of the family she was willing to try again. Brookewas now coming to the Close, having received, however, an intimation, that if, during his visit to Exeter, he chose to see his Uncle Barty, any such intercourse must be kept quite in the background. While heremained in Miss Stanbury's house he was to remain there as thoughthere were no such person as Mr. Bartholomew Burgess in Exeter. 

At this time Brooke Burgess was a man just turned thirty, and wasa clerk in the Ecclesiastical Record Office, in Somerset House. Nodoubt the peculiar nature and name of the public department to whichhe was attached had done something to recommend him to Miss Stanbury. Ecclesiastical records were things greatly to be reverenced in hereyes, and she felt that a gentleman who handled them and dealt withthem would probably be sedate, gentlemanlike, and conservative. Brooke Burgess, when she had last seen him, was just about to enterupon the duties of the office. Then there had come offence, and shehad in truth known nothing of him from that day to this. The visitorwas to be at Exeter on the following Monday, and very much was donein preparation of his coming. There was to be a dinner party on thatvery day, and dinner parties were not common with Miss Stanbury. Shehad, however, explained to Martha that she intended to put her bestfoot forward. Martha understood perfectly that Mr. Brooke Burgesswas to be received as the heir of property. Sir Peter Mancrudy, thegreat Devonshire chemist, was coming to dinner, and Mr. And Mrs. Powel from Haldon, --people of great distinction in that part of thecounty, --Mrs. MacHugh of course; and, equally of course, Mr. Gibson. There was a deep discussion between Miss Stanbury and Marthaas to asking two of the Cliffords, and Mr. And Mrs. Noel fromDoddiscombeleigh. Martha had been very much in favour of havingtwelve. Miss Stanbury had declared that with twelve she must have twowaiters from the greengrocer's, and that two waiters would overpowerher own domesticities below stairs. Martha had declared that shedidn't care about them any more than if they were puppy dogs. ButMiss Stanbury had been quite firm against twelve. She had consentedto have ten, --for the sake of artistic arrangement at the table;"They should be pantaloons and petticoats alternate, you know, " shehad said to Martha, --and had therefore asked the Cliffords. But theCliffords could not come, and then she had declined to make anyfurther attempt. Indeed, a new idea had struck her. Brooke Burgess, her guest, should sit at one end of the table, and Mr. Gibson, theclergyman, at the other. In this way the proper alternation would beeffected. When Martha heard this, Martha quite understood the extentof the good fortune that was in store for Dorothy. If Mr. Gibson wasto be welcomed in that way, it could only be in preparation of hisbecoming one of the family. 

And Dorothy herself became aware that she must make up her mind. Itwas not so declared to her, but she came to understand that it wasvery probable that something would occur on the coming Monday whichwould require her to be ready with her answer on that day. And shewas greatly tormented by feeling that if she could not bring herselfto accept Mr. Gibson, --should Mr. Gibson propose to her, as to whichshe continued to tell herself that the chance of such a thing mustbe very remote indeed, --but that if he should propose to her, and ifshe could not accept him, her aunt ought to know that it would be sobefore the moment came. But yet she could not bring herself to speakto her aunt as though any such proposition were possible. 

It happened that during the week, on the Saturday, Priscilla cameinto Exeter. Dorothy met her sister at the railway station, and thenthe two walked together two miles and back along the Crediton Road. Aunt Stanbury had consented to Priscilla coming to the Close, eventhough it was not the day appointed for such visits; but the walkhad been preferred, and Dorothy felt that she would be able to askfor counsel from the only human being to whom she could have broughtherself to confide the fact that a gentleman was expected to ask herto marry him. But it was not till they had turned upon their walk, that she was able to open her mouth on the subject even to hersister. Priscilla had been very full of their own cares at Nuncombe, and had said much of her determination to leave the Clock House andto return to the retirement of some small cottage. She had alreadywritten to Hugh to this effect, and during their walk had said muchof her own folly in having consented to so great a change in theirmode of life. At last Dorothy struck in with her story. 

"Aunt Stanbury wants me to make a change too. "

"What change?" asked Priscilla anxiously. 

"It is not my idea, Priscilla, and I don't think that there can beanything in it. Indeed, I'm sure there isn't. I don't see how it'spossible that there should be. "

"But what is it, Dolly?"

"I suppose there can't be any harm in my telling you. "

"If it's anything concerning yourself, I should say not. If itconcerns Aunt Stanbury, I dare say she'd rather you held yourtongue. "

"It concerns me most, " said Dorothy. 

"She doesn't want you to leave her, does she?"

"Well; yes; no. By what she said last, --I shouldn't leave her at allin that way. Only I'm sure it's not possible. "

"I am the worst hand in the world, Dolly, at guessing a riddle. "

"You've heard of that Mr. Gibson, the clergyman;--haven't you?"

"Of course I have. "

"Well--. Mind, you know, it's only what Aunt Stanbury says. He hasnever so much as opened his lips to me himself, except to say, 'Howdo you do?' and that kind of thing. "

"Aunt Stanbury wants you to marry him?"

"Yes!"

"Well?"

"Of course it's out of the question, " said Dorothy, sadly. 

"I don't see why it should be out of the question, " said Priscillaproudly. "Indeed, if Aunt Stanbury has said much about it, I shouldsay that Mr. Gibson himself must have spoken to her. "

"Do you think he has?"

"I do not believe that my aunt would raise false hopes, " saidPriscilla. 

"But I haven't any hopes. That is to say, I had never thought aboutsuch a thing. "

"But you think about it now, Dolly?"

"I should never have dreamed about it, only for Aunt Stanbury. "

"But, dearest, you are dreaming of it now, are you not?"

"Only because she says that it is to be so. You don't know howgenerous she is. She says that if it should be so, she will give meever so much money;--two thousand pounds!"

"Then I am quite sure that she and Mr. Gibson must understand eachother. "

"Of course, " said Dorothy, sadly, "if he were to think of such athing at all, it would only be because the money would beconvenient. "

"Not at all, " said Priscilla, sternly, --with a sternness that wasvery comfortable to her listener. "Not at all. Why should not Mr. Gibson love you as well as any man ever loved any woman? You arenice-looking, "--Dorothy blushed beneath her hat even at her sister'spraise, --"and good-tempered, and lovable in every way. And I thinkyou are just fitted to make a good wife. And you must not suppose, Dolly, that because Mr. Gibson wouldn't perhaps have asked youwithout the money, that therefore he is mercenary. It so oftenhappens that a gentleman can't marry unless the lady has some money!"

"But he hasn't asked me at all. "

"I suppose he will, dear. "

"I only know what Aunt Stanbury says. "

"You may be sure that he will ask you. "

"And what must I say, Priscilla?"

"What must you say? Nobody can tell you that, dear, but yourself. Doyou like him?"

"I don't dislike him. "

"Is that all?"

"I know him so very little, Priscilla. Everybody says he is verygood;--and then it's a great thing, isn't it, that he should be aclergyman?"

"I don't know about that. "

"I think it is. If it were possible that I should ever marry any one, I should like a clergyman so much the best. "

"Then you do know what to say to him. "

"No, I don't, Priscilla. I don't know at all. "

"Look here, dearest. What my aunt offers to you is a very greatstep in life. If you can accept this gentleman I think you would behappy;--and I think, also, which should be of more importance foryour consideration, that you would make him happy. It is a brighterprospect, dear Dolly, than to live either with us at Nuncombe, oreven with Aunt Stanbury as her niece. "

"But if I don't love him, Priscilla?"

"Then give it up, and be as you are, my own own, dearest sister. "

"So I will, " said Dorothy, and at that time her mind was made up. 

 [Illustration: Dorothy makes up her mind. ]

CHAPTER XXXI. 

MR. BROOKE BURGESS. 

 [Illustration]

The hour at which Mr. Brooke Burgess was to arrive had come round, and Miss Stanbury was in a twitter, partly of expectation, andpartly, it must be confessed, of fear. Why there should be any fearshe did not herself know, as she had much to give and nothing toexpect. But she was afraid, and was conscious of it, and was outof temper because she was ashamed of herself. Although it would benecessary that she should again dress for dinner at six, she had puton a clean cap at four, and appeared at that early hour in one ofher gowns which was not customarily in use for home purposes at thatearly hour. She felt that she was "an old fool" for her pains, andwas consequently cross to poor Dorothy. And there were other reasonsfor some display of harshness to her niece. Mr. Gibson had been atthe house that very morning, and Dorothy had given herself airs. Atleast, so Miss Stanbury thought. And during the last three or fourdays, whenever Mr. Gibson's name had been mentioned, Dorothy hadbecome silent, glum, and almost obstructive. Miss Stanbury had beenat the trouble of explaining that she was specially anxious to havethat little matter of the engagement settled at once. She knew thatshe was going to behave with great generosity;--that she was going tosacrifice, not her money only, of which she did not think much, but aconsiderable portion of her authority, of which she did think a greatdeal; and that she was about to behave in a manner which demandedmuch gratitude. But it seemed to her that Dorothy was not inthe least grateful. Hugh had proved himself to be "a mass ofingratitude, " as she was in the habit of saying. None of theBurgesses had ever shown to her any gratitude for promises made tothem, or, indeed, for any substantial favours conferred upon them. And now Dorothy, to whom a very seventh heaven of happiness had beenopened, --a seventh heaven, as it must be computed in comparison withher low expectations, --now Dorothy was already shewing how thanklessshe could become. Mr. Gibson had not yet declared his passion, but hehad freely admitted to Miss Stanbury that he was prepared to do so. Priscilla had been quite right in her suggestion that there was aclear understanding between the clergyman and her aunt. 

"I don't think he is come after all, " said Miss Stanbury, lookingat her watch. Had the train arrived at the moment that it was due, had the expectant visitor jumped out of the railway carriage intoa fly, and had the driver galloped up to the Close, it might havebeen possible that the wheels should have been at the door as MissStanbury spoke. 

"It's hardly time yet, aunt. "

"Nonsense; it is time. The train comes in at four. I dare say hewon't come at all. "

"He is sure to come, aunt. "

"I've no doubt you know all about it better than any one else. Youusually do. " Then five minutes were passed in silence. "Heaven andearth! what shall I do with these people that are coming? And I toldthem especially that it was to meet this young man! It's the way I amalways treated by everybody that I have about me. "

"The train might be ten minutes late, Aunt Stanbury. "

"Yes;--and monkeys might chew tobacco. There;--there's the omnibus atthe Cock and Bottle; the omnibus up from the train. Now, of course, he won't come. "

"Perhaps he's walking, Aunt Stanbury. "

"Walking, --with his luggage on his shoulders? Is that your idea ofthe way in which a London gentleman goes about? And there are twoflies, --coming up from the train, of course. " Miss Stanbury wasobliged to fix the side of her chair very close to the window inorder that she might see that part of the Close in which the vehiclesof which she had spoken were able to pass. 

"Perhaps they are not coming from the train, Aunt Stanbury. "

"Perhaps a fiddlestick! You have lived here so much longer thanI have done that, of course, you must know all about it. " Thenthere was an interval of another ten minutes, and even Dorothy wasbeginning to think that Mr. Burgess was not coming. "I've given himup now, " said Miss Stanbury. "I think I'll send and put them alloff. " Just at that moment there came a knock at the door. But therewas no cab. Dorothy's conjecture had been right. The London gentlemanhad walked, and his portmanteau had been carried behind him by a boy. "How did he get here?" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, as she heard thestrange voice speaking to Martha down-stairs. But Dorothy knew betterthan to answer the question. 

"Miss Stanbury, I am very glad to see you, " said Mr. Brooke Burgess, as he entered the room. Miss Stanbury courtesied, and then tookhim by both hands. "You wouldn't have known me, I dare say, " hecontinued. "A black beard and a bald head do make a difference. "

"You are not bald at all, " said Miss Stanbury. 

"I am beginning to be thin enough at the top. I am so glad to come toyou, and so much obliged to you for having me! How well I rememberthe old room!"

"This is my niece, Miss Dorothy Stanbury, from Nuncombe Putney. "Dorothy was about to make some formal acknowledgment of theintroduction, when Brooke Burgess came up to her, and shook her handheartily. "She lives with me, " continued the aunt. 

"And what has become of Hugh?" said Brooke. 

"We never talk of him, " said Miss Stanbury gravely. 

"I hope there's nothing wrong? I hear of him very often in London. "

"My aunt and he don't agree;--that's all, " said Dorothy. 

"He has given up his profession as a barrister, --in which he mighthave lived like a gentleman, " said Miss Stanbury, "and has taken towriting for a--penny newspaper. "

"Everybody does that now, Miss Stanbury. "

"I hope you don't, Mr. Burgess. "

"I! Nobody would print anything that I wrote. I don't write foranything, certainly. "

"I'm very glad to hear it, " said Miss Stanbury. 

Brooke Burgess, or Mr. Brooke, as he came to be called very shortlyby the servants in the house, was a good-looking man, with blackwhiskers and black hair, which, as he said, was beginning to be thinon the top of his head, and pleasant small bright eyes. Dorothythought that next to her brother Hugh he was the most good-naturedlooking man she had ever seen. He was rather below the middle height, and somewhat inclined to be stout. But he would boast that he couldstill walk his twelve miles in three hours, and would add that aslong as he could do that he would never recognise the necessity ofputting himself on short commons. He had a well-cut nose, not quiteaquiline, but tending that way, a chin with a dimple on it, and assweet a mouth as ever declared the excellence of a man's temper. Dorothy immediately began to compare him with her brother Hugh, whowas to her, of all men, the most godlike. It never occurred to her tomake any comparison between Mr. Gibson and Mr. Burgess. Her brotherHugh was the most godlike of men; but there was something godlikealso about the new comer. Mr. Gibson, to Dorothy's eyes, was by nomeans divine. 

"I used to call you Aunt Stanbury, " said Brooke Burgess to the oldlady; "am I to go on doing it now?"

"You may call me what you like, " said Miss Stanbury. "Only, --dearme;--I never did see anybody so much altered. " Before she went up todress herself for dinner, Miss Stanbury was quite restored to hergood humour, as Dorothy could perceive. 

The dinner passed off well enough. Mr. Gibson, at the head of thetable, did, indeed, look very much out of his element, as though heconceived that his position revealed to the outer world those ideasof his in regard to Dorothy, which ought to have been secret for awhile longer. There are few men who do not feel ashamed of beingparaded before the world as acknowledged suitors, whereas ladiesaccept the position with something almost of triumph. The ladyperhaps regards herself as the successful angler, whereas thegentleman is conscious of some similitude to the unsuccessful fish. Mr. Gibson, though he was not yet gasping in the basket, had somepresentiment of this feeling, which made his present seat of honourunpleasant to him. Brooke Burgess, at the other end of the table, was as gay as a lark. Mrs. MacHugh sat on one side of him, andMiss Stanbury on the other, and he laughed at the two old ladies, reminding them of his former doings in Exeter, --how he had huntedMrs. MacHugh's cat, and had stolen Aunt Stanbury's best apricot jam, till everybody began to perceive that he was quite a success. EvenSir Peter Mancrudy laughed at his jokes, and Mrs. Powel, from theother side of Sir Peter, stretched her head forward so that she mightbecome one of the gay party. 

"There isn't a word of it true, " said Miss Stanbury. "It's all pureinvention, and a great scandal. I never did such a thing in my life. "

"Didn't you though?" said Brooke Burgess. "I remember it as wellas if it was yesterday, and old Dr. Ball, the prebendary, with thecarbuncles on his nose, saw it too. "

"Dr. Ball had no carbuncles on his nose, " said Mrs. MacHugh. "You'llsay next that I have carbuncles on my nose. "

"He had three. I remember each of them quite well, and so does SirPeter. "

Then everybody laughed; and Martha, who was in the room, knew thatBrooke Burgess was a complete success. 

In the meantime Mr. Gibson was talking to Dorothy; but Dorothy wasendeavouring to listen to the conversation at the other end of thetable. "I found it very dirty on the roads to-day outside the city, "said Mr. Gibson. 

"Very dirty, " said Dorothy, looking round at Mr. Burgess as shespoke. 

"But the pavement in the High Street was dry enough. "

"Quite dry, " said Dorothy. Then there came a peal of laughter fromMrs. MacHugh and Sir Peter, and Dorothy wondered whether anybodybefore had ever made those two steady old people laugh after thatfashion. 

"I should so like to get a drive with you up to the top of HaldonHill, " said Mr. Gibson. "When the weather gets fine, that is. Mrs. Powel was talking about it. "

"It would be very nice, " said Dorothy. 

"You have never seen the view from Haldon Hill yet?" asked Mr. Gibson. But to this question Dorothy could make no answer. MissStanbury had lifted one of the table-spoons, as though she was goingto strike Mr. Brooke Burgess with the bowl of it. And this duringa dinner party! From that moment Dorothy turned herself round, andbecame one of the listeners to the fun at the other end of the table. Poor Mr. Gibson soon found himself "nowhere. "

"I never saw a man so much altered in my life, " said Mrs. MacHugh, upin the drawing-room. "I don't remember that he used to be clever. "

"He was a bright boy, " said Miss Stanbury. 

"But the Burgesses all used to be such serious, strait-laced people, "said Mrs. MacHugh. "Excellent people, " she added, remembering thesource of her friend's wealth; "but none of them like that. "

"I call him a very handsome man, " said Mrs. Powel. "I suppose he'snot married yet?"

"Oh, dear, no, " said Miss Stanbury. "There's time enough for himyet. "

"He'll find plenty here to set their caps at him, " said Mrs. MacHugh. 

"He's a little old for my girls, " said Mrs. Powel, laughing. Mrs. Powel was the happy mother of four daughters, of whom the eldest wasonly twelve. 

"There are others who are more forward, " said Mrs. MacHugh. "What achance it would be for dear Arabella French!"

"Heaven forbid!" said Miss Stanbury. 

"And then poor Mr. Gibson wouldn't be any longer like the donkeybetween two bundles of hay, " said Mrs. Powel. Dorothy was quitedetermined that she would never marry a man who was like a donkeybetween two bundles of hay. 

When the gentlemen came up into the drawing-room, Dorothy was seatedbehind the urn and tea-things at a large table, in such a position asto be approached only at one side. There was one chair at her lefthand, but at her right hand there was no room for a seat, --only roomfor some civil gentleman to take away full cups and bring them backempty. Dorothy was not sufficiently ready-witted to see the danger ofthis position till Mr. Gibson had seated himself in the chair. Thenit did seem cruel to her that she should be thus besieged for therest of the evening as she had been also at dinner. While the teawas being consumed Mr. Gibson assisted at the service, asking ladieswhether they would have cake or bread and butter; but when all thatwas over Dorothy was still in her prison, and Mr. Gibson was stillthe jailer at the gate. She soon perceived that everybody else waschatting and laughing, and that Brooke Burgess was the centre of alittle circle which had formed itself quite at a distance from herseat. Once, twice, thrice she meditated an escape, but she had notthe courage to make the attempt. She did not know how to manage it. She was conscious that her aunt's eye was upon her, and that her auntwould expect her to listen to Mr. Gibson. At last she gave up allhope of moving, and was anxious simply that Mr. Gibson should confinehimself to the dirt of the paths and the noble prospect from HaldonHill. 

"I think we shall have more rain before we are done with it, " hesaid. Twice before during the evening he had been very eloquent aboutthe rain. 

"I dare say we shall, " said Dorothy. And then there came the soundof loud laughter from Sir Peter, and Dorothy could see that he waspoking Brooke Burgess in the ribs. There had never been anything sogay before since she had been in Exeter, and now she was hemmed up inthat corner, away from it all, by Mr. Gibson!

"This Mr. Burgess seems to be different from the other Burgesses, "said Mr. Gibson. 

"I think he must be very clever, " said Dorothy. 

"Well;--yes; in a sort of a way. What people call a Merry Andrew. "

"I like people who make me laugh and laugh themselves, " said Dorothy. 

"I quite agree with you that laughter is a very good thing, --inits place. I am not at all one of those who would make the worldaltogether grave. There are serious things, and there must be seriousmoments. "

"Of course, " said Dorothy. 

"And I think that serious conversation upon the whole has moreallurements than conversation which when you come to examine it isfound to mean nothing. Don't you?"

"I suppose everybody should mean something when he talks. "

"Just so. That is exactly my idea, " said Mr. Gibson. "On all suchsubjects as that I should be so sorry if you and I did not agree. Ireally should. " Then he paused, and Dorothy was so confounded by whatshe conceived to be the dangers of the coming moment that she wasunable even to think what she ought to say. She heard Mrs. MacHugh'sclear, sharp, merry voice, and she heard her aunt's tone of pretendedanger, and she heard Sir Peter's continued laughter, and BrookeBurgess as he continued the telling of some story; but her owntrouble was too great to allow of her attending to what was going onat the other end of the room. "There is nothing as to which I am soanxious as that you and I should agree about serious things, " saidMr. Gibson. 

"I suppose we do agree about going to church, " said Dorothy. She knewthat she could have made no speech more stupid, more senseless, moreinefficacious;--but what was she to say in answer to such anassurance?

"I hope so, " said Mr. Gibson; "and I think so. Your aunt is a mostexcellent woman, and her opinion has very great weight with me on allsubjects, --even as to matters of church discipline and doctrine, inwhich, as a clergyman, I am of course presumed to be more at home. But your aunt is a woman among a thousand. "

"Of course I think she is very good. "

"And she is so right about this young man and her property. Don't youthink so?"

"Quite right, Mr. Gibson. "

"Because you know, to you, of course, being her near relative, andthe one she has singled out as the recipient of her kindness, itmight have been cause for some discontent. "

"Discontent to me, Mr. Gibson!"

"I am quite sure your feelings are what they ought to be. And formyself, if I ever were, --that is to say, supposing I could be in anyway interested--. But perhaps it is premature to make any suggestionon that head at present. "

"I don't at all understand what you mean, Mr. Gibson. "

"I thought that perhaps I might take this opportunity ofexpressing--. But, after all, the levity of the moment is hardly inaccordance with the sentiments which I should wish to express. "

"I think that I ought to go to my aunt now, Mr. Gibson, as perhapsshe might want something. " Then she did push back her chair, andstand upon her legs, --and Mr. Gibson, after pausing for a moment, allowed her to escape. Soon after that the visitors went, and BrookeBurgess was left in the drawing-room with Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. 

"How well I recollect all the people, " said Brooke; "Sir Peter, andold Mrs. MacHugh, and Mrs. Powel, who then used to be called thebeautiful Miss Noel. And I remember every bit of furniture in theroom. "

"Nothing changed except the old woman, Brooke, " said Miss Stanbury. 

"Upon my word, you are the least changed of all, --except that youdon't seem to be so terrible as you were then. "

"Was I very terrible, Brooke?"

"My mother had told me, I fancy, that I was never to make a noise, and be sure not to break any of the china. You were always verygood-natured, and when you gave me a silver watch I could hardlybelieve the extent of my own bliss. "

"You wouldn't care about a watch from an old woman now, Brooke?"

"You try me. But what rakes you are here! It's past eleven o'clock, and I must go and have a smoke. "

"Have a what?" said Miss Stanbury, with a startled air. 

"A smoke. You needn't be frightened; I don't mean in the house. "

"No;--I hope you don't mean that. "

"But I may take a turn round the Close with a pipe;--mayn't I?"

"I suppose all young men do smoke now, " said Miss Stanbury, sorrowfully. 

"Every one of them; and they tell me that the young women mean totake to it before long. "

"If I saw a young woman smoking, I should blush for my sex; andthough she were the nearest and dearest that I had, I would neverspeak to her;--never. Dorothy, I don't think Mr. Gibson smokes. "

"I'm sure I don't know, aunt. "

"I hope he doesn't. I do hope that he does not. I cannot understandwhat pleasure it is that men take in making chimneys of themselves, and going about smelling so that no one can bear to come near them. "

Brooke merely laughed at this, and went his way, and smoked his pipeout in the Close, while Martha sat up to let him in when he hadfinished it. Then Dorothy escaped at once to her room, fearful ofbeing questioned by her aunt about Mr. Gibson. She had, she thoughtnow, quite made up her mind. There was nothing in Mr. Gibson thatshe liked. She was by no means so sure as she had been when she wastalking to her sister, that she would prefer a clergyman to any oneelse. She had formed no strong ideas on the subject of love-making, but she did think that any man who really cared for her, would findsome other way of expressing his love than that which Mr. Gibson hadadopted. And then Mr. Gibson had spoken to her about her aunt's moneyin a way that was distasteful to her. She thought that she was quitesure that if he should ask her, she would not accept him. 

She was nearly undressed, nearly safe for the night, when there camea knock at the door, and her aunt entered the room. "He has come in, "said Miss Stanbury. 

"I suppose he has had his pipe, then. "

"I wish he didn't smoke. I do wish he didn't smoke. But I suppose anold woman like me is only making herself a fool to care about suchthings. If they all do it I can't prevent them. He seems to be a verynice young man--in other things; does he not, Dolly?"

"Very nice indeed, Aunt Stanbury. "

"And he has done very well in his office. And as for his saying thathe must smoke, I like that a great deal better than doing it on thesly. "

"I don't think Mr. Burgess would do anything on the sly, aunt. "

"No, no; I don't think he would. Dear me; he's not at all like what Ifancied. "

"Everybody seemed to like him very much. "

"Didn't they? I never saw Sir Peter so much taken. And there wasquite a flirtation between him and Mrs. MacHugh. And now, my dear, tell me about Mr. Gibson. "

"There is nothing to tell, Aunt Stanbury. "

"Isn't there? From what I saw going on, I thought there would besomething to tell. He was talking to you the whole evening. "

"As it happened he was sitting next to me, --of course. "

"Indeed he was sitting next to you;--so much so that I thoughteverything would be settled. "

"If I tell you something, Aunt Stanbury, you mustn't be angry withme. "

"Tell me what? What is it you have to tell me?"

"I don't think I shall ever care for Mr. Gibson;--not in that way. "

"Why not, Dorothy?"

"I'm sure he doesn't care for me. And I don't think he means it. "

"I tell you he does mean it. Mean it! Why, I tell you it has all beensettled between us. Since I first spoke to you I have explained tohim exactly what I intend to do. He knows that he can give up hishouse and come and live here. I am sure he must have said somethingabout it to you to-night. "

"Not a word, Aunt Stanbury. "

"Then he will. "

"Dear aunt, I do so wish you would prevent it. I don't like him. Idon't indeed. "

"Not like him!"

"No;--I don't care for him a bit, and I never shall. I can't helpit, Aunt Stanbury. I thought I would try, but I find it would beimpossible. You can't want me to marry a man if I don't love him. "

"I never heard of such a thing in my life. Not love him! And whyshouldn't you love him? He's a gentleman. Everybody respects him. He'll have plenty to make you comfortable all your life! And then whydidn't you tell me before?"

"I didn't know, Aunt Stanbury. I thought that perhaps--"

"Perhaps what?"

"I could not say all at once that I didn't care for him, when I hadnever so much as thought about it for a moment before. "

"You haven't told him this?"

"No, I have not told him. I couldn't begin by telling him, you know. "

"Then I must pray that you will think about it again. Have youimagined what a great thing for you it would be to be established forlife, --so that you should never have any more trouble again about ahome, or about money, or anything? Don't answer me now, Dorothy, butthink of it. It seemed to me that I was doing such an excellent thingfor both of you. " So saying Miss Stanbury left the room, and Dorothywas enabled to obey her, at any rate, in one matter. She did think ofit. She laid awake thinking of it almost all the night. But the moreshe thought of it, the less able was she to realise to herself anyfuture comfort or happiness in the idea of becoming Mrs. Gibson. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE "FULL MOON" AT ST. DIDDULPH'S. 

The receipt of Mrs. Trevelyan's letter on that Monday morning was agreat surprise both to Mr. And Mrs. Outhouse. There was no time forany consideration, no opportunity for delaying their arrival tillthey should have again referred the matter to Mr. Trevelyan. Theirtwo nieces were to be with them on that evening, and even thetelegraph wires, if employed with such purpose, would not be quickenough to stop their coming. The party, as they knew, would have leftNuncombe Putney before the arrival of the letter at the parsonage ofSt. Diddulph's. There would have been nothing in this to have causedvexation, had it not been decided between Trevelyan and Mr. Outhousethat Mrs. Trevelyan was not to find a home at the parsonage. Mr. Outhouse was greatly afraid of being so entangled in the matter as tobe driven to take the part of the wife against the husband; and Mrs. Outhouse, though she was full of indignation against Trevelyan, wasat the same time not free from anger in regard to her own niece. She more than once repeated that most unjust of all proverbs, whichdeclares that there is never smoke without fire, and asserted broadlythat she did not like to be with people who could not live athome, husbands with wives, and wives with husbands, in a decent, respectable manner. Nevertheless the preparations went on busily, andwhen the party arrived at seven o'clock in the evening, two rooms hadbeen prepared close to each other, one for the two sisters, and theother for the child and nurse, although poor Mr. Outhouse himself wasturned out of his own little chamber in order that the accommodationmight be given. They were all very hot, very tired, and very dusty, when the cab reached the parsonage. There had been the preliminarydrive from Nuncombe Putney to Lessboro'. Then the railway journeyfrom thence to the Waterloo Bridge Station had been long. And it hadseemed to them that the distance from the station to St. Diddulph'shad been endless. When the cabman was told whither he was to go, helooked doubtingly at his poor old horse, and then at the luggagewhich he was required to pack on the top of his cab, and laid himselfout for his work with a full understanding that it would not beaccomplished without considerable difficulty. The cabman made ittwelve miles from Waterloo Bridge to St. Diddulph's, and suggestedthat extra passengers and parcels would make the fare up to ten andsix. Had he named double as much Mrs. Trevelyan would have assented. So great was the fatigue, and so wretched the occasion, that therewas sobbing and crying in the cab, and when at last the parsonage wasreached, even the nurse was hardly able to turn her hand to anything. The poor wanderers were made welcome on that evening without a wordof discussion as to the cause of their coming. "I hope you are notangry with us, Uncle Oliphant, " Emily Trevelyan had said, with tearsin her eyes. "Angry with you, my dear;--for coming to our house!How could I be angry with you?" Then the travellers were hurriedup-stairs by Mrs. Outhouse, and the master of the parsonage was leftalone for a while. He certainly was not angry, but he was ill atease, and unhappy. His guests would probably remain with him forsix or seven months. He had resolutely refused all payment from Mr. Trevelyan, but, nevertheless, he was a poor man. It is impossibleto conceive that a clergyman in such a parish as St. Diddulph's, without a private income, should not be a poor man. It was but ahand-to-mouth existence which he lived, paying his way as his moneycame to him, and sharing the proceeds of his parish with the poor. He was always more or less in debt. That was quite understood amongthe tradesmen. And the butcher who trusted him, though he was abad churchman, did not look upon the parson's account as he did onother debts. He would often hint to Mr. Outhouse that a little moneyought to be paid, and then a little money would be paid. But it wasnever expected that the parsonage bill should be settled. In such ahousehold the arrival of four guests, who were expected to remain foran almost indefinite number of months, could not be regarded withoutdismay. On that first evening, Emily and Nora did come down to tea, but they went up again to their rooms almost immediately afterwards;and Mr. Outhouse found that many hours of solitary meditation wereallowed to him on the occasion. "I suppose your brother has been toldall about it, " he said to his wife, as soon as they were together onthat evening. 

"Yes;--he has been told. She did not write to her mother till aftershe had got to Nuncombe Putney. She did not like to speak about hertroubles while there was a hope that things might be made smooth. "

"You can't blame her for that, my dear. "

"But there was a month lost, or nearly. Letters go only once a month. And now they can't hear from Marmaduke or Bessy, "--Lady Rowley's namewas Bessy, --"till the beginning of September. "

"That will be in a fortnight. "

"But what can my brother say to them? He will suppose that they arestill down in Devonshire. "

"You don't think he will come at once?"

"How can he, my dear? He can't come without leave, and the expensewould be ruinous. They would stop his pay, and there would be allmanner of evils. He is to come in the spring, and they must stayhere till he comes. " The parson of St. Diddulph's sighed and groaned. Would it not have been almost better that he should have put hispride in his pocket, and have consented to take Mr. Trevelyan'smoney?

On the second morning Hugh Stanbury called at the parsonage, and wascloseted for a while with the parson. Nora had heard his voice in thepassage, and every one in the house knew who it was that was talkingto Mr. Outhouse, in the little back parlour that was called a study. Nora was full of anxiety. Would he ask to see them, --to see her? Andwhy was he there so long? "No doubt he has brought a message from Mr. Trevelyan, " said her sister. "I dare say he will send word that Iought not to have come to my uncle's house. " Then, at last, both Mr. Outhouse and Hugh Stanbury came into the room in which they were allsitting. The greetings were cold and unsatisfactory, and Nora barelyallowed Hugh to touch the tip of her fingers. She was very angry withhim, and yet she knew that her anger was altogether unreasonable. That he had caused her to refuse a marriage that had so much toattract her was not his sin;--not that; but that, having thusoverpowered her by his influence, he should then have stopped. Andyet Nora had told herself twenty times that it was quite impossiblethat she should become Hugh Stanbury's wife;--and that, were HughStanbury to ask her, it would become her to be indignant with him, for daring to make a proposition so outrageous. And now she was sickat heart, because he did not speak to her!

He had, of course, come to St. Diddulph's with a message fromTrevelyan, and his secret was soon told to them all. Trevelyanhimself was up-stairs in the sanded parlour of the Full Moonpublic-house, round the corner. Mrs. Trevelyan, when she heard this, clasped her hands and bit her lips. What was he there for? If hewanted to see her, why did he not come boldly to the parsonage? Butit soon appeared that he had no desire to see his wife. "I am to takeLouey to him, " said Hugh Stanbury, "if you will allow me. "

"What;--to be taken away from me!" exclaimed the mother. But Hughassured her that no such idea had been formed; that he would haveconcerned himself in no such stratagem, and that he would himselfundertake to bring the boy back again within an hour. Emily was, ofcourse, anxious to be informed what other message was to be conveyedto her; but there was no other message--no message either of love orof instruction. 

"Mr. Stanbury, " said the parson, "has left something in my hands foryou. " This "something" was given over to her as soon as Stanburyhad left the house, and consisted of cheques for various small sums, amounting in all to £200. "And he hasn't said what I am to do withit?" Emily asked of her uncle. Mr. Outhouse declared that the chequeshad been given to him without any instructions on that head. Mr. Trevelyan had simply expressed his satisfaction that his wife shouldbe with her uncle and aunt, had sent the money, and had desired tosee the child. 

The boy was got ready, and Hugh walked with him in his arms round thecorner, to the Full Moon. He had to pass by the bar, and the barmaidand the potboy looked at him very hard. "There's a young 'ooman hasto do with that ere little game, " said the potboy. "And it's two toone the young 'ooman has the worst of it, " said the barmaid. "Theymostly does, " said the potboy, not without some feeling of pride inthe immunities of his sex. "Here he is, " said Hugh, as he enteredthe parlour. "My boy, there's papa. " The child at this time was morethan a year old, and could crawl about and use his own legs with theassistance of a finger to his little hand, and could utter a soundwhich the fond mother interpreted to mean papa; for with all her hotanger against her husband, the mother was above all things anxiousthat her child should be taught to love his father's name. Shewould talk of her separation from her husband as though it must bepermanent; she would declare to her sister how impossible it was thatthey should ever again live together; she would repeat to herselfover and over the tale of the injustice that had been done to her, assuring herself that it was out of the question that she should everpardon the man; but yet, at the bottom of her heart, there was a hopethat the quarrel should be healed before her boy would be old enoughto understand the nature of quarrelling. Trevelyan took the child onto his knee, and kissed him; but the poor little fellow, startled byhis transference from one male set of arms to another, confused bythe strangeness of the room, and by the absence of things familiarto his sight, burst out into loud tears. He had stood the journeyround the corner in Hugh's arms manfully, and, though he had lookedabout him with very serious eyes, as he passed through the bar, he had borne that, and his carriage up the stairs; but when hewas transferred to his father, whose air, as he took the boy, wasmelancholy and lugubrious in the extreme, the poor little fellowcould endure no longer a mode of treatment so unusual, and, with agrimace which for a moment or two threatened the coming storm, burstout with an infantine howl. "That's how he has been taught, " saidTrevelyan. 

 [Illustration: The "Full Moon" at St. Diddulph's. ]

"Nonsense, " said Stanbury. "He's not been taught at all. It'sNature. "

"Nature that he should be afraid of his own father! He did not crywhen he was with you. "

"No;--as it happened, he did not. I played with him when I was atNuncombe; but, of course, one can't tell when a child will cry, andwhen it won't. "

"My darling, my dearest, my own son!" said Trevelyan, caressing thechild, and trying to comfort him; but the poor little fellow onlycried the louder. It was now nearly two months since he had seen hisfather, and, when age is counted by months only, almost everythingmay be forgotten in six weeks. "I suppose you must take him backagain, " said Trevelyan, sadly. 

"Of course I must take him back again. Come along, Louey, my boy. "

"It is cruel;--very cruel, " said Trevelyan. "No man living could lovehis child better than I love mine;--or, for the matter of that, hiswife. It is very cruel. "

"The remedy is in your own hands, Trevelyan, " said Stanbury, as hemarched off with the boy in his arms. 

Trevelyan had now become so accustomed to being told by everybodythat he was wrong, and was at the same time so convinced that he wasright, that he regarded the perversity of his friends as a part ofthe persecution to which he was subjected. Even Lady Milborough, who objected to Colonel Osborne quite as strongly as did Trevelyanhimself, even she blamed him now, telling him that he had donewrong to separate himself from his wife. Mr. Bideawhile, the oldfamily lawyer, was of the same opinion. Trevelyan had spoken to Mr. Bideawhile as to the expediency of making some lasting arrangementfor a permanent maintenance for his wife; but the attorney had toldhim that nothing of the kind could be held to be lasting. It wasclearly the husband's duty to look forward to a reconciliation, andMr. Bideawhile became quite severe in the tone of rebuke which heassumed. Stanbury treated him almost as though he were a madman. Andas for his wife herself--when she wrote to him she would not evenpretend to express any feeling of affection. And yet, as he thought, no man had ever done more for a wife. When Stanbury had gone with thechild, he sat waiting for him in the parlour of the public-house, asmiserable a man as one could find. He had promised himself somethingthat should be akin to pleasure in seeing his boy;--but it had beenall disappointment and pain. What was it that they expected him todo? What was it that they desired? His wife had behaved with suchindiscretion as almost to have compromised his honour; and in returnfor that he was to beg her pardon, confess himself to have donewrong, and allow her to return in triumph! That was the light inwhich he regarded his own position; but he promised to himself thatlet his own misery be what it might he would never so degrade him. The only person who had been true to him was Bozzle. Let them alllook to it. If there were any further intercourse between his wifeand Colonel Osborne, he would take the matter into open court, andput her away publicly, let Mr. Bideawhile say what he might. Bozzleshould see to that;--and as to himself, he would take himself out ofEngland and hide himself abroad. Bozzle should know his address, buthe would give it to no one else. Nothing on earth should make himyield to a woman who had ill-treated him, --nothing but confessionand promise of amendment on her part. If she would acknowledge andpromise, then he would forgive all, and the events of the last fourmonths should never again be mentioned by him. So resolving he satand waited till Stanbury should return to him. 

When Stanbury got back to the parsonage with the boy he had nothingto do but to take his leave. He would fain have asked permission tocome again, could he have invented any reason for doing so. But thechild was taken from him at once by its mother, and he was left alonewith Mr. Outhouse. Nora Rowley did not even show herself, and hehardly knew how to express sympathy and friendship for the guests atthe parsonage, without seeming to be untrue to his friend Trevelyan. "I hope all this may come to an end soon, " he said. 

"I hope it may, Mr. Stanbury, " said the clergyman; "but to tell youthe truth, it seems to me that Mr. Trevelyan is so unreasonable aman, so much like a madman indeed, that I hardly know how to lookforward to any future happiness for my niece. " This was spoken withthe utmost severity that Mr. Outhouse could assume. 

"And yet no man loves his wife more tenderly. "

"Tender love should show itself by tender conduct, Mr. Stanbury. Whathas he done to his wife? He has blackened her name among all hisfriends and hers, he has turned her out of his house, he has reviledher, --and then thinks to prove how good he is by sending her money. The only possible excuse is that he must be mad. "

Stanbury went back to the Full Moon, and retraced his steps with hisfriend towards Lincoln's Inn. Two minutes took him from the parsonageto the public-house, but during these two minutes he resolved thathe would speak his mind roundly to Trevelyan as they returned home. Trevelyan should either take his wife back again at once, or else he, Stanbury, would have no more to do with him. He said nothing tillthey had threaded together the maze of streets which led them fromthe neighbourhood of the Church of St. Diddulph's into the straightway of the Commercial Road. Then he began. "Trevelyan, " said he, "youare wrong in all this from beginning to end. "

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I say. If there was anything in what your wife did tooffend you, a soft word from you would have put it all right. "

"A soft word! How do you know what soft words I used?"

"A soft word now would do it. You have only to bid her come back toyou, and let bygones be bygones, and all would be right. Can't you beman enough to remember that you are a man?"

"Stanbury, I believe you want to quarrel with me. "

"I tell you fairly that I think that you are wrong. "

"They have talked you over to their side. "

"I know nothing about sides. I only know that you are wrong. "

"And what would you have me do?"

"Go and travel together for six months. " Here was Lady Milborough'sreceipt again! "Travel together for a year if you will. Then comeback and live where you please. People will have forgotten it;--or ifthey remember it, what matters? No sane person can advise you to goon as you are doing now. "

But it was of no avail. Before they had reached the Bank the twofriends had quarrelled and had parted. Then Trevelyan felt that therewas indeed no one left to him but Bozzle. On the following morning hesaw Bozzle, and on the evening of the next day he was in Paris. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

HUGH STANBURY SMOKES ANOTHER PIPE. 

Trevelyan was gone, and Bozzle alone knew his address. During thefirst fortnight of her residence at St. Diddulph's Mrs. Trevelyanreceived two letters from Lady Milborough, in both of which shewas recommended, indeed tenderly implored, to be submissive toher husband. "Anything, " said Lady Milborough, "is better thanseparation. " In answer to the second letter Mrs. Trevelyan told theold lady that she had no means by which she could shew any submissionto her husband, even if she were so minded. Her husband had goneaway, she did not know whither, and she had no means by which shecould communicate with him. And then came a packet to her from herfather and mother, despatched from the islands after the receipt byLady Rowley of the melancholy tidings of the journey to NuncombePutney. Both Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley were full of anger againstTrevelyan, and wrote as though the husband could certainly be broughtback to a sense of his duty, if they only were present. This packethad been at Nuncombe Putney, and contained a sealed note from SirMarmaduke addressed to Mr. Trevelyan. Lady Rowley explained that itwas impossible that they should get to England earlier than in thespring. "I would come myself at once and leave papa to follow, " saidLady Rowley, "only for the children. If I were to bring them, Imust take a house for them, and the expense would ruin us. Papa haswritten to Mr. Trevelyan in a way that he thinks will bring him toreason. "

But how was this letter, by which the husband was to be brought toreason, to be put into the husband's hands? Mrs. Trevelyan appliedto Mr. Bideawhile and to Lady Milborough, and to Stanbury, forTrevelyan's address; but was told by each of them that nothing wasknown of his whereabouts. She did not apply to Mr. Bozzle, althoughMr. Bozzle was more than once in her neighbourhood; but as yet sheknew nothing of Mr. Bozzle. The replies from Mr. Bideawhile and fromLady Milborough came by the post; but Hugh Stanbury thought that dutyrequired him to make another journey to St. Diddulph's and carry hisown answer with him. 

And on this occasion Fortune was either very kind to him, --or veryunkind. Whichever it was, he found himself alone for a few secondsin the parsonage parlour with Nora Rowley. Mr. Outhouse was away atthe time. Emily had gone up-stairs for the boy; and Mrs. Outhouse, suspecting nothing, had followed her. "Miss Rowley, " said he, gettingup from his seat, "if you think it will do any good I will followTrevelyan till I find him. "

"How can you find him? Besides, why should you give up your ownbusiness?"

"I would do anything--to serve your sister. " This he said withhesitation in his voice, as though he did not dare to speak all thathe desired to have spoken. 

"I am sure that Emily is very grateful, " said Nora; "but she wouldnot wish to give you such trouble as that. "

"I would do anything for your sister, " he repeated, "--for your sake, Miss Rowley. " This was the first time that he had ever spoken a wordto her in such a strain, and it would be hardly too much to say thather heart was sick for some such expression. But now that it hadcome, though there was a sweetness about it that was delicious toher, she was absolutely silenced by it. And she was at once not onlysilent, but stern, rigid, and apparently cold. Stanbury could not butfeel as he looked at her that he had offended her. "Perhaps I oughtnot to say as much, " said he; "but it is so. "

"Mr. Stanbury, " said she, "that is nonsense. It is of my sister, notof me, that we are speaking. "

Then the door was opened and Emily came in with her child, followedby her aunt. There was no other opportunity, and perhaps it was wellfor Nora and for Hugh that there should have been no other. Enoughhad been said to give her comfort; and more might have led to hisdiscomposure. As to that matter on which he was presumed to have cometo St. Diddulph's, he could do nothing. He did not know Trevelyan'saddress, but did know that Trevelyan had abandoned the chambers inLincoln's Inn. And then he found himself compelled to confess that hehad quarrelled with Trevelyan, and that they had parted in anger onthe day of their joint visit to the East. "Everybody who knows himmust quarrel with him, " said Mrs. Outhouse. Hugh when he took hisleave was treated by them all as a friend who had been gained. Mrs. Outhouse was gracious to him. Mrs. Trevelyan whispered a word to himof her own trouble. "If I can hear anything of him, you may be surethat I will let you know, " he said. Then it was Nora's turn to bidhim adieu. There was nothing to be said. No word could be spokenbefore others that should be of any avail. But as he took her handin his he remembered the reticence of her fingers on that former day, and thought that he was sure there was a difference. 

On this occasion he made his journey back to the end of Chancery Laneon the top of an omnibus; and as he lit his little pipe, disregardingaltogether the scrutiny of the public, thoughts passed through hismind similar to those in which he had indulged as he sat smoking onthe corner of the churchyard wall at Nuncombe Putney. He declared tohimself that he did love this girl; and as it was so, would it not bebetter, at any rate more manly, that he should tell her so honestly, than go on groping about with half-expressed words when he saw her, thinking of her and yet hardly daring to go near her, bidding himselfto forget her although he knew that such forgetting was impossible, hankering after the sound of her voice and the touch of her hand, andsomething of the tenderness of returned affection, --and yet regardingher as a prize altogether out of his reach! Why should she be outof his reach? She had no money, and he had not a couple of hundredpounds in the world. But he was earning an income which would givethem both shelter and clothes and bread and cheese. 

What reader is there, male or female, of such stories as is this, whohas not often discussed in his or her own mind the different sides ofthis question of love and marriage? On either side enough may be saidby any arguer to convince at any rate himself. It must be wrong for aman, whose income is both insufficient and precarious also, not onlyto double his own cares and burdens, but to place the weight of thatdoubled burden on other shoulders besides his own, --on shoulders thatare tender and soft, and ill adapted to the carriage of any crushingweight. And then that doubled burden, --that burden of two mouths tobe fed, of two backs to be covered, of two minds to be satisfied, isso apt to double itself again and again. The two so speedily becomefour, and six! And then there is the feeling that that kind ofsemi-poverty, which has in itself something of the pleasantness ofindependence, when it is borne by a man alone, entails the miseriesof a draggle-tailed and querulous existence when it is imposed on awoman who has in her own home enjoyed the comforts of affluence. As aman thinks of all this, if he chooses to argue with himself on thatside, there is enough in the argument to make him feel that not onlyas a wise man but as an honest man, he had better let the young ladyalone. She is well as she is, and he sees around him so many who havetried the chances of marriage and who are not well! Look at Joneswith his wan, worn wife and his five children, Jones who is not yetthirty, of whom he happens to know that the wretched man cannot lookhis doctor in the face, and that the doctor is as necessary to theman's house as is the butcher! What heart can Jones have for his workwith such a burden as this upon his shoulders? And so the thinker, who argues on that side, resolves that the young lady shall go herown way for him. 

But the arguments on the other side are equally cogent, and so muchmore alluring! And they are used by the same man with reference tothe same passion, and are intended by him to put himself right in hisconduct in reference to the same dear girl. Only the former line ofthoughts occurred to him on a Saturday, when he was ending his weekrather gloomily, and this other way of thinking on the same subjecthas come upon him on a Monday, as he is beginning his week withrenewed hope. Does this young girl of his heart love him? And if so, their affection for each other being thus reciprocal, is she notentitled to an expression of her opinion and her wishes on thisdifficult subject? And if she be willing to run the risk and toencounter the dangers, --to do so on his behalf, because she iswilling to share everything with him, --is it becoming in him, a man, to fear what she does not fear? If she be not willing let her say so. If there be any speaking, he must speak first;--but she is entitled, as much as he is, to her own ideas respecting their great outlookinto the affairs of the world. And then is it not manifestly God'sordinance that a man should live together with a woman? How poora creature does the man become who has shirked his duty in thisrespect, who has done nothing to keep the world going, who has beenwilling to ignore all affection so that he might avoid all burdens, and who has put into his own belly every good thing that has come tohim, either by the earning of his own hands or from the bounty andindustry of others! Of course there is a risk; but what excitement isthere in anything in which there is none? So on the Tuesday he speakshis mind to the young lady, and tells her candidly that there will bepotatoes for the two of them, --sufficient, as he hopes, of potatoes, but no more. As a matter of course the young lady replies thatshe for her part will be quite content to take the parings for herown eating. Then they rush deliciously into each other's arms andthe matter is settled. For, though the convictions arising fromthe former line of argument may be set aside as often as need be, those reached from the latter are generally conclusive. That sucha settlement will always be better for the young gentleman and theyoung lady concerned than one founded on a sterner prudence is morethan one may dare to say; but we do feel sure that that country willbe most prosperous in which such leaps in the dark are made with thegreatest freedom. 

Our friend Hugh, as he sat smoking on the knife-board of the omnibus, determined that he would risk everything. If it were ordained thatprudence should prevail, the prudence should be hers. Why should hetake upon himself to have prudence enough for two, seeing that shewas so very discreet in all her bearings? Then he remembered thetouch of her hand, which he still felt upon his palm as he sathandling his pipe, and he told himself that after that he was boundto say a word more. And moreover he confessed to himself that he wascompelled by a feeling that mastered him altogether. He could not getthrough an hour's work without throwing down his pen and thinking ofNora Rowley. It was his destiny to love her, --and there was, to hismind, a mean, pettifogging secrecy, amounting almost to daily lying, in his thus loving her and not telling her that he loved her. Itmight well be that she should rebuke him; but he thought that hecould bear that. It might well be that he had altogether mistakenthat touch of her hand. After all it had been the slightest possiblemotion of no more than one finger. But he would at any rate know thetruth. If she would tell him at once that she did not care for him, he thought that he could get over it; but life was not worth havingwhile he lived in this shifty, dubious, and uncomfortable state. Sohe made up his mind that he would go to St. Diddulph's with his heartin his hand. 

In the mean time, Mr. Bozzle had been twice to St. Diddulph's;--andnow he made a third journey there, two days after Stanbury's visit. Trevelyan, who, in truth, hated the sight of the man, and whosuffered agonies in his presence, had, nevertheless, taught himselfto believe that he could not live without his assistance. That itshould be so was a part of the cruelty of his lot. Who else was therethat he could trust? His wife had renewed her intimacy with ColonelOsborne the moment that she had left him. Mrs. Stanbury, who had beenrepresented to him as the most correct of matrons, had at once beenfalse to him and to her trust, in allowing Colonel Osborne to enterher house. Mr. And Mrs. Outhouse, with whom his wife had now locatedherself, not by his orders, were, of course, his enemies. His oldfriend, Hugh Stanbury, had gone over to the other side, and hadquarrelled with him purposely, with malice prepense, because he wouldnot submit himself to the caprices of the wife who had injured him. His own lawyer had refused to act for him; and his fast and oldestally, the very person who had sounded in his ear the earliest warningnote against that odious villain, whose daily work it was to destroythe peace of families, --even Lady Milborough had turned against him!Because he would not follow the stupid prescription which she, withpig-headed obstinacy, persisted in giving, --because he would notcarry his wife off to Naples, --she was ill-judging and inconsistentenough to tell him that he was wrong! Who was then left to him butBozzle? Bozzle was very disagreeable. Bozzle said things, and madesuggestions to him which were as bad as pins stuck into his flesh. But Bozzle was true to his employer, and could find out facts. Hadit not been for Bozzle, he would have known nothing of the Colonel'sjourney to Devonshire. Had it not been for Bozzle, he would neverhave heard of the correspondence; and, therefore, when he leftLondon, he gave Bozzle a roving commission; and when he went toParis, and from Paris onwards, over the Alps into Italy, he furnishedBozzle with his address. At this time, in the midst of all hismisery, it never occurred to him to inquire of himself whetherit might be possible that his old friends were right, and thathe himself was wrong. From morning to night he sang to himselfmelancholy silent songs of inward wailing, as to the cruelty of hisown lot in life;--and, in the mean time, he employed Bozzle to findout for him how far that cruelty was carried. 

Mr. Bozzle was, of course, convinced that the lady whom he wasemployed to watch was--no better than she ought to be. That is theusual Bozzlian language for broken vows, secrecy, intrigue, dirt, andadultery. It was his business to obtain evidence of her guilt. Therewas no question to be solved as to her innocency. The Bozzlian mindwould have regarded any such suggestion as the product of a greensoftness, the possession of which would have made him quite unfit forhis profession. He was aware that ladies who are no better than theyshould be are often very clever, --so clever, as to make it necessarythat the Bozzles who shall at last confound them should be first-rateBozzles, Bozzles quite at the top of their profession, --and, therefore, he went about his work with great industry and muchcaution. Colonel Osborne was at the present moment in Scotland. Bozzle was sure of that. He was quite in the north of Scotland. Bozzle had examined his map, and had found that Wick, which was theColonel's post-town, was very far north indeed. He had half a mind torun down to Wick, as he was possessed by a certain honest zeal, whichmade him long to do something hard and laborious; but his experiencetold him that it was very easy for the Colonel to come up to theneighbourhood of St. Diddulph's, whereas the lady could not go downto Wick, unless she were to decide upon throwing herself into herlover's arms, --whereby Bozzle's work would be brought to an end. He, therefore, confined his immediate operations to St. Diddulph's. 

He made acquaintance with one or two important persons in and aboutMr. Outhouse's parsonage. He became very familiar with the postman. He arranged terms of intimacy, I am sorry to say, with the housemaid;and, on the third journey, he made an alliance with the potboy at theFull Moon. The potboy remembered well the fact of the child beingbrought to "our 'ouse, " as he called the Full Moon; and he wasenabled to say, that the same "gent as had brought the boy backardsand forrards, " had since that been at the parsonage. But Bozzlewas quite quick enough to perceive that all this had nothing to dowith the Colonel. He was led, indeed, to fear that his "governor, "as he was in the habit of calling Trevelyan in his half-spokensoliloquies, --that his governor was not as true to him as he was tohis governor. What business had that meddling fellow Stanbury at St. Diddulph's?--for Trevelyan had not thought it necessary to tell hissatellite that he had quarrelled with his friend. Bozzle was grievedin his mind when he learned that Stanbury's interference was stillto be dreaded; and wrote to his governor, rather severely, tothat effect; but, when so writing, he was able to give no furtherinformation. Facts, in such cases, will not unravel themselveswithout much patience on the part of the investigators. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

PRISCILLA'S WISDOM. 

 [Illustration]

On the night after the dinner party in the Close, Dorothy was not theonly person in the house who laid awake thinking of what had takenplace. Miss Stanbury also was full of anxiety, and for hour afterhour could not sleep as she remembered the fruitlessness of herefforts on behalf of her nephew and niece. 

It had never occurred to her, when she had first proposed to herselfthat Dorothy should become Mrs. Gibson that Dorothy herself wouldhave any objection to such a step in life. Her fear had been thatDorothy would have become over-radiant with triumph at the idea ofhaving a husband, and going to that husband with a fortune of herown. That Mr. Gibson might hesitate she had thought very likely. It is thus in general that women regard the feelings, desires, andaspirations of other women. You will hardly ever meet an elderly ladywho will not speak of her juniors as living in a state of breathlessanxiety to catch husbands. And the elder lady will speak ofthe younger as though any kind of choice in such catching wasquite disregarded. The man must be a gentleman, --or, at least, gentlemanlike, --and there must be bread. Let these things be given, and what girl won't jump into what man's arms? Female reader, is itnot thus that the elders of your sex speak of the younger? When oldMrs. Stanbury heard that Nora Rowley had refused Mr. Glascock, thething was to her unintelligible; and it was now quite unintelligibleto Miss Stanbury that Dorothy should prefer a single life tomatrimony with Mr. Gibson. 

It must be acknowledged, on Aunt Stanbury's behalf, that Dorothy wasone of those yielding, hesitating, submissive young women, trustingothers, but doubting ever of themselves, as to whom it is naturalthat their stronger friends should find it expedient to decide forthem. Miss Stanbury was almost justified in thinking that unless shewere to find a husband for her niece, her niece would never findone for herself. Dorothy would drift into being an old maid, likePriscilla, simply because she would never assert herself, --neverput her best foot foremost. Aunt Stanbury had therefore taken uponherself to put out a foot; and having carefully found that Mr. Gibson was "willing, " had conceived that all difficulties were over. She would be enabled to do her duty by her niece, and establishcomfortably in life, at any rate, one of her brother's children. Andnow Dorothy was taking upon herself to say that she did not likethe gentleman! Such conduct was almost equal to writing for a pennynewspaper!

On the following morning, after breakfast, when Brooke Burgess wasgone out to call upon his uncle, --which he insisted upon doingopenly, and not under the rose, in spite of Miss Stanbury's greatgravity on the occasion, --there was a very serious conversation, andpoor Dorothy had found herself to be almost silenced. She did arguefor a time; but her arguments seemed, even to herself, to amount toso little! Why shouldn't she love Mr. Gibson? That was a questionwhich she found it impossible to answer. And though she did notactually yield, though she did not say that she would accept the man, still, when she was told that three days were to be allowed to herfor consideration, and that then the offer would be made to herin form, she felt that, as regarded the anti-Gibson interest, shehad not a leg to stand upon. Why should not such an insignificantcreature, as was she, love Mr. Gibson, --or any other man who hadbread to give her, and was in some degree like a gentleman? On thatnight, she wrote the following letter to her sister:--

 The Close, Tuesday. 

 DEAREST PRISCILLA, I do so wish that you could be with me, so that I could talk to you again. Aunt Stanbury is the most affectionate and kindest friend in the world; but she has always been so able to have her own way, because she is both clever and good, that I find myself almost like a baby with her. She has been talking to me again about Mr. Gibson; and it seems that Mr. Gibson really does mean it. It is certainly very strange; but I do think now that it is true. He is to come on Friday. It seems very odd that it should all be settled for him in that way; but then Aunt Stanbury is so clever at settling things!

 He sat next to me almost all the evening yesterday; but he didn't say anything about it, except that he hoped I agreed with him about going to church, and all that. I suppose I do; and I am quite sure that if I were to be a clergyman's wife, I should endeavour to do whatever my husband thought right about religion. One ought to try to do so, even if the clergyman is not one's husband. Mr. Burgess has come, and he was so very amusing all the evening, that perhaps that was the reason Mr. Gibson said so little. Mr. Burgess is a very nice man, and I think Aunt Stanbury is more fond of him than of anybody. He is not at all the sort of person that I expected. 

 But if Mr. Gibson does come on Friday, and does really mean it, what am I to say to him? Aunt Stanbury will be very angry if I do not take her advice. I am quite sure that she intends it all for my happiness; and then, of course, she knows so much more about the world than I do. She asks me what it is that I expect. Of course, I do not expect anything. It is a great compliment from Mr. Gibson, who is a clergyman, and thought well of by everybody. And nothing could be more respectable. Aunt Stanbury says that with the money she would give us we should be quite comfortable; and she wants us to live in this house. She says that there are thirty girls round Exeter who would give their eyes for such a chance; and, looking at it in that light, of course, it is a very great thing for me. Only think how poor we have been! And then, dear Priscilla, perhaps he would let me be good to you and dear mamma!

 But of course he will ask me whether I--love him; and what am I to say? Aunt Stanbury says that I am to love him. "Begin to love him at once, " she said this morning. I would if I could, partly for her sake, and because I do feel that it would be so respectable. When I think of it, it does seem such a pity that poor I should throw away such a chance. And I must say that Mr. Gibson is very good and most obliging; and everybody says that he has an excellent temper, and that he is a most prudent, well-dispositioned man. I declare, dear Priscilla, when I think of it, I cannot bring myself to believe that such a man should want me to be his wife. 

 But what ought I to do? I suppose when a girl is in love she is very unhappy if the gentleman does not propose to her. I am sure it would not make me at all unhappy if I were told that Mr. Gibson had changed his mind. 

 Dearest Priscilla, you must write at once, because he is to be here on Friday. Oh, dear; Friday does seem to be so near! And I shall never know what to say to him, either one way or the other. 

 Your most affectionate sister, DOROTHY STANBURY. 

 P. S. --Give my kindest love to mamma; but you need not tell her unless you think it best. 

Priscilla received this letter on the Wednesday morning, and feltherself bound to answer it on that same afternoon. Had she postponedher reply for a day, it would still have been in Dorothy's handsbefore Mr. Gibson could have come to her on the dreaded Fridaymorning. But still that would hardly give her time enough to considerthe matter with any degree of deliberation after she should have beenarmed with what wisdom Priscilla might be able to send her. The postleft Nuncombe Putney at three; and therefore the letter had to bewritten before their early dinner. 

So Priscilla went into the garden and sat herself down under an oldcedar that she might discuss the matter with herself in all itsbearings. She felt that no woman could be called upon to write aletter that should be of more importance. The whole welfare in lifeof the person who was dearest to her would probably depend upon it. The weight upon her was so great that she thought for a while shewould take counsel with her mother; but she felt sure that her motherwould recommend the marriage; and that if she afterwards should findherself bound to oppose it, then her mother would be a miserablewoman. There could be no use to her in taking counsel with hermother, because her mother's mind was known to her beforehand. Theresponsibility was thrown upon her, and she alone must bear it. 

She tried hard to persuade herself to write at once and tell hersister to marry the man. She knew her sister's heart so well as to besure that Dorothy would learn to love the man who was her husband. Itwas almost impossible that Dorothy should not love those with whomshe lived. And then her sister was so well adapted to be a wife anda mother. Her temper was so sweet, she was so pure, so unselfish, sodevoted, and so healthy withal! She was so happy when she was actingfor others; and so excellent in action when she had another one tothink for her! She was so trusting and trustworthy that any husbandwould adore her! Then Priscilla walked slowly into the house, gother prayer-book, and returning to her seat under the tree read themarriage service. It was one o'clock when she went up-stairs to writeher letter, and it had not yet struck eleven when she first seatedherself beneath the tree. Her letter, when written, was as follows:--

 Nuncombe Putney, August 25, 186--. 

 DEAREST DOROTHY, I got your letter this morning, and I think it is better to answer it at once, as the time is very short. I have been thinking about it with all my mind, and I feel almost awe-stricken lest I should advise you wrongly. After all, I believe that your own dear sweet truth and honesty would guide you better than anybody else can guide you. You may be sure of this, that whichever way it is, I shall think that you have done right. Dearest sister, I suppose there can be no doubt that for most women a married life is happier than a single one. It is always thought so, as we may see by the anxiety of others to get married; and when an opinion becomes general, I think that the world is most often right. And then, my own one, I feel sure that you are adapted both for the cares and for the joys of married life. You would do your duty as a married woman happily, and would be a comfort to your husband;--not a thorn in his side, as are so many women. 

 But, my pet, do not let that reasoning of Aunt Stanbury's about the thirty young girls who would give their eyes for Mr. Gibson, have any weight with you. You should not take him because thirty other young girls would be glad to have him. And do not think too much of that respectability of which you speak. I would never advise my Dolly to marry any man unless she could be respectable in her new position; but that alone should go for nothing. Nor should our poverty. We shall not starve. And even if we did, that would be but a poor excuse. 

 I can find no escape from this, --that you should love him before you say that you will take him. But honest, loyal love need not, I take it, be of that romantic kind which people write about in novels and poetry. You need not think him to be perfect, or the best or grandest of men. Your heart will tell you whether he is dear to you. And remember, Dolly, that I shall remember that love itself must begin at some precise time. Though you had not learned to love him when you wrote on Tuesday, you may have begun to do so when you get this on Thursday. 

 If you find that you love him, then say that you will be his wife. If your heart revolts from such a declaration as being false;--if you cannot bring yourself to feel that you prefer him to others as the partner of your life, --then tell him, with thanks for his courtesy, that it cannot be as he would have it. 

 Yours always and ever most affectionately, PRISCILLA. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

MR. GIBSON'S GOOD FORTUNE. 

"I'll bet you half-a-crown, my lad, you're thrown over at last, likethe rest of them. There's nothing she likes so much as taking someone up in order that she may throw him over afterwards. " It was thusthat Mr. Bartholomew Burgess cautioned his nephew Brooke. 

"I'll take care that she shan't break my heart, Uncle Barty. I willgo my way and she may go hers, and she may give her money to thehospital if she pleases. "

On the morning after his arrival Brooke Burgess had declared aloudin Miss Stanbury's parlour that he was going over to the bank to seehis uncle. Now there was in this almost a breach of contract. MissStanbury, when she invited the young man to Exeter, had stipulatedthat there should be no intercourse between her house and the bank. "Of course, I shall not need to know where you go or where you don'tgo, " she had written; "but after all that has passed there must notbe any positive intercourse between my house and the bank. " And nowhe had spoken of going over to C and B, as he called them, with theutmost indifference. Miss Stanbury had looked very grave, but hadsaid nothing. She had determined to be on her guard, so that sheshould not be driven to quarrel with Brooke if she could avoid it. 

Bartholomew Burgess was a tall, thin, ill-tempered old man, aswell-known in Exeter as the cathedral, and respected after a fashion. No one liked him. He said ill-natured things of all his neighbours, and had never earned any reputation for doing good-natured acts. Buthe had lived in Exeter for nearly seventy years, and had achievedthat sort of esteem which comes from long tenure. And he hadcommitted no great iniquities in the course of his fifty years ofbusiness. The bank had never stopped payment, and he had robbed noone. He had not swallowed up widows and orphans, and had done hiswork in the firm of Cropper and Burgess after the old-fashioned safemanner, which leads neither to riches nor to ruin. Therefore he wasrespected. But he was a discontented, sour old man, who believedhimself to have been injured by all his own friends, who dislikedhis own partners because they had bought that which had, at any rate, never belonged to him;--and whose strongest passion it was to hateMiss Stanbury of the Close. 

"She's got a parson by the hand, now, " said the uncle, as hecontinued his caution to the nephew. 

"There was a clergyman there last night. "

"No doubt, and she'll play him off against you, and you against him;and then she'll throw you both over. I know her. "

"She has got a right to do what she likes with her own, Uncle Barty. "

"And how did she get it? Never mind. I'm not going to set you againsther, if you're her favourite for the moment. She has a niece with herthere, --hasn't she?"

"One of her brother's daughters. "

"They say she's going to make that clergyman marry her. "

"What;--Mr. Gibson?"

"Yes. They tell me he was as good as engaged to another girl, --one ofthe Frenches of Heavitree. And therefore dear Jemima could do nothingbetter than interfere. When she has succeeded in breaking the girl'sheart--"

"Which girl's heart, Uncle Barty?"

"The girl the man was to have married; when that's done she'll throwGibson over. You'll see. She'll refuse to give the girl a shilling. She took the girl's brother by the hand ever so long, and then shethrew him over. And she'll throw the girl over too, and send her backto the place she came from. And then she'll throw you over. "

"According to you, she must be the most malicious old woman that everwas allowed to live!"

"I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. Butyou'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were totell you before long that you were to marry the niece. "

"I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either, " said BrookeBurgess. 

"I've no doubt you may have her if you like, " said Barty, "in spiteof Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get themoney first. "

When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury wasquite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have beentold something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned whatBarty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even tomention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure thatshe had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested toherself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But shehad resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a whilenot to remember the young man's declared intention when he left thehouse. "It seems odd to me, " said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty shouldalways live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it. "

"I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living. "

"No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends. "

"By no means, Brooke. "

"He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody evergoes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?"

"I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tellyou the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Ofcourse, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather youdidn't tell me of your visits afterwards. "

"There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret, " said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury'ssecret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to herrelations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of havingsecrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. 

"If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in theface. 

"I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me. "

"He has chosen to believe, --or to say that he believed, --that Iwronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brotherwhen he was dying, --as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannottell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is verypretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholymatter. They are most happy who have no story to tell. "

"I quite believe that. "

"But your Uncle Barty chose to think, --indeed, I hardly know whathe thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When itwas made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speakingterms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am notvery proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myselfbetter than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before wehad come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I shouldgo to him, --after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?"

"It was womanly. "

"But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgessmight have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. Buthe has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet. "

"He could not bring himself to do that, I should say. "

"The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger toget either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had knownthat a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue outbefore it should have been spoken. " She had risen from her seat, andwas speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener withawe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood overhim, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead, "she continued, "and the will was there, --the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear theresponsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It wasBarty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by allthe right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than havehad a crust of bread out of the money. " She had now clenched both herfists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, lookingdown upon him. 

"Of course it was your own. "

"Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me tofrighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever therewas a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and striveto make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will wasgood. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt. "

"I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury. "

"Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget thehistory of its own life? No, --I cannot forget it. I can forgive it. "

"Then why not forgive it?"

"I do. I have. Why else are you here?"

"But forgive old Uncle Barty also!"

"Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how shouldI begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think, --or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is thebest point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of areconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other. "

"Then I certainly would not try. "

"I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have itall when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take towriting for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked thequestion she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. 

"I certainly shan't offend in that way. "

"And you won't be a Radical?"

"No, not a Radical. "

"I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, aputter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take upthat line, will you, Brooke?"

"It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn'tpromise. "

"Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is comingto. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don'tpronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used tobe a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met agentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?"

"Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him. "

"But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about myniece, Dolly Stanbury?"

"I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl. "

"She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson. "

"Are they engaged?"

"Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that Ishould give my little savings to one of my own name?"

"You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I shouldbegrudge anything that you might do with your money. "

"Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months sinceshe came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't takenup those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on theirheads?"

"I was speaking to them yesterday. "

"Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they tryto make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is notlike that;--is she?"

"She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches. "

"And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken. "

"Is he?"

"Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner andafterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit ofmoney, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think itwould be such a nice thing for Dolly. "

"And what does Dolly think about it?"

"There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of thosewho think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--"

"She has an objection. "

"I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful andmodest she doesn't like to talk of being married, --even to an oldwoman like me. "

"Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?"

"It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes, --and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe thatCamilla French did ask Mr. Gibson. "

"And what did Mr. Gibson say?"

"Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about totake her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be outof the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a wordto you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought toaccept Gibson. "

"She's too good for him, according to my thinking. "

"Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good fora gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do youknow, --only you must not mention this, --that I have a kind of ideathat we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family. "

No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything infavour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be veryquickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; butshe was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to suchan affair as this, --a question as to whether she should or should notgive herself in marriage to her suitor, --she, who could not speakof it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confusedand almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions andinstigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear BrookeBurgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier toknow than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said asmuch to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months thatshe had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, andabout Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and theLondon theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They hadbecome quite confidential with each other on some matters. But onthis heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage nota word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on theThursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity ofescaping from the room. 

But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson wereinvited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Suchinvitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and boththe gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French hadcalled in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It waswell understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would notdrink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was notin truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at homefor me, my dear, " Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy hadnot been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, andunderstood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence thepractice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, MissStanbury; and Mr. Gibson, " Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury hadthought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can gowhere he pleases, my dear, " Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper. " The tone in which Miss Stanburyspoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladiesunderstood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that itwas so. 

There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French'sdrawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. AndMrs. MacHugh came also, --knowing that there would be a rubber. "Theirnaked shoulders don't hurt me, " Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friendalmost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. Idon't care what they do to themselves. " "You might say as much ifthey went naked altogether, " Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "Ifnobody else complained, I shouldn't, " said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHughgot her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinctpromise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, shefelt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does itmatter to me, " said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not goingto be my wife. " "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head bothin anger and disgust. 

Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by MissStanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And itseemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, andfelt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now thathe was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enoughalso that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she musthave admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury werevery strong. On this evening it seemed to have been speciallypermitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her ownhands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hithertodeclared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constantcoupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to huntalone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some specialstrategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibsonduring the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporaryconsolation in the presence of the stranger. 

"I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?"said Camilla. 

"A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see allDevonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeterthoroughly and everybody in it. "

"I'm sure we are very much flattered. "

"As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here. "

"Who can have spoken to you about me?"

"You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think myUncle Barty never writes to me?"

"Not about me. "

"Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?"

"But she hates me. I know that. "

"And do you hate her?"

"No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a littleodd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; andwe've known her ever so long, six or seven years, --since we werequite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls. "

"What sort of notions?"

"She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks thatthey should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I wasflirting with you, because we're sitting together. "

"But you are not; are you?"

"Of course I am not. "

"I wish you would, " said Brooke. 

"I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know whatflirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies andgentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other. "

"But very often they don't, you know. "

"I call that stupid, " said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all theold maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I alwaystalk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest. "

"No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow, " said Brooke. 

"You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess. "

"I meant nothing of the kind. "

"But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call stillwater. She runs deep enough. "

"The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life. "

"Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?"

"Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson. "

"You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been askedyet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled. "

"Just at present he seems to me to be, --what shall I say?--I oughtn'tto say flirting with your sister; ought I?"

"Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the factis, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, andof course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never beenanything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would benothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as wecan see, --and we do see a good deal of him, --there is no such feelingon his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of sucha thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am notquite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would makehim a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eightyears you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we thinkher, --perhaps a little, --sly. "

In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individualcharms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part ofher description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy couldnot with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of theyoung ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven oreight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If itbe a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want ofhusbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is notaltogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure willbe disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. MissStanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibsonand the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submitto interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, beadmitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour intheir pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardourand no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right whichforbids to women any such attempts, --which teaches them that theymust ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall beno discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever thepursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon itwithout an effort. That the French girls should be very angry withMiss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with theintention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things ofpoor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yetresolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of valuethat was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. 

"You are a good deal at the house in the Close now, " said Arabella, in her lowest voice, --in a voice so low that it was almostmelancholy. 

"Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friendof mine. And she takes an interest in my little church. " People saythat girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. 

"It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson. "

"I don't know why you should say that, Miss French. "

"Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeterthat mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happywith Miss Stanbury that is everything. "

"I am speaking of the old lady, " said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite ofhis slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. 

"And I am speaking of the old lady too, " said Arabella. "Of whom elseshould I be speaking?"

"No;--of course not. "

"Of course, " continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about theniece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but Idon't believe that, I can assure you. " As she said this, she lookedinto his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had noanswer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to bedone it must be done at once. What use was there in beating roundthe bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had bydashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad, " she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouththat it is not true. "

Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing totell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmostcandour, he could not answer her question either one way or theother, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It wascertainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages betweenhim and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and thegentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was beingcross-examined at the present moment, --the gentleman usually teacheshimself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentlemancan hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and haschanged his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even thanshe does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin inthe cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself somelatitude. 

"You are only joking, of course, " he said. 

"Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that thewelfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter ofjoke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged tomarry Dorothy Stanbury. "

"What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?"

"I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?"

"Certainly not. "

"And there is nothing in it;--is there?"

"I wonder why people make these reports, " said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. 

 [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports. "]

"It is a fabrication from beginning to end then, " said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close tohim, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes wassoft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, asit would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dresswas not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fellacross his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was asone under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempteravaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!"

"Of course, it is not so, " said Mr. Gibson--lying. 

"I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thoughta great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom hemarries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. Andwe didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut upin a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we allpitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her tothe Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her asan acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife, --and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equalenthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy, --so happy; and soshe left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extractedfrom him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to theraptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgracedhimself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, ifDorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet howhardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatibleboth with the truth and with his own personal dignity?

About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter withBrooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. 

"Nice girls those Frenches, I think, " said Brooke. 

"Very nice, " said Mr. Gibson. 

"How Miss Stanbury does hate them, " says Brooke. 

"Not hate them, I hope, " said Mr. Gibson. 

"She doesn't love them;--does she?"

"Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense, --I hope she does. MissStanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly. "

"What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going tomarry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know. "

"Dear me! What a very odd supposition, " said Mr. Gibson. 

"For my part, I don't think I shall, " said Brooke. 

"I don't suppose I shall either, " said Mr. Gibson, with a gravitywhich was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. 

"A fellow might do worse, you know, " said Brooke. "For my part, Irather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But theworst of it is, one can't marry two at a time. "

"That would be bigamy, " said Mr. Gibson. 

"Just so, " said Brooke. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. 

Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibsonknocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must notimagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard toDorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by thepertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thoughtof being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that naturewould have been ruinous to him, --would have made him a marked man inthe city all his days, and would probably have reached even to thebishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, norfoolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though thewiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferredDorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is moretrying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella hadmanaged to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soonas he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whateverlittle trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his dutyto marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, twothousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying whatother and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind wasquite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouringto drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from hismemory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offerto Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular abouthis words, as Dorothy, from the bashfulness of her nature, would beno judge of eloquence at such a time. But still, for his own sake, there should be some form of expression, some propriety of diction. Before eleven o'clock he had it all by heart, and had nearly freedhimself from the uneasiness of his falsehood to Arabella. He hadgiven much serious thought to the matter, and had quite resolved thathe was right in his purpose, and that he could marry Dorothy with apure conscience, and with a true promise of a husband's love. "DearDolly!" he said to himself, with something of enthusiasm as he walkedacross the Close. And he looked up to the house as he came to it. There was to be his future home. There was not one of the prebendswho had a better house. And there was a dove-like softness aboutDorothy's eyes, and a winning obedience in her manner, that werecharming. His lines had fallen to him in very pleasant places. Yes;--he would go up to her, and take her at once by the hand, andask her whether she would be his, now and for ever. He would notlet go her hand till he had brought her so close to him that shecould hide her blushes on his shoulder. The whole thing had been sowell conceived, had become so clear to his mind, that he felt nohesitation or embarrassment as he knocked at the door. ArabellaFrench would, no doubt, hear of it soon. Well;--she must hear of it. After all she could do him no injury. 

He was shown up at once into the drawing-room, and there hefound--Miss Stanbury the elder. "Oh, Mr. Gibson!" she said at once. 

"Is anything the matter with--dear Dorothy?"

"She is the most obstinate, pig-headed young woman I ever came acrosssince the world began. "

"You don't say so! But what is it, Miss Stanbury?"

"What is it? Why just this. Nothing on earth that I can say to herwill induce her to come down and speak to you. "

"Have I offended her?"

"Offended a fiddlestick! Offence indeed! An offer from an honest man, with her friends' approval, and a fortune at her back, as though shehad been born with a gold spoon in her mouth! And she tells me thatshe can't, and won't, and wouldn't, and shouldn't, as though I wereasking her to walk the streets. I declare I don't know what has cometo the young women;--or what it is they want. One would have thoughtthat butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "

"But what is the reason, Miss Stanbury?"

"Oh, reason! You don't suppose people give reasons in these days. What reason have they when they dress themselves up with bandboxes ontheir sconces? Just simply the old reason--'I do not like thee, Dr. Fell;--why I cannot tell. '"

"May I not see her myself, Miss Stanbury?"

"I can't make her come down-stairs to you. I've been at her the wholemorning, Mr. Gibson. Ever since daylight, pretty nearly. She cameinto my room before I was up, and told me she had made up her mind. I've coaxed, and scolded, and threatened, and cried;--but if she'dbeen a milestone it couldn't have been of less use. I told her shemight go back to Nuncombe, and she just went off to pack up. "

"But she's not to go?"

"How can I say what such a young woman will do? I'm never allowed away of my own for a moment. There's Brooke Burgess been scolding meat that rate I didn't know whether I stood on my head or my heels. And I don't know now. "

Then there was a pause, while Mr. Gibson was endeavouring to decidewhat would now be his best course of action. "Don't you think she'llever come round, Miss Stanbury?"

"I don't think she'll ever come any way that anybody wants her tocome, Mr. Gibson. "

"I didn't think she was at all like that, " said Mr. Gibson, almost intears. 

"No, --nor anybody else. I've been seeing it come all the same. It'sjust the Stanbury perversity. If I'd wanted to keep her by herself, to take care of me, and had set my back up at her if she spoke toa man, and made her understand that she wasn't to think of gettingmarried, she'd have been making eyes at every man that came into thehouse. It's just what one gets for going out of one's way. I didthink she'd be so happy, Mr. Gibson, living here as your wife. Sheand I between us could have managed for you so nicely. "

Mr. Gibson was silent for a minute or two, during which he walked upand down the room, --contemplating, no doubt, the picture of marriedlife which Miss Stanbury had painted for him, --a picture which, asit seemed, was not to be realised. "And what had I better do, MissStanbury?" he asked at last. 

"Do! I don't know what you're to do. I'm groom enough to bring a mareto water, but I can't make her drink. "

"Will waiting be any good?"

"How can I say? I'll tell you one thing not to do. Don't go andphilander with those girls at Heavitree. It's my belief that Dorothyhas been thinking of them. People talk to her, of course. "

"I wish people would hold their tongues. People are so indiscreet. People don't know how much harm they may do. "

"You've given them some excuse, you know, Mr. Gibson. "

This was very ill-natured, and was felt by Mr. Gibson to be so rude, that he almost turned upon his patroness in anger. He had known Dollyfor not more than three months, and had devoted himself to her, tothe great anger of his older friends. He had come this morning trueto his appointment, expecting that others would keep their promisesto him, as he was ready to keep those which he had made;--and now hewas told that it was his fault! "I do think that's rather hard, MissStanbury, " he said. 

"So you have, " said she;--"nasty, slatternly girls, without an ideainside their noddles. But it's no use your scolding me. "

"I didn't mean to scold, Miss Stanbury. "

"I've done all that I could. "

"And you think she won't see me for a minute?"

"She says she won't. I can't bid Martha carry her down. "

"Then, perhaps, I had better leave you for the present, " said Mr. Gibson, after another pause. So he went, a melancholy, blighted man. Leaving the Close, he passed through into Southernhay, and walkedacross by the new streets towards the Heavitree road. He had nodesign in taking this route, but he went on till he came in sightof the house in which Mrs. French lived. As he walked slowly by it, he looked up at the windows, and something of a feeling of romancecame across his heart. Were his young affections buried there, orwere they not? And, if so, with which of those fair girls werethey buried? For the last two years, up to last night, Camilla hadcertainly been in the ascendant. But Arabella was a sweet youngwoman; and there had been a time, --when those tender passages weregoing on, --in which he had thought that no young woman ever was sosweet. A period of romance, an era of enthusiasm, a short-lived, delicious holiday of hot-tongued insanity had been permitted to himin his youth;--but all that was now over. And yet here he was, withthree strings to his bow, --so he told himself, --and he had not as yetsettled for himself the great business of matrimony. He was inclinedto think, as he walked on, that he would walk his life alone, anactive, useful, but a melancholy man. After such experiences ashis, how should he ever again speak of his heart to a woman? Duringthis walk, his mind recurred frequently to Dorothy Stanbury; and, doubtless, he thought that he had often spoken of his heart to her. He was back at his lodgings before three, at which hour he ate anearly dinner, and then took the afternoon cathedral service at four. The evening he spent at home, thinking of the romance of his earlydays. What would Miss Stanbury have said, had she seen him in hiseasy chair behind the "Exeter Argus, "--with a pipe in his mouth?

In the meantime, there was an uncomfortable scene in progress betweenDorothy and her aunt. Brooke Burgess, as desired, had left the housebefore eleven, having taken upon himself, when consulted, to say inthe mildest terms, that he thought that, in general, young womenshould not be asked to marry if they did not like to;--which opinionhad been so galling to Miss Stanbury that she had declared that hehad so scolded her, that she did not know whether she was standingon her head or her heels. As soon as Mr. Gibson left her, she satherself down, and fairly cried. She had ardently desired this thing, and had allowed herself to think of her desire as of one that wouldcertainly be accomplished. Dorothy would have been so happy as thewife of a clergyman! Miss Stanbury's standard for men and women wasnot high. She did not expect others to be as self-sacrificing, ascharitable, and as good as herself. It was not that she gave toherself credit for such virtues; but she thought of herself as onewho, from the peculiar circumstances of life, was bound to do muchfor others. There was no end to her doing good for others, --if onlythe others would allow themselves to be governed by her. She did notthink that Mr. Gibson was a great divine; but she perceived that hewas a clergyman, living decently, --of that secret pipe Miss Stanburyknew nothing, --doing his duty punctually, and, as she thought, verymuch in want of a wife. Then there was her niece, Dolly, --soft, pretty, feminine, without a shilling, and much in want of some oneto comfort and take care of her. What could be better than such amarriage! And the overthrow to the girls with the big chignons wouldbe so complete! She had set her mind upon it, and now Dorothy saidthat it couldn't, and it wouldn't, and it shouldn't be accomplished!She was to be thrown over by this chit of a girl, as she had beenthrown over by the girl's brother! And, when she complained, the girlsimply offered to go away!

At about twelve Dorothy came creeping down into the room in which heraunt was sitting, and pretended to occupy herself on some piece ofwork. For a considerable time, --for three minutes perhaps, --MissStanbury did not speak. She had resolved that she would not speakto her niece again, --at least, not for that day. She would let theungrateful girl know how miserable she had been made. But at theclose of the three minutes her patience was exhausted. "What are youdoing there?" she said. 

"I am quilting your cap, Aunt Stanbury. "

"Put it down. You shan't do anything for me. I won't have you touchmy things any more. I don't like pretended service. "

"It is not pretended, Aunt Stanbury. "

"I say it is pretended. Why did you pretend to me that you would havehim when you had made up your mind against it all the time?"

"But I hadn't--made up my mind. "

"If you had so much doubt about it, you might have done what I wantedyou. "

"I couldn't, Aunt Stanbury. "

"You mean you wouldn't. I wonder what it is you do expect. "

"I don't expect anything, Aunt Stanbury. "

"No; and I don't expect anything. What an old fool I am ever to lookfor any comfort. Why should I think that anybody would care for me?"

"Indeed, I do care for you. "

"In what sort of way do you show it? You're just like your brotherHugh. I've disgraced myself to that man, --promising what I could notperform. I declare it makes me sick when I think of it. Why did younot tell me at once?" Dorothy said nothing further, but sat with thecap on her lap. She did not dare to resume her needle, and she didnot like to put the cap aside, as by doing so it would seem as thoughshe had accepted her aunt's prohibition against her work. For halfan hour she sat thus, during which time Miss Stanbury dropped asleep. She woke with a start, and began to scold again. "What's the good ofsitting there all the day, with your hands before you, doingnothing?"

But Dorothy had been very busy. She had been making up her mind, and had determined to communicate her resolution to her aunt. "Dearaunt, " she said, "I have been thinking of something. "

"It's too late now, " said Miss Stanbury. 

"I see I've made you very unhappy. "

"Of course you have. "

"And you think that I'm ungrateful. I'm not ungrateful, and I don'tthink that Hugh is. "

"Never mind Hugh. "

"Only because it seems so hard that you should take so much troubleabout us, and that then there should be so much vexation. "

"I find it very hard. "

"So I think that I'd better go back to Nuncombe. "

"That's what you call gratitude. "

"I don't like to stay here and make you unhappy. I can't think that Iought to have done what you asked me, because I did not feel at allin that way about Mr. Gibson. But as I have only disappointed you, it will be better that I should go home. I have been very happyhere, --very. "

"Bother!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury. 

"I have, --and I do love you, though you won't believe it. But I amsure I oughtn't to remain to make you unhappy. I shall never forgetall that you have done for me; and though you call me ungrateful, Iam not. But I know that I ought not to stay, as I cannot do what youwish. So, if you please, I will go back to Nuncombe. "

"You'll not do anything of the kind, " said Miss Stanbury. 

"But it will be better. "

"Yes, of course; no doubt. I suppose you're tired of us all. "

"It is not that I'm tired, Aunt Stanbury. It isn't that at all. "Dorothy had now become red up to the roots of her hair, and her eyeswere full of tears. "But I cannot stay where people think that Iam ungrateful. If you please, Aunt Stanbury, I will go. " Then, ofcourse, there was a compromise. Dorothy did at last consent to remainin the Close, but only on condition that she should be forgiven forher sin in reference to Mr. Gibson, and be permitted to go on withher aunt's cap. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

MONT CENIS. 

 [Illustration]

The night had been fine and warm, and it was now noon on a fineSeptember day when the train from Paris reached St. Michael, on theroute to Italy by Mont Cenis, --as all the world knows St. Michaelis, or was a year or two back, the end of railway travelling inthat direction. At the time Mr. Fell's grand project of carrying aline of rails over the top of the mountain was only in preparation, and the journey from St. Michael to Susa was still made by thediligences, --those dear old continental coaches which are now nearlyas extinct as our own, but which did not deserve death so fully asdid our abominable vehicles. The coupé of a diligence, or betterstill, the banquette, was a luxurious mode of travelling as comparedwith anything that our coaches offered. There used indeed to be acertain halo of glory round the occupant of the box of a mail-coach. The man who had secured that seat was supposed to know somethingabout the world, and to be such a one that the passengers sittingbehind him would be proud to be allowed to talk to him. But theprestige of the position was greater than the comfort. A night onthe box of a mail-coach was but a bad time, and a night inside amail-coach was a night in purgatory. Whereas a seat up above, on thebanquette of a diligence passing over the Alps, with room for thefeet, and support for the back, with plenty of rugs and plenty oftobacco, used to be on the Mont Cenis, and still is on some othermountain passes, a very comfortable mode of seeing a mountain route. For those desirous of occupying the coupé, or the three front seatsof the body of the vehicle, it must be admitted that difficultiesfrequently arose; and that such difficulties were very common atSt. Michael. There would be two or three of those enormous vehiclespreparing to start for the mountain, whereas it would appear thattwelve or fifteen passengers had come down from Paris armed withtickets assuring them that this preferable mode of travelling shouldbe theirs. And then assertions would be made, somewhat recklessly, by the officials, to the effect that all the diligence was coupé. It would generally be the case that some middle-aged Englishman whocould not speak French would go to the wall, together with his wife. Middle-aged Englishmen with their wives, who can't speak French, cannevertheless be very angry, and threaten loudly, when they supposethemselves to be ill-treated. A middle-aged Englishman, though hecan't speak a word of French, won't believe a French official whotells him that the diligence is all coupé, when he finds himselfwith his unfortunate partner in a roundabout place behind with twopriests, a dirty man who looks like a brigand, a sick maid-servant, and three agricultural labourers. The attempt, however, wasfrequently made, and thus there used to be occasionally a littlenoise round the bureau at St. Michael. 

On the morning of which we are speaking two Englishmen had just madegood their claim, each independently of the other, each withouthaving heard or seen the other, when two American ladies, coming upvery tardily, endeavoured to prove their rights. The ladies werewithout other companions, and were not fluent with their French, but were clearly entitled to their seats. They were told that theconveyance was all coupé, but perversely would not believe thestatement. The official shrugged his shoulders and signified thathis ultimatum had been pronounced. What can an official do in suchcircumstances, when more coupé passengers are sent to him than thecoupés at his command will hold? "But we have paid for the coupé, "said the elder American lady, with considerable indignation, thoughher French was imperfect;--for American ladies understand theirrights. "Bah; yes; you have paid and you shall go. What would youhave?" "We would have what we have paid for, " said the American lady. Then the official rose from his stool and shrugged his shouldersagain, and made a motion with both his hands, intended to shew thatthe thing was finished. "It is a robbery, " said the elder Americanlady to the younger. "I should not mind, only you are so unwell. ""It will not kill me, I dare say, " said the younger. Then one ofthe English gentlemen declared that his place was very much at theservice of the invalid, --and the other Englishman declared that hisalso was at the service of the invalid's companion. Then, and nottill then, the two men recognised each other. One was Mr. Glascock, on his way to Naples, and the other was Mr. Trevelyan, on hisway, --he knew not whither. 

Upon this, of course, they spoke to each other. In London they hadbeen well acquainted, each having been an intimate guest at the houseof old Lady Milborough. And each knew something of the other's recenthistory. Mr. Glascock was aware, as was all the world, that Trevelyanhad quarrelled with his wife; and Trevelyan was aware that Mr. Glascock had been spoken of as a suitor to his own sister-in-law. Ofthat visit which Mr. Glascock had made to Nuncombe Putney, and ofthe manner in which Nora had behaved to her lover, Trevelyan knewnothing. Their greetings spoken, their first topic of conversationwas, of course, the injury proposed to be done to the Americanladies, and which would now fall upon them. They went into thewaiting-room together, and during such toilet as they could makethere, grumbled furiously. They would take post horses over themountain, not from any love of solitary grandeur, but in order thatthey might make the company pay for its iniquity. But it was soonapparent to them that they themselves had no ground of complaint, andas everybody was very civil, and as a seat in the banquette over theheads of the American ladies was provided for them, and as the manfrom the bureau came and apologised, they consented to be pacified, and ended, of course, by tipping half-a-dozen of the servants aboutthe yard. Mr. Glascock had a man of his own with him, who was verynearly being put on to the same seat with his master as an extracivility; but this inconvenience was at last avoided. Having settledthese little difficulties, they went into breakfast in the buffet. 

There could be no better breakfast than used to be given in thebuffet at the railway terminus at St. Michael. The company mightoccasionally be led into errors about that question of coupé seats, but in reference to their provisions, they set an example which mightbe of great use to us here in England. It is probably the case thatbreakfasts for travellers are not so frequently needed here as theyare on the Continent; but, still, there is often to be found a crowdof people ready to eat if only the wherewithal were there. We areoften told in our newspapers that England is disgraced by this andby that; by the unreadiness of our army, by the unfitness of ournavy, by the irrationality of our laws, by the immobility of ourprejudices, and what not; but the real disgrace of England is therailway sandwich, --that whited sepulchre, fair enough outside, butso meagre, poor, and spiritless within, such a thing of shreds andparings, such a dab of food, telling us that the poor bone whence itwas scraped had been made utterly bare before it was sent into thekitchen for the soup pot. In France one does get food at the railwaystations, and at St. Michael the breakfast was unexceptional. 

Our two friends seated themselves near to the American ladies, andwere, of course, thanked for their politeness. American women aretaught by the habits of their country to think that men should giveway to them more absolutely than is in accordance with the practicesof life in Europe. A seat in a public conveyance in the States, whenmerely occupied by a man, used to be regarded by any woman as beingat her service as completely as though it were vacant. One womanindicating a place to another would point with equal freedom to a manor a space. It is said that this is a little altered now, and thatEuropean views on this subject are spreading themselves. Our twoladies, however, who were pretty, clever-looking, and attractive evenafter the night's journey, were manifestly more impressed with thevillainy of the French officials than they were with the kindness oftheir English neighbours. 

"And nothing can be done to punish them?" said the younger of them toMr. Glascock. 

"Nothing, I should think, " said he. "Nothing will, at any rate. "

"And you will not get back your money?" said the elder, --who, thoughthe elder, was probably not much above twenty. 

"Well;--no. Time is money, they say. It would take thrice the valueof the time in money, and then one would probably fail. They havedone very well for us, and I suppose there are difficulties. "

"It couldn't have taken place in our country, " said the younger lady. "All the same, we are very much obliged to you. It would not havebeen nice for us to have to go up into the banquette. "

"They would have put you into the interior. "

"And that would have been worse. I hate being put anywhere, --as if Iwere a sheep. It seems so odd to us, that you here should be all sotame. "

"Do you mean the English or the French, or the world in general onthis side of the Atlantic?"

"We mean Europeans, " said the younger lady, who was better afterher breakfast. "But then we think that the French have somethingof compensation, in their manners, and their ways of life, theirclimate, the beauty of their cities, and their general management ofthings. "

"They are very great in many ways, no doubt, " said Mr. Glascock. 

"They do understand living better than you do, " said the elder. 

"Everything is so much brighter with them, " said the younger. 

"They contrive to give a grace to every-day existence, " said theelder. 

"There is such a welcome among them for strangers, " said the younger. 

"Particularly in reference to places taken in the coupé, " saidTrevelyan, who had hardly spoken before. 

"Ah, that is an affair of honesty, " said the elder. "If we wanthonesty, I believe we must go back to the stars and stripes. "

Mr. Glascock looked up from his plate almost aghast. He said nothing, however, but called for the waiter, and paid for his breakfast. Nevertheless, there was a considerable amount of travellingfriendship engendered between the ladies and our two friendsbefore the diligence had left the railway yard. They were two MissSpaldings, going on to Florence, at which place they had an uncle, who was minister from the States to the kingdom of Italy; and theywere not at all unwilling to receive such little civilities asgentlemen can give to ladies when travelling. The whole partyintended to sleep at Turin that night, and they were altogether ongood terms with each other when they started on the journey from St. Michael. 

"Clever women those, " said Mr. Glascock, as soon as they had arrangedtheir legs and arms in the banquette. 

"Yes, indeed. "

"American women always are clever, --and are almost always pretty. "

"I do not like them, " said Trevelyan, --who in these days was in amood to like nothing. "They are exigeant;--and then they are so hard. They want the weakness that a woman ought to have. "

"That comes from what they would call your insular prejudice. Weare accustomed to less self-assertion on the part of women than iscustomary with them. We prefer women to rule us by seeming to yield. In the States, as I take it, the women never yield, and the men haveto fight their own battles with other tactics. "

"I don't know what their tactics are. "

"They keep their distance. The men live much by themselves, as thoughthey knew they would not have a chance in the presence of their wivesand daughters. Nevertheless they don't manage these things badly. Youvery rarely hear of an American being separated from his wife. "

The words were no sooner out of his mouth, than Mr. Glascock knew, and remembered, and felt what he had said. There are occasions inwhich a man sins so deeply against fitness and the circumstancesof the hour, that it becomes impossible for him to slur over hissin as though it had not been committed. There are certain littlepeccadilloes in society which one can manage to throw behindone, --perhaps with some difficulty, and awkwardness; but still theyare put aside, and conversation goes on, though with a hitch. Butthere are graver offences, the gravity of which strikes the offenderso seriously that it becomes impossible for him to seem even toignore his own iniquity. Ashes must be eaten publicly, and sackclothworn before the eyes of men. It was so now with poor Mr. Glascock. Hethought about it for a moment, --whether or no it was possible thathe should continue his remarks about the American ladies, withoutbetraying his own consciousness of the thing that he had done; andhe found that it was quite impossible. He knew that he was red up tohis hairs, and hot, and that his blood tingled. His blushes, indeed, would not be seen in the seclusion of the banquette; but he could notovercome the heat and the tingling. There was silence for about threeminutes, and then he felt that it would be best for him to confesshis own fault. "Trevelyan, " he said, "I am very sorry for theallusion that I made. I ought to have been less awkward, and I begyour pardon. "

"It does not matter, " said Trevelyan. "Of course I know thateverybody is talking of it behind my back. I am not to expect thatpeople will be silent because I am unhappy. "

"Nevertheless I beg your pardon, " said the other. 

There was but little further conversation between them till theyreached Lanslebourg, at the foot of the mountain, at which place theyoccupied themselves with getting coffee for the two American ladies. The Miss Spaldings took their coffee almost with as much grace asthough it had been handed to them by Frenchmen. And indeed they werevery gracious, --as is the nature of American ladies in spite of thathardness of which Trevelyan had complained. They assume an intimacyreadily, with no appearance of impropriety, and are at their easeeasily. When, therefore, they were handed out of their carriage byMr. Glascock, the bystanders at Lanslebourg might have thought thatthe whole party had been travelling together from New York. "Whatshould we have done if you hadn't taken pity on us?" said the elderlady. "I don't think we could have climbed up into that high place;and look at the crowd that have come out of the interior. A man hassome advantages after all. "

"I am quite in the dark as to what they are, " said Mr. Glascock. 

"He can give up his place to a lady, and can climb up into abanquette. "

"And he can be a member of Congress, " said the younger. "I'd soonerbe senator from Massachusetts than be the Queen of England. "

"So would I, " said Mr. Glascock. "I'm glad we can agree about onething. "

The two gentlemen agreed to walk up the mountain together, and withsome trouble induced the conductor to permit them to do so. Whyconductors of diligences should object to such relief to their horsesthe ordinary Englishman can hardly understand. But in truth theyfeel so deeply the responsibility which attaches itself to theirshepherding of their sheep, that they are always fearing lest somepoor lamb should go astray on the mountain side. And though the roadbe broad and very plainly marked, the conductor never feels securethat his passenger will find his way safely to the summit. He likesto know that each of his flock is in his right place, and disapprovesaltogether of an erratic spirit. But Mr. Glascock at last prevailed, and the two men started together up the mountain. When the permissionhas been once obtained the walker may be sure that his guide andshepherd will not desert him. 

"Of course I know, " said Trevelyan, when the third twist up themountain had been overcome, "that people talk about me and my wife. It is a part of the punishment for the mistake that one makes. "

"It is a sad affair altogether. "

"The saddest in the world. Lady Milborough has no doubt spoken to youabout it. "

"Well;--yes; she has. "

"How could she help it? I am not such a fool as to suppose thatpeople are to hold their tongues about me more than they do aboutothers. Intimate as she is with you, of course she has spoken toyou. "

"I was in hopes that something might have been done by this time. "

"Nothing has been done. Sometimes I think I shall put an end tomyself, it makes me so wretched. "

"Then why don't you agree to forget and forgive and have done withit?"

"That is so easily said;--so easily said. " After this they walked onin silence for a considerable distance. Mr. Glascock was not anxiousto talk about Trevelyan's wife, but he did wish to ask a question ortwo about Mrs. Trevelyan's sister, if only this could be done withouttelling too much of his own secret. "There's nothing I think sogrand, as walking up a mountain, " he said after a while. 

"It's all very well, " said Trevelyan, in a tone which seemed toimply that to him in his present miserable condition all recreations, exercises, and occupations were mere leather and prunella. 

"I don't mean, you know, in the Alpine Club way, " said Glascock. "I'mtoo old and too stiff for that. But when the path is good, and theair not too cold, and when it is neither snowing, nor thawing, norraining, and when the sun isn't hot, and you've got plenty of time, and know that you can stop any moment you like and be pushed up by acarriage, I do think walking up a mountain is very fine, --if you'vegot proper shoes, and a good stick, and it isn't too soon afterdinner. There's nothing like the air of Alps. " And Mr. Glascockrenewed his pace, and stretched himself against the hill at the rateof three miles an hour. 

"I used to be very fond of Switzerland, " said Trevelyan, "but I don'tcare about it now. My eye has lost all its taste. "

"It isn't the eye, " said Glascock. 

"Well; no. The truth is that when one is absolutely unhappy onecannot revel in the imagination. I don't believe in the miseries ofpoets. "

"I think myself, " said Glascock, "that a poet should have a gooddigestion. By-the-bye, Mrs. Trevelyan and her sister went down toNuncombe Putney, in Devonshire. "

"They did go there. "

"Have they moved since? A very pretty place is Nuncombe Putney. "

"You have been there then?"

Mr. Glascock blushed again. He was certainly an awkward man, sayingthings that he ought not to say, and telling secrets which ought notto have been told. "Well;--yes. I have been there, --as it happens. "

"Just lately do you mean?"

Mr. Glascock paused, hoping to find his way out of the scrape, butsoon perceived that there was no way out. He could not lie, evenin an affair of love, and was altogether destitute of those honestsubterfuges, --subterfuges honest in such position, --of which a dozenwould have been at once at the command of any woman, and with oneof which, sufficient for the moment, most men would have been ableto arm themselves. "Indeed, yes, " he said, almost stammering ashe spoke. "It was lately;--since your wife went there. " Trevelyan, though he had been told of the possibility of Mr. Glascock'scourtship, felt himself almost aggrieved by this man's intrusionon his wife's retreat. Had he not sent her there that she mightbe private; and what right had any one to invade such privacy? "Isuppose I had better tell the truth at once, " said Mr. Glascock. "Iwent to see Miss Rowley. "

"Oh, indeed. "

"My secret will be safe with you, I know. "

"I did not know that there was a secret, " said Trevelyan. "I shouldhave thought that they would have told me. "

"I don't see that. However, it doesn't matter much. I got nothing bymy journey. Are the ladies still at Nuncombe Putney?"

"No, they have moved from there to London. "

"Not back to Curzon Street?"

"Oh dear, no. There is no house in Curzon Street for them now. " Thiswas said in a tone so sad that it almost made Mr. Glascock weep. "They are staying with an aunt of theirs, --out to the east of thecity. "

"At St. Diddulph's?"

"Yes;--with Mr. Outhouse, the clergyman there. You can't conceivewhat it is not to be able to see your own child; and yet, how can Itake the boy from her?"

"Of course not. He's only a baby. "

"And yet all this is brought on me solely by her obstinacy. Godknows, however, I don't want to say a word against her. People chooseto say that I am to blame, and they may say so for me. Nothing thatany one may say can add anything to the weight that I have to bear. "Then they walked to the top of the mountain in silence, and in duetime were picked up by their proper shepherd and carried down to Susaat a pace that would give an English coachman a concussion of thebrain. 

Why passengers for Turin, who reach Susa dusty, tired, and sleepy, should be detained at that place for an hour and a half instead ofbeing forwarded to their beds in the great city, is never made veryapparent. All travelling officials on the continent of Europe arevery slow in their manipulation of luggage; but as they are equallycorrect we will find the excuse for their tardiness in the latterquality. The hour and a half, however, is a necessity, and it is verygrievous. On this occasion the two Miss Spaldings ate their supper, and the two gentlemen waited on them. The ladies had learned toregard at any rate Mr. Glascock as their own property, and receivedhis services, graciously indeed, but quite as a matter of course. When he was sent from their peculiar corner of the big, dirtyrefreshment room to the supper-table to fetch an apple, and thendesired to change it because the one which he had brought wasspotted, he rather liked it. And when he sat down with his kneesnear to theirs, actually trying to eat a large Italian apple himselfsimply because they had eaten one, and discussed with them thepassage over the Mont Cenis, he began to think that Susa was, afterall, a place in which an hour and a half might be whiled away withoutmuch cause for complaint. 

"We only stay one night at Turin, " said Caroline Spalding, the elder. 

"And we shall have to start at ten, --to get through to Florenceto-morrow, " said Olivia, the younger. "Isn't it cruel, wasting allthis time when we might be in bed?"

"It is not for me to complain of the cruelty, " said Mr. Glascock. 

"We should have fared infinitely worse if we hadn't met you, " saidCaroline Spalding. 

"But our republican simplicity won't allow us to assert that evenyour society is better than going to bed, after a journey of thirtyhours, " said Olivia. 

In the meantime Trevelyan was roaming about the station moodily byhimself, and the place is one not apt to restore cheerfulness to amoody man by any resources of its own. When the time for departurecame Mr. Glascock sought him and found him; but Trevelyan had chosena corner for himself in a carriage, and declared that he would ratheravoid the ladies for the present. "Don't think me uncivil to leaveyou, " he said, "but the truth is, I don't like American ladies. "

"I do rather, " said Mr. Glascock. 

"You can say that I've got a headache, " said Trevelyan. So Mr. Glascock returned to his friends, and did say that Mr. Trevelyan hada headache. It was the first time that a name had been mentionedbetween them. 

"Mr. Trevelyan! What a pretty name. It sounds like a novel, " saidOlivia. 

"A very clever man, " said Mr. Glascock, "and much liked by his owncircle. But he has had trouble, and is unhappy. "

"He looks unhappy, " said Caroline. 

"The most miserable looking man I ever saw in my life, " said Olivia. Then it was agreed between them as they went up to Trompetta's hotel, that they would go on together by the ten o'clock train to Florence. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

VERDICT OF THE JURY--"MAD, MY LORD. "

Trevelyan was left alone at Turin when Mr. Glascock went on toFlorence with his fair American friends. It was imperativelynecessary that he should remain at Turin, though he had no businessthere of any kind whatever, and did not know a single person in thecity. And of all towns in Italy Turin has perhaps less of attractionto offer to the solitary visitor than any other. It is new andparallelogrammatic as an American town, is very cold in cold weather, very hot in hot weather, and now that it has been robbed of its lifeas a capital, is as dull and uninteresting as though it were Germanor English. There is the Armoury, and the river Po, and a good hotel. But what are these things to a man who is forced to live alone in aplace for four days, or perhaps a week? Trevelyan was bound to remainat Turin till he should hear from Bozzle. No one but Bozzle knew hisaddress; and he could do nothing till Bozzle should have communicatedto him tidings of what was being done at St. Diddulph's. 

There is perhaps no great social question so imperfectly understoodamong us at the present day as that which refers to the line whichdivides sanity from insanity. That this man is sane and that otherunfortunately mad we do know well enough; and we know also that oneman may be subject to various hallucinations, --may fancy himself tobe a teapot, or what not, --and yet be in such a condition of mind asto call for no intervention either on behalf of his friends, or ofthe law; while another may be in possession of intellectual facultiescapable of lucid exertion for the highest purposes, and yet be so madthat bodily restraint upon him is indispensable. We know that thesane man is responsible for what he does, and that the insane manis irresponsible; but we do not know, --we only guess wildly, at thestate of mind of those, who now and again act like madmen, though nocourt or council of experts has declared them to be mad. The bias ofthe public mind is to press heavily on such men till the law attemptsto touch them, as though they were thoroughly responsible; andthen, when the law interferes, to screen them as though they werealtogether irresponsible. The same juryman who would find a man madwho has murdered a young woman, would in private life express adesire that the same young man should be hung, crucified, or skinnedalive, if he had moodily and without reason broken his faith to theyoung woman in lieu of killing her. Now Trevelyan was, in truth, madon the subject of his wife's alleged infidelity. He had abandonedeverything that he valued in the world, and had made himself wretchedin every affair of life, because he could not submit to acknowledgeto himself the possibility of error on his own part. For that, intruth, was the condition of his mind. He had never hitherto believedthat she had been false to her vow, and had sinned against himirredeemably; but he had thought that in her regard for another manshe had slighted him; and, so thinking, he had subjected her to aseverity of rebuke which no high-spirited woman could have borne. Hiswife had not tried to bear it, --in her indignation had not striven tocure the evil. Then had come his resolution that she should submit, or part from him; and, having so resolved, nothing could shake him. Though every friend he possessed was now against him, --includingeven Lady Milborough, --he was certain that he was right. Had not hiswife sworn to obey him, and was not her whole conduct one tissue ofdisobedience? Would not the man who submitted to this find himselfdriven to submit to things worse? Let her own her fault, let hersubmit, and then she should come back to him. 

He had not considered, when his resolutions to this effect were firstforming themselves, that a separation between a man and his wife onceeffected cannot be annulled, and as it were cured, so as to leave nocicatrice behind. Gradually, as he spent day after day in thinking onthis one subject, he came to feel that even were his wife to submit, to own her fault humbly, and to come back to him, this very comingback would in itself be a new wound. Could he go out again withhis wife on his arm to the houses of those who knew that he hadrepudiated her because of her friendship with another man? Couldhe open again that house in Curzon Street, and let things go onquietly as they had gone before? He told himself that it wasimpossible;--that he and she were ineffably disgraced;--that, ifreunited, they must live buried out of sight in some remote distance. And he told himself, also, that he could never be with her againnight or day without thinking of the separation. His happiness hadbeen shipwrecked. 

Then he had put himself into the hands of Mr. Bozzle, and Mr. Bozzlehad taught him that women very often do go astray. Mr. Bozzle's ideaof female virtue was not high, and he had opportunities of implantinghis idea on his client's mind. Trevelyan hated the man. He was filledwith disgust by Bozzle's words, and was made miserable by Bozzle'spresence. Yet he came gradually to believe in Bozzle. Bozzle alonebelieved in him. There were none but Bozzle who did not bid him tosubmit himself to his disobedient wife. And then, as he came tobelieve in Bozzle, he grew to be more and more assured that no onebut Bozzle could tell him facts. His chivalry, and love, and sense ofwoman's honour, with something of manly pride on his own part, --sohe told himself, --had taught him to believe it to be impossible thathis wife should have sinned. Bozzle, who knew the world, thoughtotherwise. Bozzle, who had no interest in the matter, one way or theother, would find out facts. What if his chivalry, and love, andmanly pride had deceived him? There were women who sinned. Then heprayed that his wife might not be such a woman; and got up from hisprayers almost convinced that she was a sinner. 

His mind was at work upon it always. Could it be that she was so baseas this--so vile a thing, so abject, such dirt, pollution, filth? Butthere were such cases. Nay, were they not almost numberless? He foundhimself reading in the papers records of such things from day today, and thought that in doing so he was simply acquiring experiencenecessary for himself. If it were so, he had indeed done well toseparate himself from a thing so infamous. And if it were not so, how could it be that that man had gone to her in Devonshire? He hadreceived from his wife's hands a short note addressed to the man, inwhich the man was desired by her not to go to her, or to write toher again, because of her husband's commands. He had shown this toBozzle, and Bozzle had smiled. "It's just the sort of thing theydoes, " Bozzle had said. "Then they writes another by post. " He hadconsulted Bozzle as to the sending on of that letter, and Bozzle hadbeen strongly of opinion that it should be forwarded, a copy havingbeen duly taken and attested by himself. It might be very prettyevidence by-and-by. If the letter were not forwarded, Bozzle thoughtthat the omission to do so might be given in evidence against hisemployer. Bozzle was very careful, and full of "evidence. " The lettertherefore was sent on to Colonel Osborne. "If there's billy-dousgoing between 'em we shall nobble 'em, " said Bozzle. Trevelyan torehis hair in despair, but believed that there would be billy-dous. 

He came to believe everything; and, though he prayed fervently thathis wife might not be led astray, that she might be saved at anyrate from utter vice, yet he almost came to hope that it might beotherwise;--not, indeed, with the hope of the sane man, who desiresthat which he tells himself to be for his advantage; but with thehope of the insane man, who loves to feed his grievance, even thoughthe grief should be his death. They who do not understand that a manmay be brought to hope that which of all things is the most grievousto him, have not observed with sufficient closeness the perversity ofthe human mind. Trevelyan would have given all that he had to savehis wife; would, even now, have cut his tongue out before he wouldhave expressed to anyone, --save to Bozzle, --a suspicion that shecould in truth have been guilty; was continually telling himself thatfurther life would be impossible to him, if he, and she, and thatchild of theirs, should be thus disgraced;--and yet he expected it, believed it, and, after a fashion, he almost hoped it. 

He was to wait at Turin till tidings should come from Bozzle, andafter that he would go on to Venice; but he would not move from Turintill he should have received his first communication from England. When he had been three days at Turin they came to him, and, amongother letters in Bozzle's packet, there was a letter addressed in hiswife's handwriting. The letter was simply directed to Bozzle's house. In what possible way could his wife have found out ought of hisdealings with Bozzle, --where Bozzle lived, or could have learned thatletters intended for him should be sent to the man's own residence?Before, however, we inspect the contents of Mr. Bozzle's dispatch, wewill go back and see how Mrs. Trevelyan had discovered the manner offorwarding a letter to her husband. 

The matter of the address was, indeed, very simple. All letters forTrevelyan were to be redirected from the house in Curzon Street, andfrom the chambers in Lincoln's Inn, to the Acrobats' Club; to theporter of the Acrobats' Club had been confided the secret, not ofBozzle's name, but of Bozzle's private address, No. 55, Stony Walk, Union Street, Borough. Thus all letters reaching the Acrobats' wereduly sent to Mr. Bozzle's house. It may be remembered that HughStanbury, on the occasion of his last visit to the parsonage of St. Diddulph's, was informed that Mrs. Trevelyan had a letter from herfather for her husband, and that she knew not whither to send it. It may well be that, had the matter assumed no other interest inStanbury's eyes than that given to it by Mrs. Trevelyan's verymoderate anxiety to have the letter forwarded, he would have thoughtnothing about it; but having resolved, as he sat upon the knife-boardof the omnibus, --the reader will, at any rate, remember thoseresolutions made on the top of the omnibus while Hugh was smoking hispipe, --having resolved that a deed should be done at St. Diddulph's, he resolved also that it should be done at once. He would not allowthe heat of his purpose to be cooled by delay. He would go to St. Diddulph's at once, with his heart in his hand. But it might, hethought, be as well that he should have an excuse for his visit. So he called upon the porter at the Acrobats', and was successfulin learning Mr. Trevelyan's address. "Stony Walk, Union Street, Borough, " he said to himself, wondering; then it occurred to himthat Bozzle, and Bozzle only among Trevelyan's friends, couldlive at Stony Walk in the Borough. Thus armed, he set out for St. Diddulph's;--and, as one of the effects of his visit to the East, SirMarmaduke's note was forwarded to Louis Trevelyan at Turin. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

MISS NORA ROWLEY IS MALTREATED. 

Hugh Stanbury, when he reached the parsonage, found no difficultyin making his way into the joint presence of Mrs. Outhouse, Mrs. Trevelyan, and Nora. He was recognised by the St. Diddulph's partyas one who had come over to their side, as a friend of Trevelyanwho had found himself constrained to condemn his friend in spite ofhis friendship, and was consequently very welcome. And there wasno difficulty about giving the address. The ladies wondered how itcame to pass that Mr. Trevelyan's letters should be sent to sucha locality, and Hugh expressed his surprise also. He thought itdiscreet to withhold his suspicions about Mr. Bozzle, and simplyexpressed his conviction that letters sent in accordance with thedirections given by the club-porter would reach their destination. Then the boy was brought down, and they were all very confidentialand very unhappy together. Mrs. Trevelyan could see no end to thecruelty of her position, and declared that her father's anger againsther husband was so great that she anticipated his coming with almostmore of fear than of hope. Mrs. Outhouse expressed an opinion thatMr. Trevelyan must surely be mad; and Nora suggested that thepossibility of such perversity on the part of a man made it almostunwise in any woman to trust herself to the power of a husband. "Butthere are not many like him, thank God, " said Mrs. Outhouse, bridlingin her wrath. Thus they were very friendly together, and Hughwas allowed to feel that he stood upon comfortable terms in theparsonage;--but he did not as yet see how he was to carry out hisproject for the present day. 

At last Mrs. Trevelyan went away with the child. Hugh felt that heought to go, but stayed courageously. He thought he could perceivethat Nora suspected the cause of his assiduity; but it was quiteevident that Mrs. Outhouse did not do so. Mrs. Outhouse, havingreconciled herself to the young man, was by no means averse to hispresence. She went on talking about the wickedness of Trevelyan, andher brother's anger, and the fate of the little boy, till at last thelittle boy's mother came back into the room. Then Mrs. Outhouse went. They must excuse her for a few minutes, she said. If only she wouldhave gone a few minutes sooner, how well her absence might have beenexcused. Nora understood it all now; and though she became almostbreathless, she was not surprised, when Hugh got up from his chairand asked her sister to go away. "Mrs. Trevelyan, " he said, "I wantto speak a few words to your sister. I hope you will give me theopportunity. "

"Nora!" exclaimed Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"She knows nothing about it, " said Hugh. 

"Am I to go?" said Mrs. Trevelyan to her sister. But Nora said nevera word. She sat perfectly fixed, not turning her eyes from the objecton which she was gazing. 

 [Illustration: "Am I to go?"]

"Pray, --pray do, " said Hugh. 

"I cannot think that it will be for any good, " said Mrs. Trevelyan;"but I know that she may be trusted. And I suppose it ought to be so, if you wish it. "

"I do wish it, of all things, " said Hugh, still standing up, andalmost turning the elder sister out of the room by the force of hislook and voice. Then, with another pause of a moment, Mrs. Trevelyanrose from her chair and left the room, closing the door after her. 

Hugh, when he found that the coast was clear for him, immediatelybegan his task with a conviction that not a moment was to be lost. He had told himself a dozen times that the matter was hopeless, that Nora had shown him by every means in her power that she wasindifferent to him, that she with all her friends would know thatsuch a marriage was out of the question; and he had in truth cometo believe that the mission which he had in hand was one in whichsuccess was not possible. But he thought that it was his duty to goon with it. "If a man love a woman, even though it be the king andthe beggar-woman reversed, --though it be a beggar and a queen, heshould tell her of it. If it be so, she has a right to know it and totake her choice. And he has a right to tell her, and to say what hecan for himself. " Such was Hugh's doctrine in the matter; and, actingupon it, he found himself alone with his mistress. 

"Nora, " he said, speaking perhaps with more energy than the wordsrequired, "I have come here to tell you that I love you, and to askyou to be my wife. "

Nora, for the last ten minutes, had been thinking that this wouldcome, --that it would come at once; and yet she was not at allprepared with an answer. It was now weeks since she had confessed toherself frankly that nothing else but this, --this one thing which wasnow happening, this one thing which had now happened, --that nothingelse could make her happy, or could touch her happiness. She hadrefused a man whom she otherwise would have taken, because her hearthad been given to Hugh Stanbury. She had been bold enough to tellthat other suitor that it was so, though she had not mentioned therival's name. She had longed for some expression of love from thisman when they had been at Nuncombe together, and had been fiercelyangry with him because no such expression had come from him. Dayafter day, since she had been with her aunt, she had told herselfthat she was a broken-hearted woman, because she had given away allthat she had to give and had received nothing in return. Had he saida word that might have given her hope, how happy could she have beenin hoping. Now he had come to her with a plain-spoken offer, tellingher that he loved her, and asking her to be his wife, --and she wasaltogether unable to answer. How could she consent to be his wife, knowing as she did that there was no certainty of an income on whichthey could live? How could she tell her father and mother that shehad engaged herself to marry a man who might or might not make £400 ayear, and who already had a mother and sister depending on him?

In truth, had he come more gently to her, his chance of a happyanswer, --of an answer which might be found to have in it somethingof happiness, --would have been greater. He might have said a wordwhich she could not but have answered softly;--and then from thatconstrained softness other gentleness would have followed, and sohe would have won her in spite of her discretion. She would havesurrendered gradually, accepting on the score of her great love allthe penalties of a long and precarious engagement. But when shewas asked to come and be his wife, now and at once, she felt thatin spite of her love it was impossible that she could accede to arequest so sudden, so violent, so monstrous. He stood over her asthough expecting an instant answer; and then, when she had sat dumbbefore him for a minute, he repeated his demand. "Tell me, Nora, canyou love me? If you knew how thoroughly I have loved you, you wouldat least feel something for me. "

To tell him that she did not love him was impossible to her. But howwas she to refuse him without telling him either a lie, or the truth?Some answer she must give him; and as to that matter of marrying him, the answer must be a negative. Her education had been of that naturewhich teaches girls to believe that it is a crime to marry a manwithout an assured income. Assured morality in a husband is a greatthing. Assured good temper is very excellent. Assured talent, religion, amiability, truth, honesty, are all desirable. But anassured income is indispensable. Whereas, in truth, the income maycome hereafter; but the other things, unless they be there already, will hardly be forthcoming. "Mr. Stanbury, " she said, "yoursuddenness has quite astounded me. "

"Ah, yes; but how should I not be sudden? I have come here on purposeto say this to you. If I do not say it now--"

"You heard what Emily said. "

"No;--what did she say?"

"She said that it would not be for good that you should speak to methus. "

"Why not for good? But she is unhappy, and looks gloomily at things. "

"Yes, indeed. "

"But all the world need not be sad for ever because she has beenunfortunate. "

"Not all the world, Mr. Stanbury;--but you must not be surprised ifit affects me. "

"But would that prevent your loving me, --if you did love me? But, Nora, I do not expect you to love me, --not yet. I do not say that Iexpect it, --ever. But if you would--. Nora, I can do no more thantell you the simple truth. Just listen to me for a minute. You knowhow I came to be intimate with you all in Curzon Street. The firstday I saw you I loved you; and there has come no change yet. It ismonths now since I first knew that I loved you. Well; I told myselfmore than once, --when I was down at Nuncombe for instance, --that Ihad no right to speak to you. What right can a poor devil like mehave, who lives from hand to mouth, to ask such a girl as you to behis wife? And so I said nothing, --though it was on my lips everymoment that I was there. " Nora remembered at the moment how she hadlooked to his lips, and had not seen the words there. "But I thinkthere is something unmanly in this. If you cannot give me a grainof hope;--if you tell me that there never can be hope, it is mymisfortune. It will be very grievous, but I will bear it. But thatwill be better than puling and moping about without daring to tell mytale. I am not ashamed of it. I have fallen in love with you, Nora, and I think it best to come for an answer. "

He held out his arms as though he thought that she might perhaps cometo him. Indeed he had no idea of any such coming on her part; butshe, as she looked at him, almost thought that it was her duty to go. Had she a right to withhold herself from him, she who loved him sodearly? Had he stepped forward and taken her in his arms it might bethat all power of refusal would soon have been beyond her power. 

"Mr. Stanbury, " she said, "you have confessed yourself that it isimpossible. "

"But do you love me;--do you think that it is possible that youshould ever love me?"

"You know, Mr. Stanbury, that you should not say anything further. You know that it cannot be. "

"But do you love me?"

"You are ungenerous not to take an answer without driving me to beuncourteous. "

"I do not care for courtesy. Tell me the truth. Can you ever love me?With one word of hope I will wait, and work, and feel myself to be ahero. I will not go till you tell me that you cannot love me. "

"Then I must tell you so. "

"What is it you will tell me, Nora? Speak it. Say it. If I knew thata girl disliked me, nothing should make me press myself upon her. AmI odious to you, Nora?"

"No; not odious, --but very, very unfair. "

"I will have the truth if I be ever so unfair, " he said. And by thistime probably some inkling of the truth had reached his intelligence. There was already a tear in Nora's eye, but he did not pity her. Sheowed it to him to tell him the truth, and he would have it from herif it was to be reached. "Nora, " he said, "listen to me again. All myheart and soul are in this. It is everything to me. If you can loveme you are bound to say so. By Jove, I will believe you do unless youswear to me that it is not so!" He was now holding her by the handand looking closely into her face. 

"Mr. Stanbury, " she said, "let me go; pray, pray let me go. "

"Not till you say that you love me. Oh, Nora, I believe that you loveme. You do; yes; you do love me. Dearest, dearest Nora, would you notsay a word to make me the happiest man in the world?" And now he hadhis arm round her waist. 

"Let me go, " she said, struggling through her tears and covering herface with her hands. "You are very, very wicked. I will never speakto you again. Nay, but you shall let me go!" And then she was out ofhis arms and had escaped from the room before he had managed to touchher face with his lips. 

As he was thinking how he also might escape now, --might escapeand comfort himself with his triumph, --Mrs. Outhouse returned tothe chamber. She was very demure, and her manner towards him wasconsiderably changed since she had left the chamber. "Mr. Stanbury, "she said, "this kind of thing mustn't go any further indeed;--atleast not in my house. "

"What kind of thing, Mrs. Outhouse?"

"Well;--what my elder niece has told me. I have not seen Miss Rowleysince she left you. I am quite sure she has behaved with discretion. "

"Indeed she has, Mrs. Outhouse. "

"The fact is my nieces are in grief and trouble, and this is no timeor place for love-making. I am sorry to be uncivil, but I must askyou not to come here any more. "

"I will stay away from this house, certainly, if you bid me. "

"I am very sorry; but I must bid you. Sir Marmaduke will be home inthe spring, and if you have anything to say to him of course you cansee him. "

Then Hugh Stanbury took his leave of Mrs. Outhouse; but as he wenthome, again on the knifeboard of an omnibus, he smoked the pipe oftriumph rather than the pipe of contemplation. 

CHAPTER XL. 

"C. G. "

The Miss Spaldings were met at the station at Florence by theiruncle, the American Minister, by their cousin, the American Secretaryof Legation, and by three or four other dear friends and relations, who were there to welcome the newcomers to sunny Italy. Mr. Glascock, therefore, who ten minutes since had been, and had felt himself tobe, quite indispensable to their comfort, suddenly became as thoughhe were nothing and nobody. Who is there that has not felt thesesudden disruptions to the intimacies and friendships of a longjourney? He bowed to them, and they to him, and then they werewhirled away in their grandeur. He put himself into a small, openhackney-carriage, and had himself driven to the York Hotel, feelinghimself to be deserted and desolate. The two Miss Spaldings werethe daughters of a very respectable lawyer at Boston, whereas Mr. Glascock was heir to a peerage, to an enormous fortune, and to one ofthe finest places in England. But he thought nothing of this at thetime. As he went he was meditating which young woman was the mostattractive, Nora Rowley or Caroline Spalding. He had no doubt butthat Nora was the prettier, the pleasanter in manner, the betterdressed, the more engaging in all that concerned the outer woman;but he thought that he had never met any lady who talked better thanCaroline Spalding. And what was Nora Rowley's beauty to him? Had shenot told him that she was the property of some one else; or, for thematter of that, what was Miss Spalding to him? They had parted, andhe was going on to Naples in two days. He had said some half-definedword as to calling at the American Embassy, but it had not been takenup by either of the ladies. He had not pressed it, and so they hadparted without an understanding as to a future meeting. 

The double journey, from Turin to Bologna and from Bologna toFlorence, is very long, and forms ample time for a considerableintimacy. There had, too, been a long day's journeying togetherbefore that; and with no women is a speedy intimacy so possible, orindeed so profitable, as with Americans. They fear nothing, --neitheryou nor themselves; and talk with as much freedom as though theywere men. It may, perhaps, be assumed to be true as a rule thatwomen's society is always more agreeable to men than that of othermen, --except for the lack of ease. It undoubtedly is so when thewomen be young and pretty. There is a feeling, however, among prettywomen in Europe that such freedom is dangerous, and it is withheld. There is such danger, and more or less of such withholding isexpedient: but the American woman does not recognise the danger; and, if she withhold the grace of her countenance and the pearls of herspeech, it is because she is not desirous of the society which isproffered to her. These two American sisters had not withholden theirpearls from Mr. Glascock. He was much their senior in age; he wasgentle in his manners, and they probably recognised him to be a safecompanion. They had no idea who he was, and had not heard his namewhen they parted from him. But it was not probable that they shouldhave been with him so long, and that they should leave him withoutfurther thought of him, without curiosity or a desire to know moreof him. They had seen "C. G. " in large letters on his dressing-bag, and that was all they had learned as to his identity. He had knowntheir names well, and had once called Olivia by hers, in thehurry of speaking to her sister. He had apologised, and there hadbeen a little laugh, and a discussion about the use of Christiannames, --such as is very conducive to intimacy between gentlemen andladies. When you can talk to a young lady about her own Christianname, you are almost entitled for the nonce to use it. 

Mr. Glascock went to his hotel, and was very moody and desolate. Hisname was very soon known there, and he received the honours due tohis rank and station. "I should like to travel in America, " he saidto himself, "if I could be sure that no one would find out who Iwas. " He had received letters at Turin, stating that his father wasbetter, and, therefore, he intended to remain two days at Florence. The weather was still very hot, and Florence in the middle ofSeptember is much preferable to Naples. 

That night, when the two Miss Spaldings were alone together, theydiscussed their fellow-traveller thoroughly. Something, of course, had been said about him to their uncle the minister, to their auntthe minister's wife, and to their cousin the secretary of legation. But travellers will always observe that the dear new friends theyhave made on their journey are not interesting to the dear oldfriends whom they meet afterwards. There may be some touch ofjealousy in this; and then, though you, the traveller, are fullyaware that there has been something special in the case which hasmade this new friendship more peculiar than others that have sprungup in similar circumstances, fathers and brothers and wives andsisters do not see it in that light. They suspect, perhaps, thatthe new friend was a bagman, or an opera dancer, and think that theaffair need not be made of importance. The American Minister hadcast his eye on Mr. Glascock during that momentary parting, and hadnot thought much of Mr. Glascock. "He was certainly a gentleman, "Caroline had said. "There are a great many English gentlemen, " theminister had replied. 

"I thought you would have asked him to call, " Olivia said to hersister. "He did offer. "

"I know he did. I heard it. "

"Why didn't you tell him he might come?"

"Because we are not in Boston, Livy. It might be the most horriblething in the world to do here in Florence; and it may make adifference, because Uncle Jonas is minister. "

"Why should that make a difference? Do you mean that one isn't to seeone's own friends? That must be nonsense. "

"But he isn't a friend, Livy. "

"It seems to me as if I'd known him for ever. That soft, monotonousvoice, which never became excited and never disagreeable, is asfamiliar to me as though I had lived with it all my life. "

"I thought him very pleasant. "

"Indeed you did, Carry. And he thought you pleasant too. Doesn't itseem odd? You were mending his glove for him this very afternoon, just as if he were your brother. "

"Why shouldn't I mend his glove?"

"Why not, indeed? He was entitled to have everything mended aftergetting us such a good dinner at Bologna. By-the-bye, you never paidhim. "

"Yes, I did, --when you were not by. "

"I wonder who he is! C. G. ! That fine man in the brown coat was hisservant, you know. I thought at first that C. G. Must have beencracked, and that the tall man was his keeper. "

"I never knew any one less like a madman. "

"No;--but the man was so queer. He did nothing, you know. We hardlysaw him, if you remember, at Turin. All he did was to tie the shawlsat Bologna. What can any man want with another man about with himlike that, unless he is cracked either in body or mind?"

"You'd better ask C. G. Yourself. "

"I shall never see C. G. Again, I suppose. I should like to see himagain. I guess you would too, Carry. Eh?"

"Of course, I should;--why not?"

"I never knew a man so imperturbable, and who had yet so much to sayfor himself. I wonder what he is! Perhaps he's on business, and thatman was a kind of a clerk. "

"He had livery buttons on, " said Carry. 

"And does that make a difference?"

"I don't think they put clerks into livery, even in England. "

"Nor yet mad doctors, " said Olivia. "Well, I like him very much; andthe only thing against him is that he should have a man, six feethigh, going about with him doing nothing. "

"You'll make me angry, Livy, if you talk in that way. It'suncharitable. "

"In what way?"

"About a mad doctor. "

"It's my belief, " said Olivia, "that he's an English swell, a lord, or a duke;--and it's my belief, too, that he's in love with you. "

"It's my belief, Livy, that you're a regular ass;"--and so theconversation was ended on that occasion. 

On the next day, about noon, the American Minister, as a part of theduty which he owed to his country, read in a publication of that day, issued for the purpose, the names of the new arrivals at Florence. First and foremost was that of the Honourable Charles Glascock, withhis suite, at the York Hotel, en route to join his father, LordPeterborough, at Naples. Having read the news first to himself, theminister read it out loud in the presence of his nieces. 

"That's our friend C. G. , " said Livy. 

"I should think not, " said the minister, who had his own ideas aboutan English lord. 

"I'm sure it is, because of the tall man with the buttons, " saidOlivia. 

"It's very unlikely, " said the secretary of legation. "LordPeterborough is a man of immense wealth, very old, indeed. They sayhe is dying at Naples. This man is his eldest son. "

"Is that any reason why he shouldn't have been civil to us?" askedOlivia. 

"I don't think he is the sort of man likely to sit up in thebanquette; and he would have posted over the Alps. Moreover, he hadhis suite with him. "

"His suite was Buttons, " said Olivia. "Only fancy, Carry, we've beenwaited on for two days by a lord as is to be, and didn't know it! Andyou have mended the tips of his lordship's glove!" But Carry saidnothing at all. 

Late on that same evening, they met Mr. Glascock close to the Duomo, under the shade of the Campanile. He had come out as they had done, to see by moonlight that loveliest of all works made by man's hands. They were with the minister, but Mr. Glascock came up and shook handswith them. 

"I would introduce you to my uncle, Mr. Spalding, " saidOlivia, --"only, --as it happens, --we have never yet heard your name. "

"My name is Mr. Glascock, " said he, smiling. Then the introductionwas made; and the American Minister took off his hat, and was veryaffable. 

"Only think, Carry, " said Olivia, when they were alone that evening, "if you were to become the wife of an English lord!"

CHAPTER XLI. 

SHEWING WHAT TOOK PLACE AT ST. DIDDULPH'S. 

 [Illustration]

Nora Rowley, when she escaped from the violence of her lover, at oncerushed up to her own room, and managed to fasten herself in beforeshe had been seen by any one. Her elder sister had at once gone toher aunt when, at Hugh's request, she had left the room, thinking itright that Mrs. Outhouse should know what was being done in her ownhouse. Mrs. Outhouse had considered the matter patiently for awhile, giving the lovers the benefit of her hesitation, and had then spokenher mind to Stanbury, as we have already heard. He had, upon thewhole, been so well pleased with what had occurred, that he was notin the least angry with the parson's wife when he left the parsonage. As soon as he was gone Mrs. Outhouse was at once joined by her elderniece, but Nora remained for a while alone in her room. 

Had she committed herself; and if so, did she regret it? He hadbehaved very badly to her, certainly, taking her by the hand andputting his arm round her waist. And then had he not even attemptedto kiss her? He had done all this, although she had been resolute inrefusing to speak to him one word of kindness, --though she had toldhim with all the energy and certainty of which she was mistress, thatshe would never be his wife. If a girl were to be subjected to suchtreatment as this when she herself had been so firm, so discreet, so decided, then indeed it would be unfit that a girl should trustherself with a man. She had never thought that he had been such a oneas that, to ill-use her, to lay a hand on her in violence, to refuseto take an answer. She threw herself on the bed and sobbed, andthen hid her face, --and was conscious that in spite of this actingbefore herself she was the happiest girl alive. He had behaved verybadly;--of course, he had behaved most wickedly, and she would tellhim so some day. But was he not the dearest fellow living? Did everman speak with more absolute conviction of love in every tone ofhis voice? Was it not the finest, noblest heart that ever throbbedbeneath a waistcoat? Had not his very wickedness come from theoverpowering truth of his affection for her? She would never quiteforgive him because it had been so very wrong; but she would betrue to him for ever and ever. Of course they could not marry. What!--would she go to him and be a clog round his neck, and a weightupon him for ever, bringing him down to the gutter by the burden ofher own useless and unworthy self? No. She would never so injurehim. She would not even hamper him by an engagement. But yet shewould be true to him. She had an idea that in spite of all herprotestations, --which, as she looked back upon them, appeared to herto have been louder than they had been, --that through the teeth ofher denials, something of the truth had escaped from her. Well, --letit be so. It was the truth, and why should he not know it? Thenshe pictured to herself a long romance, in which the heroine livedhappily on the simple knowledge that she had been beloved. Andthe reader may be sure that in this romance Mr. Glascock with hissplendid prospects filled one of the characters. 

She had been so wretched at Nuncombe Putney when she had felt herselfconstrained to admit to herself that this man for whom she hadsacrificed herself did not care for her, that she could not now butenjoy her triumph. After she had sobbed upon the bed, she got up andwalked about the room smiling; and she would now press her hands toher forehead, and then shake her tresses, and then clasp her own lefthand with her right, as though he were still holding it. Wicked man!Why had he been so wicked and so violent? And why, why, why had shenot once felt his lips upon her brow?

And she was pleased with herself. Her sister had rebuked her becauseshe had refused to make her fortune by marrying Mr. Glascock; and, to own the truth, she had rebuked herself on the same score when shefound that Hugh Stanbury had not had a word of love to say to her. Itwas not that she regretted the grandeur which she had lost, but thatshe should, even within her own thoughts, with the consciousness ofher own bosom, have declared herself unable to receive another man'sdevotion because of her love for this man who neglected her. Nowshe was proud of herself. Whether it might be accounted as good orill-fortune that she had ever seen Hugh Stanbury, it must at any ratebe right that she should be true to him now that she had seen himand had loved him. To know that she loved and that she was not lovedagain had nearly killed her. But such was not her lot. She too hadbeen successful with her quarry, and had struck her game, and broughtdown her dear. He had been very violent with her, but his violencehad at least made the matter clear. He did love her. She wouldbe satisfied with that, and would endeavour so to live that thatalone should make life happy for her. How should she get hisphotograph, --and a lock of his hair?--and when again might she havethe pleasure of placing her own hand within his great, rough, violentgrasp? Then she kissed the hand which he had held, and opened thedoor of her room, at which her sister was now knocking. 

"Nora, dear, will you not come down?"

"Not yet, Emily. Very soon I will. "

"And what has happened, dearest?"

"There is nothing to tell, Emily. "

"There must be something to tell. What did he say to you?"

"Of course you know what he said. "

"And what answer did you make?"

"I told him that it could not be. "

"And did he take that, --as final, Nora?"

"Of course not. What man ever takes a No as final?"

"When you said No to Mr. Glascock he took it. "

"That was different, Emily. "

"But how different? I don't see the difference, except that if youcould have brought yourself to like Mr. Glascock, it would have beenthe greatest thing in the world for you, and for all of them. "

"Would you have me take a man, Emily, that I didn't care one strawfor, merely because he was a lord? You can't mean that. "

"I'm not talking about Mr. Glascock now, Nora. "

"Yes, you are. And what's the use? He is gone, and there's an end ofit. "

"And is Mr. Stanbury gone?"

"Of course. "

"In the same way?" asked Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"How can I tell about his ways? No; it is not in the same way. There!He went in a very different way. "

"How was it different, Nora?"

"Oh, so different. I can't tell you how. Mr. Glascock will never comeback again. "

"And Mr. Stanbury will?" said the elder sister. Nora made no reply, but after a while nodded her head. "And you want him to come back?"She paused again, and again nodded her head. "Then you have acceptedhim?"

"I have not accepted him. I have refused him. I have told him that itwas impossible. "

"And yet you wish him back again!" Nora again nodded her head. "That is a state of things I cannot at all understand, " said Mrs. Trevelyan, "and would not believe unless you told me so yourself. "

"And you think me very wrong, of course. I will endeavour to donothing wrong, but it is so. I have not said a word of encouragementto Mr. Stanbury; but I love him with all my heart. Ought I to tellyou a lie when you question me? Or is it natural that I should neverwish to see again a person whom I love better than all the world? Itseems to me that a girl can hardly be right if she have any choice ofher own. Here are two men, one rich and the other poor. I shall fallto the ground between them. I know that. I have fallen to the groundalready. I like the one I can't marry. I don't care a straw for theone who could give me a grand house. That is falling to the ground. But I don't see that it is hard to understand, or that I havedisgraced myself. "

"I said nothing of disgrace, Nora. "

"But you looked it. "

"I did not intend to look it, dearest. "

"And remember this, Emily, I have told you everything because youasked me. I do not mean to tell anybody else, at all. Mamma would notunderstand me. I have not told him, and I shall not. "

"You mean Mr. Stanbury?"

"Yes; I mean Mr. Stanbury. As to Mr. Glascock, of course I shall tellmamma that. I have no secret there. That is his secret, and I supposemamma should know it. But I will have nothing told about the other. Had I accepted him, or even hinted to him that I cared for him, Iwould tell mamma at once. "

After that there came something of a lecture, or something, rather, of admonition, from Mrs. Outhouse. That lady did not attempt toupbraid, or to find any fault; but observed that as she understoodthat Mr. Stanbury had no means whatever, and as Nora herself hadnone, there had better be no further intercourse between them, till, at any rate, Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley should be in London. "SoI told him that he must not come here any more, my dear, " said Mrs. Outhouse. 

"You are quite right, aunt. He ought not to come here. "

"I am so glad that you agree with me. "

"I agree with you altogether. I think I was bound to see him when heasked to see me; but the thing is altogether out of the question. Idon't think he'll come any more, aunt. " Then Mrs. Outhouse was quitesatisfied that no harm had been done. 

A month had now passed since anything had been heard at St. Diddulph's from Mr. Trevelyan, and it seemed that many months mightgo on in the same dull way. When Mrs. Trevelyan first found herselfin her uncle's house, a sum of two hundred pounds had been sent toher; and since that she had received a letter from her husband'slawyer saying that a similar amount would be sent to her every threemonths, as long as she was separated from her husband. A portionof this she had given over to Mr. Outhouse; but this pecuniaryassistance by no means comforted that unfortunate gentleman in histrouble. "I don't want to get into debt, " he said, "by keeping a lotof people whom I haven't the means to feed. And I don't want to boardand lodge my nieces and their family at so much a head. It's veryhard upon me either way. " And so it was. All the comfort of his homewas destroyed, and he was driven to sacrifice his independence bypaying his tradesmen with a portion of Mrs. Trevelyan's money. Themore he thought of it all, and the more he discussed the matter withhis wife, the more indignant they became with the truant husband. "Ican't believe, " he said, "but what Mr. Bideawhile could make him comeback, if he chose to do his duty. "

"But they say that Mr. Trevelyan is in Italy, my dear. "

"And if I went to Italy, might I leave you to starve, and take myincome with me?"

"He doesn't leave her quite to starve, my dear. "

"But isn't a man bound to stay with his wife? I never heard of such athing, --never. And I'm sure that there must be something wrong. A mancan't go away and leave his wife to live with her uncle and aunt. Itisn't right. "

"But what can we do?"

Mr. Outhouse was forced to acknowledge that nothing could be done. Hewas a man to whom the quiescence of his own childless house was theone pleasure of his existence. And of that he was robbed because thiswicked madman chose to neglect all his duties, and leave his wifewithout a house to shelter her. "Supposing that she couldn't havecome here, what then?" said Mr. Outhouse. "I did tell him, as plainas words could speak, that we couldn't receive them. " "But here theyare, " said Mrs. Outhouse, "and here they must remain till my brothercomes to England. " "It's the most monstrous thing that I ever heardof in all my life, " said Mr. Outhouse. "He ought to be lockedup;--that's what he ought. "

It was hard, and it became harder, when a gentleman, whom Mr. Outhouse certainly did not wish to see, called upon him about thelatter end of September. Mr. Outhouse was sitting alone, in thegloomy parlour of his parsonage, --for his own study had been givenup to other things, since this great inroad had been made upon hisfamily;--he was sitting alone on one Saturday morning, preparing forthe duties of the next day, with various manuscript sermons lying onthe table around him, when he was told that a gentleman had calledto see him. Had Mr. Outhouse been an incumbent at the West-end ofLondon, or had his maid been a West-end servant, in all probabilitythe gentleman's name would have been demanded; but Mr. Outhouse was aman who was not very ready in foreseeing and preventing misfortunes, and the girl who opened the door was not trained to discreetusages in such matters. As she announced the fact that there was agentleman, she pointed to the door, to show that the gentleman wasthere; and before Mr. Outhouse had been able to think whether itwould be prudent for him to make some preliminary inquiry, ColonelOsborne was in the room. Now, as it happened, these two men had neverhitherto met each other, though one was the brother-in-law of SirMarmaduke Rowley, and the other had been his very old friend. "Myname, Mr. Outhouse, is Colonel Osborne, " said the visitor, comingforward, with his hand out. The clergyman, of course, took his hand, and asked him to be seated. "We have known each other's names verylong, " continued the Colonel, "though I do not think we have ever yethad an opportunity of becoming acquainted. "

 [Illustration: At St. Diddulph's. ]

"No, " said Mr. Outhouse; "we have never been acquainted, I believe. "He might have added, that he had no desire whatever to make suchacquaintance; and his manner, over which he himself had no control, did almost say as much. Indeed, this coming to his house of thesuspected lover of his niece appeared to him to be a heavy additionto his troubles; for, although he was disposed to take his niece'spart against her husband to any possible length, --even to the lockingup of the husband as a madman, if it were possible, --nevertheless, hehad almost as great a horror of the Colonel, as though the husband'sallegation as to the lover had been true as gospel. Because Trevelyanhad been wrong altogether, Colonel Osborne was not the less wrong. Because Trevelyan's suspicions were to Mr. Outhouse wicked andgroundless, he did not the less regard the presumed lover to be aniniquitous roaring lion, going about seeking whom he might devour. Elderly unmarried men of fashion generally, and especially colonels, and majors, and members of parliament, and such like, were to himas black sheep or roaring lions. They were "fruges consumere nati;"men who stood on club doorsteps talking naughtily and doing nothing, wearing sleek clothing, for which they very often did not pay, andnever going to church. It seemed to him, --in his ignorance, --thatsuch men had none of the burdens of this world upon their shoulders, and that, therefore, they stood in great peril of the burdens of thenext. It was, doubtless, his special duty to deal with men in suchperil;--but those wicked ones with whom he was concerned were thosewhom he could reach. Now, the Colonel Osbornes of the earth werenot to be got at by any clergyman, or, as far as Mr. Outhouse couldsee, by any means of grace. That story of the rich man and the camelseemed to him to be specially applicable to such people. How was sucha one as Colonel Osborne to be shewn the way through the eye of aneedle? To Mr. Outhouse, his own brother-in-law, Sir Marmaduke, wasalmost of the same class, --for he frequented clubs when in London, and played whist, and talked of the things of the world, --such as theDerby, and the levées, and West-end dinner parties, --as though theywere all in all to him. He, to be sure, was weighted with so largea family that there might be hope for him. The eye of the needlecould not be closed against him as a rich man; but he savoured ofthe West-end, and was worldly, and consorted with such men as thisColonel Osborne. When Colonel Osborne introduced himself to Mr. Outhouse, it was almost as though Apollyon had made his way into theparsonage of St. Diddulph's. 

"Mr. Outhouse, " said the Colonel, "I have thought it best to cometo you the very moment that I got back to town from Scotland. " Mr. Outhouse bowed, and was bethinking himself slowly what manner ofspeech he would adopt. "I leave town again to-morrow for Dorsetshire. I am going down to my friends, the Brambers, for partridge shooting. "Mr. Outhouse knitted his thick brows, in further inward condemnation. Partridge shooting! yes;--this was September, and partridge shootingwould be the probable care and occupation of such a man at such atime. A man without a duty in the world! Perhaps, added to this therewas a feeling that, whereas Colonel Osborne could shoot Scotch grousein August, and Dorsetshire partridges in September, and go aboutthroughout the whole year like a roaring lion, he, Mr. Outhouse, was forced to remain at St. Diddulph's-in-the-East, from January toDecember, with the exception of one small parson's week spent atMargate, for the benefit of his wife's health. If there was such athought, or rather, such a feeling, who will say that it was notnatural? "But I could not go through London without seeing you, "continued the Colonel. "This is a most frightful infatuation ofTrevelyan!"

"Very frightful, indeed, " said Mr. Outhouse. 

"And, on my honour as a gentleman, not the slightest cause in theworld. "

"You are old enough to be the lady's father, " said Mr. Outhouse, managing in that to get one blow at the gallant Colonel. 

"Just so. God bless my soul!" Mr. Outhouse shrunk visibly at thisprofane allusion to the Colonel's soul. "Why, I've known her fatherever so many years. As you say, I might almost be her father myself. "As far as age went, such certainly might have been the case, for theColonel was older than Sir Marmaduke. "Look here, Mr. Outhouse, hereis a letter I got from Emily--"

"From Mrs. Trevelyan?"

"Yes, from Mrs. Trevelyan; and as well as I can understand, it musthave been sent to me by Trevelyan himself. Did you ever hear of sucha thing? And now I'm told he has gone away, nobody knows where, andhas left her here. "

"He has gone away, --nobody knows where. "

"Of course, I don't ask to see her. "

"It would be imprudent, Colonel Osborne; and could not be permittedin this house. "

"I don't ask it. I have known Emily Trevelyan since she was aninfant, and have always loved her. I'm her godfather, for aught Iknow, --though one forgets things of that sort. " Mr. Outhouse againknit his eyebrows and shuddered visibly. "She and I have been fastfriends, --and why not? But, of course, I can't interfere. "

"If you ask me, Colonel Osborne, I should say that you can do nothingin the matter;--except to remain away from her. When Sir Marmaduke isin England, you can see him, if you please. "

"See him;--of course, I shall see him. And, by George, LouisTrevelyan will have to see him, too! I shouldn't like to have tostand up before Rowley if I had treated a daughter of his in such afashion. You know Rowley, of course?"

"Oh, yes; I know him. "

"He's not the sort of man to bear this sort of thing. He'll abouttear Trevelyan in pieces if he gets hold of him. God bless my soul--"the eyebrows went to work again, --"I never heard of such a thing inall my life! Does he pay anything for them, Mr. Outhouse?"

This was dreadful to the poor clergyman. "That is a subject whichwe surely need not discuss, " said he. Then he remembered thatsuch speech on his part was like to a subterfuge, and he found itnecessary to put himself right. "I am repaid for the maintenance hereof my nieces, and the little boy, and their attendants. I do not knowwhy the question should be asked, but such is the fact. "

"Then they are here by agreement between you and him?"

"No, sir; they are not. There is no such agreement. But I do not likethese interrogatives from a stranger as to matters which should beprivate. "

"You cannot wonder at my interest, Mr. Outhouse. "

"You had better restrain it, sir, till Sir Marmaduke arrives. I shallthen wash my hands of the affair. "

"And she is pretty well;--Emily, I mean?"

"Mrs. Trevelyan's health is good. "

"Pray tell her though I could not--might not ask to see her, I cameto inquire after her the first moment that I was in London. Praytell her how much I feel for her;--but she will know that. When SirMarmaduke is here, of course, we shall meet. When she is once moreunder her father's wing, she need not be restrained by any absurdcommands from a husband who has deserted her. At present, of course, I do not ask to see her. "

"Of course, you do not, Colonel Osborne. "

"And give my love to Nora;--dear little Nora! There can be no reasonwhy she and I should not shake hands. "

"I should prefer that it should not be so in this house, " said theclergyman, who was now standing, --in expectation that his unwelcomeguest would go. 

"Very well;--so be it. But you will understand I could not be inLondon without coming and asking after them. " Then the Colonel atlast took his leave, and Mr. Outhouse was left to his solitude andhis sermons. 

Mrs. Outhouse was very angry when she heard of the visit. "Men ofthat sort, " she said, "think it a fine thing, and talk about it. Ibelieve the poor girl is as innocent as I am, but he isn't innocent. He likes it. "

"'It is easier, '" said Mr. Outhouse solemnly, "'for a camel to gothrough the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdomof God. '"

"I don't know that he is a rich man, " said Mrs. Outhouse; "but hewouldn't have come here if he had been honest. "

Mrs. Trevelyan was told of the visit, and simply said that of courseit was out of the question that she should have seen Colonel Osborne. Nevertheless she seemed to think it quite natural that he should havecalled, and defended him with some energy when her aunt declared thathe had been much to blame. "He is not bound to obey Mr. Trevelyanbecause I am, " said Emily. 

"He is bound to abstain from evil doing, " said Mrs. Outhouse; "and heoughtn't to have come. There; let that be enough, my dear. Your uncledoesn't wish to have it talked about. " Nevertheless it was talkedabout between the two sisters. Nora was of opinion that ColonelOsborne had been wrong, whereas Emily defended him. "It seems to meto have been the most natural thing in life, " said she. 

Had Colonel Osborne made the visit as Sir Marmaduke's friend, feelinghimself to be an old man, it might have been natural. When a man hascome to regard himself as being, on the score of age, about as fit tobe a young lady's lover as though he were an old woman instead of anold man, --which some men will do when they are younger even than wasColonel Osborne, --he is justified in throwing behind him as utterlyabsurd the suspicions of other people. But Colonel Osborne cannot bedefended altogether on that plea. 

CHAPTER XLII. 

MISS STANBURY AND MR. GIBSON BECOME TWO. 

There came to be a very gloomy fortnight at Miss Stanbury's housein the Close. For two or three days after Mr. Gibson's dismissal atthe hands of Miss Stanbury herself, Brooke Burgess was still in thehouse, and his presence saved Dorothy from the full weight of heraunt's displeasure. There was the necessity of looking after Brooke, and scolding him, and of praising him to Martha, and of dispraisinghim, and of seeing that he had enough to eat, and of watching whetherhe smoked in the house, and of quarrelling with him about everythingunder the sun, which together so employed Miss Stanbury that shesatisfied herself with glances at Dorothy which were felt to be fullof charges of ingratitude. Dorothy was thankful that it should be so, and bore the glances with abject submission. And then there was agreat comfort to her in Brooke's friendship. On the second day afterMr. Gibson had gone she found herself talking to Brooke quite openlyupon the subject. "The fact was, Mr. Burgess, that I didn't reallycare for him. I know he's very good and all that, and of course AuntStanbury meant it all for the best. And I would have done it if Icould, but I couldn't. " Brooke patted her on the back, --not in theflesh but in the spirit, --and told her that she was quite right. Andhe expressed an opinion too that it was not expedient to yield toomuch to Aunt Stanbury. "I would yield to her in anything that waspossible to me, " said Dorothy. "I won't, " said he; "and I don't thinkI should do any good if I did. I like her, and I like her money. ButI don't like either well enough to sell myself for a price. "

A great part too of the quarrelling which went on from day to daybetween Brooke and Miss Stanbury was due to the difference of theiropinions respecting Dorothy and her suitor. "I believe you put her upto it, " said Aunt Stanbury. 

"I neither put her up nor down, but I think that she was quiteright. "

"You've robbed her of a husband, and she'll never have anotherchance. After what you've done, you ought to take her yourself. "

"I shall be ready to-morrow, " said Brooke. 

"How can you tell such a lie?" said Aunt Stanbury. 

But after two or three days Brooke was gone to make a journey throughthe distant part of the county, and see the beauties of Devonshire. He was to be away for a fortnight, and then come back for a day ortwo before he returned to London. During that fortnight things didnot go well with poor Dorothy at Exeter. 

"I suppose you know your own business best, " her aunt said to herone morning. Dorothy uttered no word of reply. She felt it to beequally impossible to suggest either that she did or that she didnot know her own business best. "There may be reasons which I don'tunderstand, " exclaimed Aunt Stanbury; "but I should like to know whatit is you expect. "

"Why should I expect anything, Aunt Stanbury?"

"That's nonsense. Everybody expects something. You expect to haveyour dinner by-and-by, --don't you?"

"I suppose I shall, " said Dorothy, to whom it occurred at the momentthat such expectation was justified by the fact that on every day ofher life hitherto some sort of a dinner had come in her way. 

"Yes, --and you think it comes from heaven, I suppose. "

"It comes by God's goodness and your bounty, Aunt Stanbury. "

"And how will it come when I'm dead? Or how will it come if thingsshould go in such a way that I can't stay here any longer? You don'tever think of that. "

"I should go back to mamma, and Priscilla. "

"Psha! As if two mouths were not enough to eat all the meal there isin that tub. If there was a word to say against the man, I wouldn'task you to have him; if he drank, or smoked, or wasn't a gentleman, or was too poor, or anything you like. But there's nothing. It's allvery well to tell me you don't love him, but why don't you love him?I don't like a girl to go and throw herself at a man's head, as thoseFrenches have done; but when everything has been prepared for youand made proper, it seems to me to be like turning away from goodvictuals. " Dorothy could only offer to go home if she had offendedher aunt, and then Miss Stanbury scolded her for making the offer. Asthis kind of thing went on at the house in the Close for a fortnight, during which there was no going out, and no society at home, Dorothybegan to be rather tired of it. 

At the end of the fortnight, on the morning of the day on whichBrooke Burgess was expected back, Dorothy, slowly moving into thesitting room with her usual melancholy air, found Mr. Gibson talkingto her aunt. "There she is herself, " said Miss Stanbury, jumpingup briskly, "and now you can speak to her. Of course I have noauthority, --none in the least. But she knows what my wishes are. "And, having so spoken, Miss Stanbury left the room. 

It will be remembered that hitherto no word of affection had beenwhispered by Mr. Gibson into Dorothy's ears. When he came before topress his suit, she had been made aware of his coming, and had fled, leaving her answer with her aunt. Mr. Gibson had then expressedhimself as somewhat injured, in that no opportunity of pouring forthhis own eloquence had been permitted to him. On that occasion MissStanbury, being in a snubbing humour, had snubbed him. She had intruth scolded him almost as much as she had scolded Dorothy, tellinghim that he went about the business in hand as though butter wouldn'tmelt in his mouth. "You're stiff as a chair-back, " she had said tohim, with a few other compliments, and these amenities had for awhile made him regard the establishment at Heavitree as being, atany rate, pleasanter than that in the Close. But since that coolreflection had come. The proposal was not that he should marry MissStanbury, senior, who certainly could be severe on occasions, butMiss Stanbury, junior, whose temper was as sweet as primroses inMarch. That which he would have to take from Miss Stanbury, senior, was a certain sum of money, as to which her promise was as good asany bond in the world. Things had come to such a pass with him inExeter, --from the hints of his friend the Prebend, from a word or twowhich had come to him from the Dean, from certain family arrangementsproposed to him by his mother and sisters, --things had come to sucha pass that he was of a mind that he had better marry some one. Hehad, as it were, three strings to his bow. There were the two Frenchstrings, and there was Dorothy. He had not breadth of genius enoughto suggest to himself that yet another woman might be found. Therewas a difficulty on the French score even about Miss Stanbury; butit was clear to him that, failing her, he was due to one of thetwo Miss Frenches. Now it was not only that the Miss Frenches wereempty-handed, but he was beginning to think himself that they werenot as nice as they might have been in reference to the arrangementof their head-gear. Therefore, having given much thought to thematter, and remembering that he had never yet had play for his owneloquence with Dorothy, he had come to Miss Stanbury asking that hemight have another chance. It had been borne in upon him that he hadperhaps hitherto regarded Dorothy as too certainly his own since shehad been offered to him by her aunt, --as being a prize that requiredno eloquence in the winning; and he thought that if he could have anopportunity of amending that fault, it might even yet be well withhis suit. So he prepared himself, and asked permission, and now foundhimself alone with the young lady. 

"When last I was in this house, Miss Stanbury, " he began, "I was notfortunate enough to be allowed an opportunity of pleading my cause toyourself. " Then he paused, and Dorothy was left to consider how bestshe might answer him. All that her aunt had said to her had not beenthrown away upon her. The calls upon that slender meal-tub at homeshe knew were quite sufficient. And Mr. Gibson was, she believed, agood man. And how better could she dispose of herself in life? Andwhat was she that she should scorn the love of an honest gentleman?She would take him, she thought, --if she could. But then there cameupon her, unconsciously, without work of thought, by instinct ratherthan by intelligence, a feeling of the closeness of a wife to herhusband. Looking at it in general she could not deny that it wouldbe very proper that she should become Mrs. Gibson. But when therecame upon her a remembrance that she would be called upon fordemonstration of her love, --that he would embrace her, and hold herto his heart, and kiss her, --she revolted and shuddered. She believedthat she did not want to marry any man, and that such a state ofthings would not be good for her. "Dear young lady, " continued Mr. Gibson, "you will let me now make up for the loss which I thenexperienced?"

"I thought it was better not to give you trouble, " said Dorothy. 

"Trouble, Miss Stanbury! How could it be trouble? The labour wedelight in physics pain. But to go back to the subject-matter. I hopeyou do not doubt that my affection for you is true and honest, andgenuine. "

"I don't want to doubt anything, Mr. Gibson; but--"

"You needn't, dearest Miss Stanbury; indeed you needn't. If youcould read my heart you would see written there true love veryplainly;--very plainly. And do you not think it a duty that peopleshould marry?" It may be surmised that he had here forgotten someconnecting link which should have joined without abruptness thedeclaration of his own love, and his social view as to the generalexpediency of matrimony. But Dorothy did not discover the hiatus. 

"Certainly, --when they like each other, and if their friends think itproper. "

"Our friends think it proper, Miss Stanbury, --may I say Dorothy?--allof them. I can assure you that on my side you will be welcomed by amother and sisters only too anxious to receive you with open arms. And as regards your own relations, I need hardly allude to yourrevered aunt. As to your own mother and sister, --and your brother, who, I believe, gives his mind chiefly to other things, --I am assuredby Miss Stanbury that no opposition need be feared from them. Is thattrue, dearest Dorothy?"

"It is true. "

"Does not all that plead in my behalf? Tell me, Dorothy. "

"Of course it does. "

"And you will be mine?" As far as eloquence could be of service, Mr. Gibson was sufficiently eloquent. To Dorothy his words appeared good, and true, and affecting. All their friends did wish it. There weremany reasons why it should be done. If talking could have done it, his talking was good enough. Though his words were in truth cold, and affected, and learned by rote, they did not offend her; but hisface offended her; and the feeling was strong within her that if sheyielded, it would soon be close to her own. She couldn't do it. Shedidn't love him, and she wouldn't do it. Priscilla would not grudgeher her share out of that meagre meal-tub. Had not Priscilla told hernot to marry the man if she did not love him? She found that she wasfurther than ever from loving him. She would not do it. "Say that youwill be mine, " pleaded Mr. Gibson, coming to her with both his handsoutstretched. 

"Mr. Gibson, I can't, " she said. She was sobbing now, and was halfchoked by tears. 

"And why not, Dorothy?"

"I don't know, but I can't. I don't feel that I want to be married atall. "

"But it is honourable. "

"It's no use, Mr. Gibson; I can't, and you oughtn't to ask me anymore. "

"Must this be your very last answer?"

"What's the good of going over it all again and again? I can't doit. "

"Never, Miss Stanbury?"

"No;--never. "

"That is cruel, very cruel. I fear that you doubt my love. "

"It isn't cruel, Mr. Gibson. I have a right to have my own feelings, and I can't. If you please, I'll go away now. " Then she went, andhe was left standing alone in the room. His first feeling was oneof anger. Then there came to be mixed with that a good deal ofwonder, --and then a certain amount of doubt. He had during the lastfortnight discussed the matter at great length with a friend, agentleman who knew the world, and who took upon himself to say thathe specially understood female nature. It was by advice from thisfriend that he had been instigated to plead his own cause. "Of courseshe means to accept you, " the friend had said. "Why the mischiefshouldn't she? But she has some flimsy, old-fashioned country ideathat it isn't maidenly to give in at first. You tell her roundly thatshe must marry you. " Mr. Gibson was just reaching that roundnesswhich his friend had recommended when the lady left him and he wasalone. 

Mr. Gibson was no doubt very much in love with Dorothy Stanbury. Somuch, we may take for granted. He, at least, believed that he was inlove with her. He would have thought it wicked to propose to her hadhe not been in love with her. But with his love was mingled a certainamount of contempt which had induced him to look upon her as an easyconquest. He had been perhaps a little ashamed of himself for beingin love with Dorothy, and had almost believed the Frenches when theyhad spoken of her as a poor creature, a dependant, one born to besnubbed, --as a young woman almost without an identity of her own. When, therefore, she so pertinaciously refused him, he could not butbe angry. And it was natural that he should be surprised. Though hewas to have received a fortune with Dorothy, the money was not hers. It was to be hers, --or rather theirs, --only if she would accept him. Mr. Gibson thoroughly understood this point. He knew that Dorothy hadnothing of her own. The proposal made to her was as rich as thoughhe had sought her down at Nuncombe Putney, with his preferment, plusthe £2, 000, in his own pocket. And his other advantages were nothidden from his own eyes. He was a clergyman, well thought of, notbad-looking certainly, considerably under forty, --a man, indeed, whoought to have been, in the eyes of Dorothy, such an Orlando as shewould have most desired. He could not therefore but wonder. And thencame the doubt. Could it be possible that all those refusals weresimply the early pulses of hesitating compliance produced by maidenlyreserve? Mr. Gibson's friend had expressed a strong opinion thatalmost any young woman would accept any young man if he put his"com 'ether" upon her strong enough. For Mr. Gibson's friend was anIrishman. As to Dorothy the friend had not a doubt in the world. Mr. Gibson, as he stood alone in the room after Dorothy's departure, could not share his friend's certainty; but he thought it justpossible that the pulsations of maidenly reserve were yet at work. Ashe was revolving these points in his mind, Miss Stanbury entered theroom. 

"It's all over now, " she said. 

"As how, Miss Stanbury?"

"As how! She's given you an answer; hasn't she?"

"Yes, Miss Stanbury, she has given me an answer. But it has occurredto me that young ladies are sometimes, --perhaps a little--"

"She means it, Mr. Gibson; you may take my word for that. She isquite in earnest. She can take the bit between her teeth as well asanother, though she does look so mild and gentle. She's a Stanburyall over. "

"And must this be the last of it, Miss Stanbury?"

"Upon my word, I don't know what else you can do, --unless you sendthe Dean and Chapter to talk her over. She's a pig-headed, foolishyoung woman;--but I can't help that. The truth is, you didn't makeenough of her at first, Mr. Gibson. You thought the plum would tumbleinto your mouth. "

This did seem cruel to the poor man. From the first day in whichthe project had been opened to him by Miss Stanbury, he had yieldeda ready acquiescence, --in spite of those ties which he had atHeavitree, --and had done his very best to fall into her views. "Idon't think that is at all fair, Miss Stanbury, " he said, with sometone of wrath in his voice. 

"It's true, --quite true. You always treated her as though she weresomething beneath you. " Mr. Gibson stood speechless, with his mouthopen. "So you did. I saw it all. And now she's had spirit enough toresent it. I don't wonder at it; I don't, indeed. It's no good yourstanding there any longer. The thing is done. "

Such intolerable ill-usage Mr. Gibson had never suffered in his life. Had he been untrue, or very nearly untrue, to those dear girls atHeavitree for this? "I never treated her as anything beneath me, " hesaid at last. 

"Yes, you did. Do you think that I don't understand? Haven't I eyesin my head, and ears? I'm not deaf yet, nor blind. But there's anend of it. If any young woman ever meant anything, she means it. Thetruth is, she don't like you. "

Was ever a lover despatched in so uncourteous a way! Then, too, hehad been summoned thither as a lover, had been specially encouragedto come there as a lover, had been assured of success in a peculiarway, had had the plum actually offered to him! He had done all thatthis old woman had bidden him, --something, indeed, to the prejudiceof his own heart; he had been told that the wife was ready forhim; and now, because this foolish young woman didn't know her ownmind, --this was Mr. Gibson's view of the matter, --he was reviledand abused, and told that he had behaved badly to the lady. "MissStanbury, " he said, "I think that you are forgetting yourself. "

"Highty, tighty!" said Miss Stanbury. "Forgetting myself! I shan'tforget you in a hurry, Mr. Gibson. "

"Nor I you, Miss Stanbury. Good morning, Miss Stanbury. " Mr. Gibson, as he went from the hall-door into the street, shook the dust off hisfeet, and resolved that for the future he and Miss Stanbury should betwo. There would arise great trouble in Exeter, but, nevertheless, heand Miss Stanbury must be two. He could justify himself in no otherpurpose after such conduct as he had received. 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

LABURNUM COTTAGE. 

There had been various letters passing, during the last six weeks, between Priscilla Stanbury and her brother, respecting the ClockHouse at Nuncombe Putney. The ladies at Nuncombe had, certainly, goneinto the Clock House on the clear understanding that the expenses ofthe establishment were to be incurred on behalf of Mrs. Trevelyan. Priscilla had assented to the movement most doubtingly. She haddisliked the idea of taking the charge of a young married woman whowas separated from her husband, and she had felt that a going downafter such an uprising, --a fall from the Clock House back to acottage, --would be very disagreeable. She had, however, allowed herbrother's arguments to prevail, and there they were. The annoyancewhich she had anticipated from the position of their late guest hadfallen upon them: it had been felt grievously, from the moment inwhich Colonel Osborne called at the house; and now that going backto the cottage must be endured. Priscilla understood that there hadbeen a settlement between Trevelyan and Stanbury as to the cost ofthe establishment so far;--but that must now be at an end. In theirpresent circumstances she would not continue to live there, and hadalready made inquiries as to some humble roof for their shelter. Forherself she would not have cared had it been necessary for her tohide herself in a hut, --for herself, as regarded any feeling as toher own standing in the village. For herself, she was ashamed ofnothing. But her mother would suffer, and she knew what Aunt Stanburywould say to Dorothy. To Dorothy at the present moment, if Dorothyshould think of accepting her suitor, the change might be verydeleterious; but still it should be made. She could not endureto live there on the very hard-earned proceeds of her brother'spen, --proceeds which were not only hard-earned, but precarious. Shegave warning to the two servants who had been hired, and consultedwith Mrs. Crocket as to a cottage, and was careful to let it be knownthroughout Nuncombe Putney that the Clock House was to be abandoned. The Clock House had been taken furnished for six months, of whichhalf were not yet over; but there were other expenses of living theremuch greater than the rent, and go she would. Her mother sighed andassented; and Mrs. Crocket, having strongly but fruitlessly advisedthat the Clock House should be inhabited at any rate for the sixmonths, promised her assistance. "It has been a bad business, Mrs. Crocket, " said Priscilla; "and all we can do now is to get out ofit as well as we can. Every mouthful I eat chokes me while I staythere. " "It ain't good, certainly, miss, not to know as you're allstraight the first thing as you wakes in the morning, " said Mrs. Crocket, --who was always able to feel when she woke that everythingwas straight with her. 

Then there came the correspondence between Priscilla and Hugh. Priscilla was at first decided, indeed, but mild in the expressionof her decision. To this, and to one or two other missivescouched in terms of increasing decision, Hugh answered with manly, self-asserting, overbearing arguments. The house was theirs tillChristmas; between this and then he would think about it. He couldvery well afford to keep the house on till next Midsummer, and thenthey might see what had best be done. There was plenty of money, andPriscilla need not put herself into a flutter. In answer to that wordflutter, Priscilla wrote as follows:--

 Clock House, September 16, 186--. 

 DEAR HUGH, I know very well how good you are, and how generous, but you must allow me to have feelings as well as yourself. I will not consent to have myself regarded as a grand lady out of your earnings. How should I feel when some day I heard that you had run yourself into debt? Neither mamma nor I could endure it. Dorothy is provided for now, at any rate for a time, and what we have is enough for us. You know I am not too proud to take anything you can spare to us, when we are ourselves placed in a proper position: but I could not live in this great house, while you are paying for everything, --and I will not. Mamma quite agrees with me, and we shall go out of it on Michaelmas-day. Mrs. Crocket says she thinks she can get you a tenant for the three months, out of Exeter, --if not for the whole rent, at least for part of it. I think we have already got a small place for eight shillings a week, a little out of the village, on the road to Cockchaffington. You will remember it. Old Soames used to live there. Our old furniture will be just enough. There is a mite of a garden, and Mrs. Crocket says she thinks we can get it for seven shillings, or perhaps for six and sixpence, if we stay there. We shall go in on the 29th. Mrs. Crocket will see about having somebody to take care of the house. 

 Your most affectionate sister, PRISCILLA. 

On the receipt of this letter, Hugh proceeded to Nuncombe. At thistime he was making about ten guineas a week, and thought thathe saw his way to further work. No doubt the ten guineas wereprecarious;--that is, the "Daily Record" might discontinue hisservices to-morrow, if the "Daily Record" thought fit to do so. Thegreater part of his earnings came from the "D. R. , " and the editorhad only to say that things did not suit any longer, and there wouldbe an end of it. He was not as a lawyer or a doctor with many clientswho could not all be supposed to withdraw their custom at once; butleading articles were things wanted with at least as much regularityas physic or law, and Hugh Stanbury, believing in himself, did notthink it probable that an editor, who knew what he was about, wouldwithdraw his patronage. He was proud of his weekly ten guineas, feeling sure that a weekly ten guineas would not as yet have beenhis had he stuck to the Bar as a profession. He had calculated, whenMrs. Trevelyan left the Clock House, that two hundred a year wouldenable his mother to continue to reside there, the rent of the placefurnished, or half-furnished, being only eighty; and he thoughtthat he could pay the two hundred easily. He thought so still, whenhe received Priscilla's last letter; but he knew something of thestubbornness of his dear sister, and he, therefore, went down toNuncombe Putney, in order that he might use the violence of his logicon his mother. 

He had heard of Mr. Gibson from both Priscilla and from Dorothy, and was certainly desirous that "dear old Dolly, " as he called her, should be settled comfortably. But when dear old Dolly wrote to himdeclaring that it could not be so, that Mr. Gibson was a very nicegentleman, of whom she could not say that she was particularlyfond, --"though I really do think that he is an excellent man, and ifit was any other girl in the world, I should recommend her to takehim, "--and that she thought that she would rather not get married, hewrote to her the kindest brotherly letter in the world, telling herthat she was "a brick, " and suggesting to her that there might comesome day some one who would suit her taste better than Mr. Gibson. "I'm not very fond of parsons myself, " said Hugh, "but you must nottell that to Aunt Stanbury. " Then he suggested that as he was goingdown to Nuncombe, Dorothy should get leave of absence and come overand meet him at the Clock House. Dorothy demanded the leave ofabsence somewhat imperiously, and was at home at the Clock House whenHugh arrived. 

"And so that little affair couldn't come off?" said Hugh at theirfirst family meeting. 

"It was a pity, " said Mrs. Stanbury, plaintively. She had been veryplaintive on the subject. What a thing it would have been for her, could she have seen Dorothy so well established!

"There's no help for spilt milk, mother, " said Hugh. Mrs. Stanburyshook her head. 

"Dorothy was quite right, " said Priscilla. 

"Of course she was right, " said Hugh. "Who doubts her being right?Bless my soul! What's any girl to do if she don't like a man exceptto tell him so? I honour you, Dolly, --not that I ever should havedoubted you. You're too much of a chip of the old block to say youliked a man when you didn't. "

"He is a very excellent young man, " said Mrs. Stanbury. 

"An excellent fiddlestick, mother. Loving and liking don't go byexcellence. Besides, I don't know about his being any better thananybody else, just because he's a clergyman. "

"A clergyman is more likely to be steady than other men, " said themother. 

"Steady, yes; and as selfish as you please. "

"Your father was a clergyman, Hugh. "

"I don't mean to say that they are not as good as others; but I won'thave it that they are better. They are always dealing with the Bible, till they think themselves apostles. But when money comes up, orcomfort, or, for the matter of that either, a pretty woman with alittle money, then they are as human as the rest of us. "

If the truth had been told on that occasion, Hugh Stanbury would havehad to own that he had written lately two or three rather stingingarticles in the "Daily Record, " as "to the assumed merits and actualdemerits of the clergy of the Church of England. " It is astonishinghow fluent a man is on a subject when he has lately delivered himselfrespecting it in this fashion. 

Nothing on that evening was said about the Clock House, or aboutPriscilla's intentions. Priscilla was up early on the next morning, intending to discuss it in the garden with Hugh before breakfast; butHugh was aware of her purpose and avoided her. It was his intentionto speak first to his mother; and though his mother was, as he knew, very much in awe of her daughter, he thought that he might carry hispoint, at any rate for the next three months, by forcing an assentfrom the elder lady. So he managed to waylay Mrs. Stanbury before shedescended to the parlour. 

"We can't afford it, my dear;--indeed we can't, " said Mrs. Stanbury. 

"That's not the question, mother. The rent must be paid up toChristmas, and you can live here as cheap as you can anywhere. "

"But Priscilla--"

"Oh, Priscilla! Of course we know what Priscilla says. Priscilla hasbeen writing to me about it in the most sensible manner in the world;but what does it all come to? If you are ashamed of taking assistancefrom me, I don't know who is to do anything for anybody. You arecomfortable here?"

"Very comfortable; only Priscilla feels--"

"Priscilla is a tyrant, mother; and a very stern one. Just make upyour mind to stay here till Christmas. If I tell you that I canafford it, surely that ought to be enough. " Then Dorothy entered theroom, and Hugh appealed to her. Dorothy had come to Nuncombe only onthe day before, and had not been consulted on the subject. She hadbeen told that the Clock House was to be abandoned, and had beentaken down to inspect the cottage in which old Soames had lived;--buther opinion had not been asked. Priscilla had quite made up her mind, and why should she ask an opinion of any one? But now Dorothy'sopinion was demanded. "It's what I call the rhodomontade ofindependence, " said Hugh. 

"I suppose it is very expensive, " suggested Dorothy. 

"The house must be paid for, " said Hugh;--"and if I say that I've gotthe money, is not that enough? A miserable, dirty little place, whereyou'll catch your death of lumbago, mother. "

"Of course it's not a comfortable house, " said Mrs. Stanbury, --who, of herself, was not at all indifferent to the comforts of her presentresidence. 

"And it is very dirty, " said Dorothy. 

"The nastiest place I ever saw in my life. Come, mother; if I saythat I can afford it, ought not that to be enough for you? If youthink you can't trust me, there's an end of everything, you know. "And Hugh, as he thus expressed himself, assumed an air of injuredvirtue. 

Mrs. Stanbury had very nearly yielded, when Priscilla came in amongthem. It was impossible not to continue the conversation, though Hughwould much have preferred to have forced an assent from his motherbefore he opened his mouth on the subject to his sister. "My motheragrees with me, " said he abruptly, "and so does Dolly, that it willbe absurd to move away from this house at present. "

"Mamma!" exclaimed Priscilla. 

"I don't think I said that, Hugh, " murmured Dorothy, softly. 

"I'm sure I don't want anything for myself, " said Mrs. Stanbury. 

"It's I that want it, " said Hugh. "And I think that I've a right tohave my wishes respected, so far as that goes. "

"My dear Hugh, " said Priscilla, "the cottage is already taken, and weshall certainly go into it. I spoke to Mrs. Crocket yesterday abouta cart for moving the things. I'm sure mamma agrees with me. Whatpossible business can people have to live in such a house as thiswith about twenty-four shillings a week for everything? I won't doit. And as the thing is settled, it is only making trouble to disturbit. "

"I suppose, Priscilla, " said Hugh, "you'll do as your motherchooses?"

"Mamma chooses to go. She has told me so already. "

"You have talked her into it. "

"We had better go, Hugh, " said Mrs. Stanbury. "I'm sure we had bettergo. "

"Of course we shall go, " said Priscilla. "Hugh is very kind and verygenerous, but he is only giving trouble for nothing about this. Hadwe not better go down to breakfast?"

And so Priscilla carried the day. They went down to breakfast, andduring the meal Hugh would speak to nobody. When the gloomy mealwas over he took his pipe and walked out to the cottage. It was anuntidy-looking, rickety place, small and desolate, with a pretensionabout it of the lowest order, a pretension that was evidently ashamedof itself. There was a porch. And the one sitting-room had what thelate Mr. Soames had always called his bow window. But the porchlooked as though it were tumbling down, and the bow window lookedas though it were tumbling out. The parlour and the bedroom over ithad been papered;--but the paper was torn and soiled, and in sundryplaces was hanging loose. There was a miserable little room called akitchen to the right as you entered the door, in which the grate wasworn out, and behind this was a shed with a copper. In the gardenthere remained the stumps and stalks of Mr. Soames's cabbages, andthere were weeds in plenty, and a damp hole among some elder bushescalled an arbour. It was named Laburnum Cottage, from a shrub thatgrew at the end of the house. Hugh Stanbury shuddered as he stoodsmoking among the cabbage-stalks. How could a man ask such a girlas Nora Rowley to be his wife, whose mother lived in a place likethis? While he was still standing in the garden, and thinking ofPriscilla's obstinacy and his own ten guineas a week, and the sort oflife which he lived in London, --where he dined usually at his club, and denied himself nothing in the way of pipes, beer, and beefsteaks, he heard a step behind him, and turning round, saw his elder sister. 

"Hugh, " she said, "you must not be angry with me. "

"But I am angry with you. "

"I know you are; but you are unjust. I am doing what I am sure isright. "

"I never saw such a beastly hole as this in all my life. "

"I don't think it beastly at all. You'll find that I'll make it nice. Whatever we want here you shall give us. You are not to think that Iam too proud to take anything at your hands. It is not that. "

"It's very like it. "

"I have never refused anything that is reasonable, but it is quiteunreasonable that we should go on living in such a place as that, asthough we had three or four hundred a year of our own. If mamma gotused to the comfort of it, it would be hard then upon her to move. You shall give her what you can afford, and what is reasonable; butit is madness to think of living there. I couldn't do it. "

"You're to have your way at any rate, it seems. "

"But you must not quarrel with me, Hugh. Give me a kiss. I don't haveyou often with me; and yet you are the only man in the world that Iever speak to, or even know. I sometimes half think that the bread isso hard and the water so bitter, that life will become impossible. Itry to get over it; but if you were to go away from me in anger, Ishould be so beaten for a week or two that I could do nothing. "

"Why won't you let me do anything?"

"I will;--whatever you please. But kiss me. " Then he kissed her, ashe stood among Mr. Soames's cabbage-stalks. "Dear Hugh; you are sucha god to me!"

"You don't treat me like a divinity. "

"But I think of you as one when you are absent. The gods were neverobeyed when they showed themselves. Let us go and have a walk. Come;--shall we get as far as Ridleigh Mill?" Then they startedtogether, and all unpleasantness was over between them when theyreturned to the Clock House. 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

BROOKE BURGESS TAKES LEAVE OF EXETER. 

 [Illustration]

The time had arrived at which Brooke Burgess was to leave Exeter. Hehad made his tour through the county, and returned to spend his twolast nights at Miss Stanbury's house. When he came back Dorothy wasstill at Nuncombe, but she arrived in the Close the day before hisdeparture. Her mother and sister had wished her to stay at Nuncombe. "There is a bed for you now, and a place to be comfortable in, "Priscilla had said, laughing, "and you may as well see the last ofus. " But Dorothy declared that she had named a day to her aunt, andthat she would not break her engagement. "I suppose you can stay ifyou like, " Priscilla had urged. But Dorothy was of opinion that sheought not to stay. She said not a word about Brooke Burgess; but itmay be that it would have been matter of regret to her not to shakehands with him once more. Brooke declared to her that had she notcome back he would have gone over to Nuncombe to see her; but Dorothydid not consider herself entitled to believe that. 

On the morning of the last day Brooke went over to his uncle'soffice. "I've come to say good-bye, Uncle Barty, " he said. 

"Good-bye, my boy. Take care of yourself. "

"I mean to try. "

"You haven't quarrelled with the old woman, --have you?" said UncleBarty. 

"Not yet;--that is to say, not to the knife. "

"And you still believe that you are to have her money?"

"I believe nothing one way or the other. You may be sure of this, --Ishall never count it mine till I've got it; and I shall never makemyself so sure of it as to break my heart because I don't get it. Isuppose I've got as good a right to it as anybody else, and I don'tsee why I shouldn't take it if it come in my way. "

"I don't think it ever will, " said the old man, after a pause. 

"I shall be none the worse, " said Brooke. 

"Yes, you will. You'll be a broken-hearted man. And she means tobreak your heart. She does it on purpose. She has no more idea ofleaving you her money than I have. Why should she?"

"Simply because she takes the fancy. "

"Fancy! Believe me, there is very little fancy about it. There isn'tone of the name she wouldn't ruin if she could. She'd break all ourhearts if she could get at them. Look at me and my position. I'mlittle more than a clerk in the concern. By God;--I'm not so well offas a senior clerk in many a bank. If there came a bad time, I mustlose as the others would lose;--but a clerk never loses. And my sharein the business is almost a nothing. It's just nothing, --compared towhat it would have been, only for her. "

Brooke had known that his uncle was a disappointed, or at leasta discontented man; but he had never known much of the old man'scircumstances, and certainly had not expected to hear him speak inthe strain that he had now used. He had heard often that his UncleBarty disliked Miss Stanbury, and had not been surprised at formersharp, biting little words spoken in reference to that lady'scharacter. But he had not expected such a tirade of abuse as thebanker had now poured out. "Of course I know nothing about the bank, "said he; "but I did not suppose that she had had anything to do withit. "

"Where do you think the money came from that she has got? Didyou ever hear that she had anything of her own? She never had apenny, --never a penny. It came out of this house. It is the capitalon which this business was founded, and on which it ought to becarried on to this day. My brother had thrown her off; by heavens, yes;--had thrown her off. He had found out what she was, and had gotrid of her. "

"But he left her his money. "

"Yes;--she got near him when he was dying, and he did leave her hismoney;--his money, and my money, and your father's money. "

"He could have given her nothing, Uncle Barty, that wasn't his own. "

"Of course that's true;--it's true in one way. You might say the sameof a man who was cozened into leaving every shilling away from hisown children. I wasn't in Exeter when the will was made. We noneof us were here. But she was here; and when we came to see him die, there we found her. She had had her revenge upon him, and she meansto have it on all of us. I don't believe she'll ever leave you ashilling, Brooke. You'll find her out yet, and you'll talk of her toyour nephews as I do to you. "

Brooke made some ordinary answer to this, and bade his uncle adieu. He had allowed himself to entertain a half chivalrous idea that hecould produce a reconciliation between Miss Stanbury and his uncleBarty; and since he had been at Exeter he had said a word, first tothe one and then to the other, hinting at the subject; but his hintshad certainly not been successful. As he walked from the bank intothe High Street he could not fail to ask himself whether there wereany grounds for the terrible accusations which he had just heard fromhis uncle's lips. Something of the same kind, though in form muchless violent, had been repeated to him very often by others of thefamily. Though he had as a boy known Miss Stanbury well, he had beentaught to regard her as an ogress. All the Burgesses had regardedMiss Stanbury as an ogress since that unfortunate will had cometo light. But she was an ogress from whom something might begained, --and the ogress had still persisted in saying that a Burgessshould be her heir. It had therefore come to pass that Brooke hadbeen brought up half to revere her and half to abhor her. "She is adreadful woman, " said his branch of the family, "who will not scrupleat anything evil. But as it seems that you may probably reap theadvantage of the evil that she does, it will become you to put upwith her iniquity. " As he had become old enough to understand thenature of her position, he had determined to judge for himself;--buthis judgment hitherto simply amounted to this, --that Miss Stanburywas a very singular old woman, with a kind heart and good instincts, but so capricious withal that no sensible man would risk hishappiness on expectations formed on her promises. Guided by thisopinion, he had resolved to be attentive to her and, after a certainfashion, submissive; but certainly not to become her slave. She hadthrown over her nephew. She was constantly complaining to him of herniece. Now and again she would say a very bitter word to him abouthimself. When he had left Exeter on his little excursion, no one wasso much in favour with her as Mr. Gibson. On his return he found thatMr. Gibson had been altogether discarded, and was spoken of in termsof almost insolent abuse. "If I were ever so humble to her, " he hadsaid to himself, "it would do no good; and there is nothing I hate somuch as humility. " He had thus determined to take the goods the godsprovided, should it ever come to pass that such godlike provision waslaid before him out of Miss Stanbury's coffers;--but not to alterhis mode of life or put himself out of his way in obedience to herbehests, as a man might be expected to do who was destined to receiveso rich a legacy. Upon this idea he had acted, still believing theold woman to be good, but believing at the same time that she wasvery capricious. Now he had heard what his Uncle Bartholomew Burgesshad had to say upon the matter, and he could not refrain from askinghimself whether his uncle's accusations were true. 

In a narrow passage between the High Street and the Close he met Mr. Gibson. There had come to be that sort of intimacy between the twomen which grows from closeness of position rather than from anysocial desire on either side, and it was natural that Burgess shouldsay a word of farewell. On the previous evening Miss Stanburyhad relieved her mind by turning Mr. Gibson into ridicule in herdescription to Brooke of the manner in which the clergyman hadcarried on his love affair; and she had at the same time declaredthat Mr. Gibson had been most violently impertinent to herself. Heknew, therefore, that Miss Stanbury and Mr. Gibson had become two, and would on this occasion have passed on without a word relativeto the old lady had Mr. Gibson allowed him to do so. But Mr. Gibsonspoke his mind freely. 

"Off to-morrow, are you?" he said. "Good-bye. I hope we may meetagain; but not in the same house, Mr. Burgess. "

"There or anywhere I shall be very happy, " said Brooke. 

"Not there, certainly. While you were absent Miss Stanbury treated mein such a way that I shall certainly never put my foot in her houseagain. "

"Dear me! I thought that you and she were such great friends. "

"I knew her very well, of course;--and respected her. She is a goodchurchwoman, and is charitable in the city; but she has got such atongue in her head that there is no bearing it when she does what shecalls giving you a bit of her mind. "

"She has been indulgent to me, and has not given me much of it. "

"Your time will come, I've no doubt, " continued Mr. Gibson. "Everybody has always told me that it would be so. Even her oldestfriends knew it. You ask Mrs. MacHugh, or Mrs. French, at Heavitree. "

"Mrs. French!" said Brooke, laughing. "That would hardly be fairevidence. "

"Why not? I don't know a better judge of character in all Exeter thanMrs. French. And she and Miss Stanbury have been intimate all theirlives. Ask your uncle at the bank. "

"My uncle and Miss Stanbury never were friends, " said Brooke. 

"Ask Hugh Stanbury what he thinks of her. But don't suppose I wantto say a word against her. I wouldn't for the world do such a thing. Only, as we've met there and all that, I thought it best to let youknow that she had treated me in such a way, and has been altogetherso violent, that I never will go there again. " So saying, Mr. Gibson passed on, and was of opinion that he had spoken with greatgenerosity of the old woman who had treated him so badly. 

In the afternoon Brooke Burgess went over to the further end of theClose, and called on Mrs. MacHugh; and from thence he walked acrossto Heavitree, and called on the Frenches. It may be doubted whetherhe would have been so well behaved to these ladies had they not beenappealed to by Mr. Gibson as witnesses to the character of MissStanbury. He got very little from Mrs. MacHugh. That lady was kindand cordial, and expressed many wishes that she might see him againin Exeter. When he said a few words about Mr. Gibson, Mrs. MacHughonly laughed, and declared that the gentleman would soon find aplaister for that sore. "There are more fishes than one in the sea, "she said. 

"But I'm afraid they've quarrelled, Mrs. MacHugh. "

"So they tell me. What should we have to talk about here if somebodydidn't quarrel sometimes? She and I ought to get up a quarrel for thegood of the public;--only they know that I never can quarrel withanybody. I never see anybody interesting enough to quarrel with. " ButMrs. MacHugh said nothing about Miss Stanbury, except that she sentover a message with reference to a rubber of whist for the next nightbut one. 

He found the two French girls sitting with their mother, and they allexpressed their great gratitude to him for coming to say good-byebefore he went. "It's so very nice of you, Mr. Burgess, " saidCamilla, "and particularly just at present. "

"Yes, indeed, " said Arabella, "because you know things have been sounpleasant. "

"My dears, never mind about that, " said Mrs. French. "Miss Stanburyhas meant everything for the best, and it is all over now. "

"I don't know what you mean by its being all over, mamma, " saidCamilla. "As far as I can understand, it has never been begun. "

"My dear, the least said the soonest mended, " said Mrs. French. 

"That's of course, mamma, " said Camilla; "but yet one can't holdone's tongue altogether. All the city is talking about it, and I daresay Mr. Burgess has heard as much as anybody else. "

"I've heard nothing at all, " said Brooke. 

"Oh yes, you have, " continued Camilla. Arabella conceived herselfat this moment to be situated in so delicate a position, that itwas best that her sister should talk about it, and that she herselfshould hold her tongue, --with the exception, perhaps, of a hint hereand there which might be of assistance; for Arabella completelyunderstood that the prize was now to be hers, if the prize could berescued out of the Stanbury clutches. She was aware, --no one betteraware, --how her sister had interfered with her early hopes, and wassure, in her own mind, that all her disappointment had come fromfratricidal rivalry on the part of Camilla. It had never, however, been open to her to quarrel with Camilla. There they were, linkedtogether, and together they must fight their battles. As two pigs maybe seen at the same trough, each striving to take the delicacies ofthe banquet from the other, and yet enjoying always the warmth ofthe same dunghill in amicable contiguity, so had these young ladieslived in sisterly friendship, while each was striving to take ahusband from the other. They had understood the position, and, though for years back they had talked about Mr. Gibson, they hadnever quarrelled; but now, in these latter days of the Stanburyinterference, there had come tacitly to be something of anunderstanding between them that, if any fighting were still possibleon the subject, one must be put forward and the other must yield. There had been no spoken agreement, but Arabella quite understoodthat she was to be put forward. It was for her to take up therunning, and to win, if possible, against the Stanbury filly. Thatwas her view, and she was inclined to give Camilla credit for actingin accordance with it with honesty and zeal. She felt, therefore, that her words on the present occasion ought to be few. She sat backin her corner of the sofa, and was intent on her work, and shewed bythe pensiveness of her brow that there were thoughts within her bosomof which she was not disposed to speak. "You must have heard a greatdeal, " said Camilla, laughing. "You must know how poor Mr. Gibson hasbeen abused, because he wouldn't--"

"Camilla, don't be foolish, " said Mrs. French. 

"Because he wouldn't what?" asked Brooke. "What ought he to have donethat he didn't do?"

"I don't know anything about ought, " said Camilla. "That's a matterof taste altogether. "

"I'm the worst hand in the world at a riddle, " said Brooke. 

"How sly you are, " continued Camilla, laughing; "as if dear AuntStanbury hadn't confided all her hopes to you. "

"Camilla, dear, --don't, " said Arabella. 

"But when a gentleman is hunted, and can't be caught, I don't thinkhe ought to be abused to his face. "

"But who hunted him, and who abused him?" asked Brooke. 

"Mind, I don't mean to say a word against Miss Stanbury, Mr. Burgess. We've known her and loved her all our lives;--haven't we, mamma?"

"And respected her, " said Arabella. 

"Quite so, " continued Camilla. "But you know, Mr. Burgess, that shelikes her own way. "

"I don't know anybody that does not, " said Brooke. 

"And when she's disappointed, she shows it. There's no doubt she isdisappointed now, Mr. Burgess. "

"What's the good of going on, Camilla?" said Mrs. French. Arabellasat silent in her corner, with a conscious glow of satisfaction, asshe reflected that the joint disappointment of the elder and theyounger Miss Stanbury had been caused by a tender remembrance of herown charms. Had not dear Mr. Gibson told her, in the glowing languageof truth, that there was nothing further from his thoughts than theidea of taking Dorothy Stanbury for his wife?

"Well, you know, " continued Camilla, "I think that when a personmakes an attempt, and comes by the worst of it, that person shouldput up with the defeat, and not say all manner of ill-natured things. Everybody knows that a certain gentleman is very intimate in thishouse. "

"Don't, dear, " said Arabella, in a whisper. 

"Yes, I shall, " said Camilla. "I don't know why people should holdtheir tongues, when other people talk so loudly. I don't care a bitwhat anybody says about the gentleman and us. We have known him forever so many years, and mamma is very fond of him. "

"Indeed I am, Camilla, " said Mrs. French. 

"And for the matter of that, so am I, --very, " said Camilla, laughingbravely. "I don't care who knows it. "

"Don't be so silly, child, " said Arabella. Camilla was certainlydoing her best, and Arabella was grateful. 

"We don't care what people may say, " continued Camilla again. "Of course we heard, as everybody else heard too, that a certaingentleman was to be married to a certain lady. It was nothing to uswhether he was married or not. "

"Nothing at all, " said Arabella. 

"We never spoke ill of the young lady. We did not interfere. If thegentleman liked the young lady, he was quite at liberty to marryher, as far as we were concerned. We had been in the habit of seeinghim here, almost as a brother, and perhaps we might feel that aconnection with that particular young lady would take him from us;but we never hinted so much even as that, --to him or to anyone else. Why should we? It was nothing to us. Now it turns out that thegentleman never meant anything of the kind, whereupon he is prettynearly kicked out of the house, and all manner of ill-natured thingsare said about us everywhere. " By this time Camilla had become quiteexcited, and was speaking with much animation. 

"How can you be so foolish, Camilla?" said Arabella. 

"Perhaps I am foolish, " said Camilla, "to care what anybody says. "

"What can it all be to Mr. Burgess?" said Mrs. French. 

"Only this, that as we all like Mr. Burgess, and as he is almost oneof the family in the Close, I think he ought to know why we are notquite so cordial as we used to be. Now that the matter is over I haveno doubt things will get right again. And as for the young lady, I'msure we feel for her. We think it was the aunt who was indiscreet. "

"And then she has such a tongue, " said Arabella. 

Our friend Brooke, of course, knew the whole truth;--knew the natureof Mr. Gibson's failure, and knew also how Dorothy had acted in theaffair. He was inclined, moreover, to believe that the ladies whowere now talking to him were as well instructed on the subject aswas he himself. He had heard, too, of the ambition of the two youngladies now before him, and believed that that ambition was not yetdead. But he did not think it incumbent on him to fight a battle evenon behalf of Dorothy. He might have declared that Dorothy, at least, had not been disappointed, but he thought it better to be silentabout Dorothy. "Yes, " he said, "Miss Stanbury has a tongue; but Ithink it speaks as much good as it does evil, and perhaps that is agreat deal to say for any lady's tongue. "

"We never speak evil of anybody, " said Camilla; "never. It is a rulewith us. " Then Brooke took his leave, and the three ladies werecordial and almost affectionate in their farewell greetings. 

Brooke was to start on the following morning before anybody wouldbe up except Martha, and Miss Stanbury was very melancholy duringthe evening. "We shall miss him very much; shall we not?" she said, appealing to Dorothy. "I am sure you will miss him very much, " saidDorothy. "We are so stupid here alone, " said Miss Stanbury. When theyhad drank their tea, she sat nearly silent for half an hour, and thensummoned him up into her own room. "So you are going, Brooke?" shesaid. 

"Yes; I must go now. They would dismiss me if I stayed an hourlonger. "

"It was good of you to come to the old woman; and you must let mehear of you from time to time. "

"Of course I'll write. "

"And, Brooke, --"

"What is it, Aunt Stanbury?"

"Do you want any money, Brooke?"

"No;--none, thank you. I've plenty for a bachelor. "

"When you think of marrying, Brooke, mind you tell me. "

"I'll be sure to tell you;--but I can't promise yet when that willbe. " She said nothing more to him, though she paused once more asthough she were going to speak. She kissed him and bade him good-bye, saying that she would not go down-stairs again that evening. He wasto tell Dorothy to go to bed. And so they parted. 

But Dorothy did not go to bed for an hour after that. When Brookecame down into the parlour with his message she intended to go atonce, and put up her work, and lit her candle, and put out her handto him, and said good-bye to him. But, for all that, she remainedthere for an hour with him. At first she said very little, but bydegrees her tongue was loosened, and she found herself talking with afreedom which she could hardly herself understand. She told him howthoroughly she believed her aunt to be a good woman, --how sure shewas that her aunt was at any rate honest. "As for me, " said Dorothy, "I know that I have displeased her about Mr. Gibson;--and I would goaway, only that I think she would be so desolate. " Then Brooke beggedher never to allow the idea of leaving Miss Stanbury to enter herhead. Because Miss Stanbury was capricious, he said, not on thataccount should her caprices either be indulged or permitted. Thatwas his doctrine respecting Miss Stanbury, and he declared that, asregarded himself, he would never be either disrespectful to her orsubmissive. "It is a great mistake, " he said, "to think that anybodyis either an angel or a devil. " When Dorothy expressed an opinionthat with some people angelic tendencies were predominant, and withothers diabolic tendencies, he assented; but declared that it was notalways easy to tell the one tendency from the other. At last, whenDorothy had made about five attempts to go, Mr. Gibson's name wasmentioned. "I am very glad that you are not going to be Mrs. Gibson, "said he. 

 [Illustration: Brooke Burgess takes his leave. ]

"I don't know why you should be glad. "

"Because I should not have liked your husband, --not as your husband. "

"He is an excellent man, I'm sure, " said Dorothy. 

"Nevertheless I am very glad. But I did not think you would accepthim, and I congratulate you on your escape. You would have beennothing to me as Mrs. Gibson. "

"Shouldn't I?" said Dorothy, not knowing what else to say. 

"But now I think we shall always be friends. "

"I'm sure I hope so, Mr. Burgess. But indeed I must go now. It isever so late, and you will hardly get any sleep. Good night. " Then hetook her hand, and pressed it very warmly, and referring to a promisebefore made to her, he assured her that he would certainly makeacquaintance with her brother as soon as he was back in London. Dorothy, as she went up to bed, was more than ever satisfied withherself, in that she had not yielded in reference to Mr. Gibson. 

CHAPTER XLV. 

TREVELYAN AT VENICE. 

Trevelyan passed on moodily and alone from Turin to Venice, alwaysexpecting letters from Bozzle, and receiving from time to time thedispatches which that functionary forwarded to him, as must beacknowledged, with great punctuality. For Mr. Bozzle did his work, not only with a conscience, but with a will. He was now, as he haddeclared more than once, altogether devoted to Mr. Trevelyan'sinterest; and as he was an active, enterprising man, always on thealert to be doing something, and as he loved the work of writingdispatches, Trevelyan received a great many letters from Bozzle. Itis not exaggeration to say that every letter made him for the timea very wretched man. This ex-policeman wrote of the wife of hisbosom, --of her who had been the wife of his bosom, and who was themother of his child, who was at this very time the only woman whom heloved, --with an entire absence of delicacy. Bozzle would have thoughtreticence on his part to be dishonest. We remember Othello's demandof Iago. That was the demand which Bozzle understood that Trevelyanhad made of him, and he was minded to obey that order. But Trevelyan, though he had in truth given the order, was like Othello also inthis, --that he would have preferred before all the prizes of theworld to have had proof brought home to him exactly opposite to thatwhich he demanded. But there was nothing so terrible to him as thegrinding suspicion that he was to be kept in the dark. Bozzle couldfind out facts. Therefore he gave, in effect, the same order thatOthello gave;--and Bozzle went to work determined to obey it. Therecame many dispatches to Venice, and at last there came one, whichcreated a correspondence which shall be given here at length. Thefirst is a letter from Mr. Bozzle to his employer:--

 55, Stony Walk, Union Street, Borough, September 29, 186--, 4. 30 P. M. 

 HOND. SIR, Since I wrote yesterday morning, something has occurred which, it may be, and I think it will, will help to bring this melancholy affair to a satisfactory termination and conclusion. I had better explain, Mr. Trewilyan, how I have been at work from the beginning about watching the Colonel. I couldn't do nothing with the porter at the Albany, which he is always mostly muzzled with beer, and he wouldn't have taken my money, not on the square. So, when it was tellegrammed to me as the Colonel was on the move in the North, I put on two boys as knows the Colonel, at eighteenpence a day, at each end, one Piccadilly end, and the other Saville Row end, and yesterday morning, as quick as ever could be, after the Limited Express Edinburgh Male Up was in, there comes the Saville Row End Boy here to say as the Colonel was lodged safe in his downey. Then I was off immediate myself to St. Diddulph's, because I knows what it is to trust to Inferiors when matters gets delicate. Now, there hadn't been no letters from the Colonel, nor none to him as I could make out, though that mightn't be so sure. She might have had 'em addressed to A. Z. , or the like of that, at any of the Post-offices as was distant, as nobody could give the notice to 'em all. Barring the money, which I know ain't an object when the end is so desirable, it don't do to be too ubiketous, because things will go astray. But I've kept my eye uncommon open, and I don't think there have been no letters since that last which was sent, Mr. Trewilyan, let any of 'em, parsons, or what not, say what they will. And I don't see as parsons are better than other folk when they has to do with a lady as likes her fancy-man. 

Trevelyan, when he had read as far as this, threw down the letter andtore his hair in despair. "My wife, " he exclaimed, "Oh, my wife!" Butit was essential that he should read Bozzle's letter, and hepersevered. 

 Well; I took to the ground myself as soon as ever I heard that the Colonel was among us, and I hung out at the Full Moon. They had been quite on the square with me at the Full Moon, which I mention, because, of course, it has to be remembered, and it do come up as a hitem. And I'm proud, Mr. Trewilyan, as I did take to the ground myself; for what should happen but I see the Colonel as large as life ringing at the parson's bell at 1. 47 p. M. He was let in at 1. 49, and he was let out at 2. 17. He went away in a cab which it was kept, and I followed him till he was put down at the Arcade, and I left him having his 'ed washed and greased at Trufitt's rooms, half-way up. It was a wonder to me when I see this, Mr. Trewilyan, as he didn't have his 'ed done first, as they most of 'em does when they're going to see their ladies; but I couldn't make nothing of that, though I did try to put too and too together, as I always does. 

 What he did at the parson's, Mr. Trewilyan, I won't say I saw, and I won't say I know. It's my opinion the young woman there isn't on the square, though she's been remembered too, and is a hitem of course. And, Mr. Trewilyan, it do go against the grain with me when they're remembered and ain't on the square. I doesn't expect too much of Human Nature, which is poor, as the saying goes; but when they're remembered and ain't on the square after that, it's too bad for Human Nature. It's more than poor. It's what I calls beggarly. 

 He ain't been there since, Mr. Trewilyan, and he goes out of town to-morrow by the 1. 15 p. M. Express to Bridport. So he lets on; but of course I shall see to that. That he's been at St. Diddulph's, in the house from 1. 47 to 2. 17, you may take as a fact. There won't be no shaking of that, because I have it in my mem. Book, and no Counsel can get the better of it. Of course he went there to see her, and it's my belief he did. The young woman as was remembered says he didn't, but she isn't on the square. They never is when a lady wants to see her gentleman, though they comes round afterwards, and tells up everything when it comes before his ordinary lordship. 

 If you ask me, Mr. Trewilyan, I don't think it's ripe yet for the court, but we'll have it ripe before long. I'll keep a look-out, because it's just possible she may leave town. If she do, I'll be down upon them together, and no mistake. 

 Yours most respectful, S. BOZZLE. 

Every word in the letter had been a dagger to Trevelyan, and yet hefelt himself to be under an obligation to the man who had writtenit. No one else would or could make facts known to him. If she wereinnocent, let him know that she were innocent, and he would proclaimher innocence, and believe in her innocence, --and sacrifice himselfto her innocence, if such sacrifice were necessary. But if she wereguilty, let him also know that. He knew how bad it was, all thatbribing of postmen and maidservants, who took his money, and hermoney also, very likely. It was dirt, all of it. But who had put himinto the dirt? His wife had, at least, deceived him, --had deceivedhim and disobeyed him, and it was necessary that he should know thefacts. Life without a Bozzle would now have been to him a perfectblank. 

The Colonel had been to the parsonage at St. Diddulph's, and hadbeen admitted! As to that he had no doubt. Nor did he really doubtthat his wife had seen the visitor. He had sent his wife firstinto a remote village on Dartmoor, and there she had been visitedby her--lover! How was he to use any other word? Iago;--oh, Iago!The pity of it, Iago! Then, when she had learned that this wasdiscovered, she had left the retreat in which he had placedher, --without permission from him, --and had taken herself tothe house of a relative of hers. Here she was visited again byher--lover! Oh, Iago; the pity of it, Iago! And then there had beenbetween them an almost constant correspondence. So much he hadascertained as fact; but he did not for a moment believe that Bozzlehad learned all the facts. There might be correspondence, or evenvisits, of which Bozzle could learn nothing. How could Bozzle knowwhere Mrs. Trevelyan was during all those hours which Colonel Osbornepassed in London? That which he knew, he knew absolutely, and onthat he could act; but there was, of course, much of which he knewnothing. Gradually the truth would unveil itself, and then he wouldact. He would tear that Colonel into fragments, and throw his wifefrom him with all the ignominy which the law made possible to him. 

But in the meantime he wrote a letter to Mr. Outhouse. ColonelOsborne, after all that had been said, had been admitted at theparsonage, and Trevelyan was determined to let the clergyman knowwhat he thought about it. The oftener he turned the matter in hismind, as he walked slowly up and down the piazza of St. Mark, themore absurd it appeared to him to doubt that his wife had seen theman. Of course she had seen him. He walked there nearly the wholenight, thinking of it, and as he dragged himself off at last to hisinn, had almost come to have but one desire, --namely, that he shouldfind her out, that the evidence should be conclusive, that it shouldbe proved, and so brought to an end. Then he would destroy her, anddestroy that man, --and afterwards destroy himself, so bitter to himwould be his ignominy. He almost revelled in the idea of the tragedyhe would make. It was three o'clock before he was in his bedroom, andthen he wrote his letter to Mr. Outhouse before he took himself tohis bed. It was as follows:--

 Venice, Oct. 4, 186--. 

 SIR, Information of a certain kind, on which I can place a firm reliance, has reached me, to the effect that Colonel Osborne has been allowed to visit at your house during the sojourn of my wife under your roof. I will thank you to inform me whether this be true; as, although I am confident of my facts, it is necessary, in reference to my ulterior conduct, that I should have from you either an admission or a denial of my assertion. It is of course open to you to leave my letter unanswered. Should you think proper to do so, I shall know also how to deal with that fact. 

 As to your conduct in admitting Colonel Osborne into your house while my wife is there, --after all that has passed, and all that you know that has passed, --I am quite unable to speak with anything like moderation of feeling. Had the man succeeded in forcing himself into your residence, you should have been the first to give me notice of it. As it is, I have been driven to ascertain the fact from other sources. I think that you have betrayed the trust that a husband has placed in you, and that you will find from the public voice that you will be regarded as having disgraced yourself as a clergyman. 

 In reference to my wife herself, I would wish her to know, that after what has now taken place, I shall not feel myself justified in leaving our child longer in her hands, even tender as are his years. I shall take steps for having him removed. What further I shall do to vindicate myself, and extricate myself as far as may be possible from the slough of despond in which I have been submerged, she and you will learn in due time. 

 Your obedient servant, L. TREVELYAN. 

 A letter addressed "poste restante, Venice, " will reach me here. 

If Trevelyan was mad when he wrote this letter, Mr. Outhouse wasvery nearly as mad when he read it. He had most strongly desiredto have nothing to do with his wife's niece when she was separatedfrom her husband. He was a man honest, charitable, and sufficientlyaffectionate; but he was timid, and disposed to think ill of thosewhose modes of life were strange to him. Actuated by these feelings, he would have declined to offer the hospitality of his roof to Mrs. Trevelyan, had any choice been left to him. But there had been nochoice. She had come thither unasked, with her boy and baggage, andhe could not send her away. His wife had told him that it was hisduty to protect these women till their father came, and he recognisedthe truth of what his wife said. There they were, and there they mustremain throughout the winter. It was hard upon him, --especially asthe difficulties and embarrassments as to money were so disagreeableto him;--but there was no help for it. His duty must be done thoughit were ever so painful. Then that horrid Colonel had come. And nowhad come this letter, in which he was not only accused of being anaccomplice between his married niece and her lover, but was alsoassured that he should be held up to public ignominy and disgrace. Though he had often declared that Trevelyan was mad, he would notremember that now. Such a letter as he had received should have beentreated by him as the production of a madman. But he was not saneenough himself to see the matter in that light. He gnashed his teeth, and clenched his fist, and was almost beside himself as he read theletter a second time. 

There had been a method in Trevelyan's madness; for though he haddeclared to himself that without doubt Bozzle had been right insaying that as the Colonel had been at the parsonage, therefore, as acertainty, Mrs. Trevelyan had met the Colonel there, yet he had notso stated in his letter. He had merely asserted that Colonel Osbornehad been at the house, and had founded his accusation upon thatalleged fact. The alleged fact had been in truth a fact. So farBozzle had been right. The Colonel had been at the parsonage; and thereader knows how far Mr. Outhouse had been to blame for his sharein the matter! He rushed off to his wife with the letter, declaringat first that Mrs. Trevelyan, Nora, and the child, and the servant, should be sent out of the house at once. But at last Mrs. Outhousesucceeded in showing him that he would not be justified in ill-usingthem because Trevelyan had ill-used him. "But I will write to him, "said Mr. Outhouse. "He shall know what I think about it. " And he didwrite his letter that day, in spite of his wife's entreaties thathe would allow the sun to set upon his wrath. And his letter was asfollows:--

 St. Diddulph's, October 8, 186--. 

 SIR, I have received your letter of the 4th, which is more iniquitous, unjust, and ungrateful, than anything I ever before saw written. I have been surprised from the first at your gross cruelty to your unoffending wife; but even that seems to me more intelligible than your conduct in writing such words as those which you have dared to send to me. 

 For your wife's sake, knowing that she is in a great degree still in your power, I will condescend to tell you what has happened. When Mrs. Trevelyan found herself constrained to leave Nuncombe Putney by your aspersions on her character, she came here, to the protection of her nearest relatives within reach, till her father and mother should be in England. Sorely against my will I received them into my home, because they had been deprived of other shelter by the cruelty or madness of him who should have been their guardian. Here they are, and here they shall remain till Sir Marmaduke Rowley arrives. The other day, on the 29th of September, Colonel Osborne, who is their father's old friend, called, not on them, but on me. I may truly say that I did not wish to see Colonel Osborne. They did not see him, nor did he ask to see them. If his coming was a fault, --and I think it was a fault, --they were not implicated in it. He came, remained a few minutes, and went without seeing any one but myself. That is the history of Colonel Osborne's visit to my house. 

 I have not thought fit to show your letter to your wife, or to make her acquainted with this further proof of your want of reason. As to the threats which you hold out of removing her child from her, you can of course do nothing except by law. I do not think that even you will be sufficiently audacious to take any steps of that description. Whatever protection the law may give her and her child from your tyranny and misconduct cannot be obtained till her father shall be here. 

 I have only further to request that you will not address any further communication to me. Should you do so, it will be refused. 

 Yours in deep indignation, OLIPHANT OUTHOUSE. 

Trevelyan had also written two other letters to England, one to Mr. Bideawhile and the other to Bozzle. In the former he acquainted thelawyer that he had discovered that his wife still maintained herintercourse with Colonel Osborne, and that he must therefore removehis child from her custody. He then inquired what steps would benecessary to enable him to obtain possession of his little boy. In the letter to Bozzle he sent a cheque, and his thanks for theex-policeman's watchful care. He desired Bozzle to continue hisprecautions, and explained his intentions about his son. Beingsomewhat afraid that Mr. Bideawhile might not be zealous on hisbehalf, and not himself understanding accurately the extent of hispower with regard to his own child, or the means whereby he mightexercise it, he was anxious to obtain assistance from Bozzle also onthis point. He had no doubt that Bozzle knew all about it. He hadgreat confidence in Bozzle. But still he did not like to consult theex-policeman. He knew that it became him to have some regard for hisown dignity. He therefore put the matter very astutely to Bozzle, asking no questions, but alluding to his difficulty in a way thatwould enable Bozzle to offer advice. 

And where was he to get a woman to take charge of his child? If LadyMilborough would do it, how great would be the comfort! But he wasalmost sure that Lady Milborough would not do it. All his friends hadturned against him, and Lady Milborough among the number. There wasnobody left to him, but Bozzle. Could he entrust Bozzle to find somewoman for him who would take adequate charge of the little fellow, till he himself could see to the child's education? He did not putthis question to Bozzle in plain terms; but he was very astute, andwrote in such a fashion that Bozzle could make a proposal, if anyproposal were within his power. 

The answer from Mr. Outhouse came first. To this Mr. Trevelyan paidvery little attention. It was just what he expected. Of course Mr. Outhouse's assurance about Colonel Osborne went for nothing. A manwho would permit intercourse in his house between a married lady andher lover would not scruple to deny that he had permitted it. Thencame Mr. Bideawhile's answer, which was very short. Mr. Bideawhilesaid that nothing could be done about the child till Mr. Trevelyanshould return to England;--and that he could give no opinion as towhat should be done then till he knew more of the circumstances. Itwas quite clear to Trevelyan that he must employ some other lawyer. Mr. Bideawhile had probably been corrupted by Colonel Osborne. CouldBozzle recommend a lawyer?

From Bozzle himself there came no other immediate reply than, "hisduty, and that he would make further inquiries. "

CHAPTER XLVI. 

THE AMERICAN MINISTER. 

In the second week in October, Mr. Glascock returned to Florence, intending to remain there till the weather should have becomebearable at Naples. His father was said to be better, but was insuch a condition as hardly to receive much comfort from his son'spresence. His mind was gone, and he knew no one but his nurse; and, though Mr. Glascock was unwilling to put himself altogether out ofthe reach of returning at a day's notice, he did not find himselfobliged to remain in Naples during the heat of the autumn. So Mr. Glascock returned to the hotel at Florence, accompanied by the tallman who wore the buttons. The hotel-keeper did not allow such a lightto remain long hidden under a bushel, and it was soon spread far andwide that the Honourable Charles Glascock and his suite were again inthe beautiful city. 

And the fact was soon known to the American Minister and his family. Mr. Spalding was a man who at home had been very hostile to Englishinterests. Many American gentlemen are known for such hostility. Theymake anti-English speeches about the country, as though they thoughtthat war with England would produce certain triumph to the States, certain increase to American trade, and certain downfall to a tyrannywhich no Anglo-Saxon nation ought to endure. But such is hardly theirreal opinion. There, in the States, as also here in England, youshall from day to day hear men propounding, in very loud language, advanced theories of political action, the assertion of whichis supposed to be necessary to the end which they have in view. Men whom we know to have been as mild as sucking doves in thepolitical aspiration of their whole lives, suddenly jump up, and with infuriated gestures declare themselves the enemiesof everything existing. When they have attained their littlepurpose, --or have failed to do so, --they revert naturally into theirsucking-dove elements. It is so with Americans as frequently aswith ourselves, --and there is no political subject on which it isconsidered more expedient to express pseudo-enthusiasm than on thatof the sins of England. It is understood that we do not resent it. It is presumed that we regard it as the Irishman regarded his wife'scuffs. In the States a large party, which consists chiefly of thosewho have lately left English rule, and who are keen to prove tothemselves how wise they have been in doing so, is pleased by thisstrong language against England; and, therefore, the strong languageis spoken. But the speakers, who are, probably, men knowing somethingof the world, mean it not at all; they have no more idea of war withEngland than they have of war with all Europe; and their respect forEngland and for English opinion is unbounded. In their politicaltones of speech and modes of action they strive to be as English aspossible. Mr. Spalding's aspirations were of this nature. He haduttered speeches against England which would make the hair stand onend on the head of an uninitiated English reader. He had told hiscountrymen that Englishmen hugged their chains, and would do so untilAmerican hammers had knocked those chains from off their woundedwrists and bleeding ankles. He had declared that, if certain Americanclaims were not satisfied, there was nothing left for Americans to dobut to cross the ferry with such a sheriff's officer as would be ableto make distraint on the great English household. He had declaredthat the sheriff's officer would have very little trouble. He hadspoken of Canada as an outlying American territory, not yet quitesufficiently redeemed from savage life to be received into the Unionas a State. There is a multiplicity of subjects of this kind readyto the hand of the American orator. Mr. Spalding had been quitesuccessful, and was now Minister at Florence; but, perhaps, one ofthe greatest pleasures coming to him from his prosperity was theenjoyment of the society of well-bred Englishmen, in the capital towhich he had been sent. When, therefore, his wife and nieces pointedout to him the fact that it was manifestly his duty to call upon Mr. Glascock after what had passed between them on that night under theCampanile, he did not rebel for an instant against the order givento him. His mind never reverted for a moment to that opinion whichhad gained for him such a round of applause, when expressed on theplatform of the Temperance Hall at Nubbly Creek, State of Illinois, to the effect that the English aristocrat, thorough-born andthorough-bred, who inherited acres and titles from his father, couldnever be fitting company for a thoughtful Christian American citizen. He at once had his hat brushed, and took up his best gloves andumbrella, and went off to Mr. Glascock's hotel. He was strictlyenjoined by the ladies to fix a day on which Mr. Glascock would comeand dine at the American embassy. 

"'C. G. ' has come back to see you, " said Olivia to her elder sister. They had always called him "C. G. " since the initials had been seenon the travelling bag. 

"Probably, " said Carry. "There is so very little else to bring peopleto Florence, that there can hardly be any other reason for hiscoming. They do say it's terribly hot at Naples just now; but thatcan have had nothing to do with it. "

"We shall see, " said Livy. "I'm sure he's in love with you. He lookedto me just like a proper sort of lover for you, when I saw his longlegs creeping up over our heads into the banquette. "

"You ought to have been very much obliged to his long legs;--so sickas you were at the time. "

"I like him amazingly, " said Livy, "legs and all. I only hope UncleJonas won't bore him, so as to prevent his coming. "

"His father is very ill, " said Carry, "and I don't suppose we shallsee him at all. "

But the American Minister was successful. He found Mr. Glascocksitting in his dressing-gown, smoking a cigar, and reading anewspaper. The English aristocrat seemed very glad to see hisvisitor, and assumed no airs at all. The American altogether forgothis speech at Nubbly Creek, and found the aristocrat's society tobe very pleasant. He lit a cigar, and they talked about Naples, Rome, and Florence. Mr. Spalding, when the marbles of old Rome werementioned, was a little too keen in insisting on the merits of Story, Miss Hosmer, and Hiram Powers, and hardly carried his listener withhim in the parallel which he drew between Greenough and Phidias; andhe was somewhat repressed by the apathetic curtness of Mr. Glascock'sreply, when he suggested that the victory gained by the gunboats atVicksburg, on the Mississippi, was vividly brought to his mind byan account which he had just been reading of the battle of Actium;but he succeeded in inducing Mr. Glascock to accept an invitation todinner for the next day but one, and the two gentlemen parted on themost amicable terms. 

Everybody meets everybody in Florence every day. Carry and LivySpalding had met Mr. Glascock twice before the dinner at theiruncle's house, so that they met at dinner quite as intimate friends. Mrs. Spalding had very large rooms, up three flights of stairs, onthe Lungarno. The height of her abode was attributed by Mrs. Spaldingto her dread of mosquitoes. She had not yet learned that people inFlorence require no excuse for being asked to walk up three flightsof stairs. The rooms, when they were reached, were very lofty, floored with what seemed to be marble, and were of a nature almost towarrant Mrs. Spalding in feeling that nature had made her more akinto an Italian countess than to a matron of Nubbly Creek, State ofIllinois, where Mr. Spalding had found her and made her his own. There was one other Englishman present, Mr. Harris Hyde GranvilleGore, from the Foreign Office, now serving temporarily at the EnglishLegation in Florence; and an American, Mr. Jackson Unthank, a man ofwealth and taste, who was resolved on having such a collection ofpictures at his house in Baltimore that no English private collectionshould in any way come near to it; and a Tuscan, from the ItalianForeign Office, to whom nobody could speak except Mr. Harris HydeGranville Gore, --who did not indeed seem to enjoy the efforts ofconversation which were expected of him. The Italian, who had ahandle to his name, --he was a Count Buonarosci, --took Mrs. Spaldingin to dinner. Mrs. Spalding had been at great trouble to ascertainwhether this was proper, or whether she should not entrust herselfto Mr. Glascock. There were different points to be considered inthe matter. She did not quite know whether she was in Italy or inAmerica. She had glimmerings on the subject of her privilege to carryher own nationality into her own drawing-room. And then she wascalled upon to deal between an Italian Count with an elder brother, and an English Honourable, who had no such incumbrance. Which of thetwo was possessed of the higher rank? "I've found it all out, AuntMary, " said Livy. "You must take the Count. " For Livy wanted to giveher sister every chance. "How have you found it out?" said the aunt. "You may be sure it is so, " said Livy. And the lady in her doubtyielded the point. Mrs. Spalding, as she walked along the passage onthe Count's arm, determined that she would learn Italian. She wouldhave given all Nubbly Creek to have been able to speak a word toCount Buonarosci. To do her justice, it must be admitted that she hadstudied a few words. But her courage failed her, and she could notspeak them. She was very careful, however, that Mr. H. H. G. Gore wasplaced in the chair next to the Count. 

"We are very glad to see you here, " said Mr. Spalding, addressinghimself especially to Mr. Glascock, as he stood up at his own seat atthe round table. "In leaving my own country, sir, there is nothingthat I value more than the privilege of becoming acquainted withthose whose historic names and existing positions are of suchinestimable value to the world at large. " In saying this, Mr. Spalding was not in the least insincere, nor did his conscience atall prick him in reference to that speech at Nubbly Creek. On bothoccasions he half thought as he spoke, --or thought that he thoughtso. Unless it be on subjects especially endeared to us the thoughtsof but few of us go much beyond this. 

Mr. Glascock, who sat between Mrs. Spalding and her niece, was soonasked by the elder lady whether he had been in the States. No; hehad not been in the States. "Then you must come, Mr. Glascock, " saidMrs. Spalding, "though I will not say, dwelling as we now are in themetropolis of the world of art, that we in our own homes have as muchof the outer beauty of form to charm the stranger as is to be foundin other lands. Yet I think that the busy lives of men, and thevaried institutions of a free country, must always have an interestpeculiarly their own. " Mr. Glascock declared that he quite agreedwith her, and expressed a hope that he might some day find himself inNew York. 

"You wouldn't like it at all, " said Carry; "because you are anaristocrat. I don't mean that it would be your fault. "

"Why should that prevent my liking it, --even if I were anaristocrat?"

"One half of the people would run after you, and the other half wouldrun away from you, " said Carry. 

"Then I'd take to the people who ran after me, and would not regardthe others. "

"That's all very well, --but you wouldn't like it. And then you wouldbecome unfair to what you saw. When some of our speechifying peopletalked to you about our institutions through their noses, you wouldthink that the institutions themselves must be bad. And we havenothing to show except our institutions. "

"What are American institutions?" asked Mr. Glascock. 

"Everything is an institution. Having iced water to drink in everyroom of the house is an institution. Having hospitals in every townis an institution. Travelling altogether in one class of railwaycars is an institution. Saying sir, is an institution. Teaching allthe children mathematics is an institution. Plenty of food is aninstitution. Getting drunk is an institution in a great many towns. Lecturing is an institution. There are plenty of them, and some arevery good;--but you wouldn't like it. "

"At any rate, I'll go and see, " said Mr. Glascock. 

"If you do, I hope we may be at home, " said Miss Spalding. 

Mr. Spalding, in the mean time, with the assistance of hiscountryman, the man of taste, was endeavouring to explain a certainpoint in American politics to the Count. As, in doing this, theycalled upon Mr. Gore to translate every speech they made intoItalian, and as Mr. Gore had never offered his services as aninterpreter, and as the Italian did not quite catch the subtlemeanings of the Americans in Mr. Gore's Tuscan version, and did notin the least wish to understand the things that were explained tohim, Mr. Gore and the Italian began to think that the two Americanswere bores. "The truth is, Mr. Spalding, " said Mr. Gore, "I've gotsuch a cold in my head, that I don't think I can explain it anymore. " Then Livy Spalding laughed aloud, and the two Americangentlemen began to eat their dinner. "It sounds ridiculous, don'tit?" said Mr. Gore, in a whisper. 

"I ought not to have laughed, I know, " said Livy. 

"The very best thing you could have done. I shan't be troubled anymore now. The fact is, I know just nine words of Italian. Now thereis a difficulty in having to explain the whole theory of Americanpolitics to an Italian, who doesn't want to know anything about it, with so very small a repertory of words at one's command. "

"How well you did it!"

"Too well. I felt that. So well that, unless I had stopped it, Ishouldn't have been able to say a word to you all through dinner. Your laughter clenched it, and Buonarosci and I will be grateful toyou for ever. "

After the ladies went there was rather a bad half hour for Mr. Glascock. He was button-holed by the minister, and found itoppressive before he was enabled to escape into the drawing-room. "Mr. Glascock, " said the minister, "an English gentleman, sir, like you, who has the privilege of an hereditary seat in yourparliament, "--Mr. Glascock was not quite sure whether he were beingaccused of having an hereditary seat in the House of Commons, but hewould not stop to correct any possible error on that point, --"and whohas been born to all the gifts of fortune, rank, and social eminence, should never think that his education is complete till he has visitedour great cities in the west. " Mr. Glascock hinted that he by nomeans conceived his education to be complete; but the minister wenton without attending to this. "Till you have seen, sir, what mencan do who are placed upon the earth with all God's gifts of freeintelligence, free air, and a free soil, but without any of thoseother good things which we are accustomed to call the gifts offortune, you can never become aware of the infinite ingenuity ofman. " There had been much said before, but just at this moment Mr. Gore and the American left the room, and the Italian followed thembriskly. Mr. Glascock at once made a decided attempt to bolt; but theminister was on the alert, and was too quick for him. And he was byno means ashamed of what he was doing. He had got his guest by thecoat, and openly declared his intention of holding him. "Let me keepyou for a few minutes, sir, " said he, "while I dilate on this pointin one direction. In the drawing-room female spells are too potentfor us male orators. In going among us, Mr. Glascock, you must notlook for luxury or refinement, for you will find them not. Nor mustyou hope to encounter the highest order of erudition. The loftysummits of acquired knowledge tower in your country with an altitudewe have not reached yet. "

"It's very good of you to say so, " said Mr. Glascock. 

"No, sir. In our new country and in our new cities we still lack theluxurious perfection of fastidious civilisation. But, sir, regard ourlevel. That is what I say to every unprejudiced Britisher that comesamong us; look at our level. And when you have looked at our level, I think that you will confess that we live on the highest table-landthat the world has yet afforded to mankind. You follow my meaning, Mr. Glascock?" Mr. Glascock was not sure that he did, but theminister went on to make that meaning clear. "It is the multitudethat with us is educated. Go into their houses, sir, and see how theythumb their books. Look at the domestic correspondence of our helpsand servants, and see how they write and spell. We haven't got themountains, sir, but our table-lands are the highest on which thebright sun of our Almighty God has as yet shone with its illuminatingsplendour in this improving world of ours! It is because we are ayoung people, sir, --with nothing as yet near to us of the decrepitudeof age. The weakness of age, sir, is the penalty paid by the folly ofyouth. We are not so wise, sir, but what we too shall suffer from itseffects as years roll over our heads. " There was a great deal more, but at last Mr. Glascock did escape into the drawing-room. 

"My uncle has been saying a few words to you perhaps, " said CarrySpalding. 

"Yes; he has, " said Mr. Glascock. 

"He usually does, " said Carry Spalding. 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

ABOUT FISHING, AND NAVIGATION, AND HEAD-DRESSES. 

 [Illustration]

The feud between Miss Stanbury and Mr. Gibson raged violently inExeter, and produced many complications which were very difficultindeed of management. Each belligerent party felt that a specialinjury had been inflicted upon it. Mr. Gibson was quite sure that hehad been grossly misused by Miss Stanbury the elder, and stronglysuspected that Miss Stanbury the younger had had a hand in thismisconduct. It had been positively asserted to him, --at least so hethought, but in this was probably in error, --that the lady wouldaccept him if he proposed to her. All Exeter had been made aware ofthe intended compact. He, indeed, had denied its existence to MissFrench, comforting himself, as best he might, with the reflectionthat all is fair in love and war; but when he counted over hisinjuries he did not think of this denial. All Exeter, so to say, hadknown of it. And yet, when he had come with his proposal, he had beenrefused without a moment's consideration, first by the aunt, and thenby the niece;--and, after that, had been violently abused, and atlast turned out of the house! Surely, no gentleman had ever beforebeen subjected to ill-usage so violent! But Miss Stanbury the elderwas quite as assured that the injury had been done to her. As to thematter of the compact itself, she knew very well that she had been astrue as steel. She had done everything in her power to bring aboutthe marriage. She had been generous in her offers of money. She hadused all her powers of persuasion on Dorothy, and she had givenevery opportunity to Mr. Gibson. It was not her fault if he had notbeen able to avail himself of the good things which she had put inhis way. He had first been, as she thought, ignorant and arrogant, fancying that the good things ought to be made his own without anytrouble on his part;--and then awkward, not knowing how to take thetrouble when trouble was necessary. And as to that matter of abusivelanguage and turning out of the house, Miss Stanbury was quiteconvinced that she was sinned against, and not herself the sinner. She declared to Martha, more than once, that Mr. Gibson had used suchlanguage to her that, coming out of a clergyman's mouth, it had quitedismayed her. Martha, who knew her mistress, probably felt that Mr. Gibson had at least received as good as he gave; but she had made noattempt to set her mistress right on that point. 

But the cause of Miss Stanbury's sharpest anger was not to be foundin Mr. Gibson's conduct either before Dorothy's refusal of his offer, or on the occasion of his being turned out of the house. A baserumour was spread about the city that Dorothy Stanbury had beenoffered to Mr. Gibson, that Mr. Gibson had civilly declined theoffer, --and that hence had arisen the wrath of the Juno of the Close. Now this was not to be endured by Miss Stanbury. She had felt evenin the moment of her original anger against Mr. Gibson that she wasbound in honour not to tell the story against him. She had broughthim into the little difficulty, and she at least would hold hertongue. She was quite sure that Dorothy would never boast of hertriumph. And Martha had been strictly cautioned, --as indeed, also, had Brooke Burgess. The man had behaved like an idiot, Miss Stanburysaid; but he had been brought into a little dilemma, and nothingshould be said about it from the house in the Close. But when theother rumour reached Miss Stanbury's ears, when Mrs. Crumbie condoledwith her on her niece's misfortune, when Mrs. MacHugh asked whetherMr. Gibson had not behaved rather badly to the young lady, then ourJuno's celestial mind was filled with a divine anger. But even thenshe did not declare the truth. She asked a question of Mrs. Crumbie, and was enabled, as she thought, to trace the falsehood to theFrenches. She did not think that Mr. Gibson could on a sudden havebecome so base a liar. "Mr. Gibson fast and loose with my niece!" shesaid to Mrs. MacHugh. "You have not got the story quite right, mydear friend. Pray, believe me;--there has been nothing of that sort. ""I dare say not, " said Mrs. MacHugh, "and I'm sure I don't care. Mr. Gibson has been going to marry one of the French girls for the lastten years, and I think he ought to make up his mind and do it atlast. "

"I can assure you he is quite welcome as far as Dorothy isconcerned, " said Miss Stanbury. 

Without a doubt the opinion did prevail throughout Exeter that Mr. Gibson, who had been regarded time out of mind as the property ofthe Miss Frenches, had been angled for by the ladies in the Close, that he had nearly been caught, but that he had slipped the hookout of his mouth, and was now about to subside quietly into the netwhich had been originally prepared for him. Arabella French had notspoken loudly on the subject, but Camilla had declared in more thanone house that she had most direct authority for stating that thegentleman had never dreamed of offering to the young lady. "Why heshould not do so if he pleases, I don't know, " said Camilla. "Onlythe fact is that he has not pleased. The rumour of course has reachedhim, and, as we happen to be very old friends, we have authority fordenying it altogether. " All this came round to Miss Stanbury, and shewas divine in her wrath. 

"If they drive me to it, " she said to Dorothy, "I'll have the wholetruth told by the bellman through the city, or I'll publish it in theCounty Gazette. "

"Pray don't say a word about it, Aunt Stanbury. "

"It is those odious girls. He's there now every day. "

"Why shouldn't he go there, Aunt Stanbury?"

"If he's fool enough, let him go. I don't care where he goes. ButI do care about these lies. They wouldn't dare to say it only theythink my mouth is closed. They've no honour themselves, but theyscreen themselves behind mine. "

"I'm sure they won't find themselves mistaken in what they trust to, "said Dorothy, with a spirit that her aunt had not expected from her. Miss Stanbury at this time had told nobody that the offer to herniece had been made and repeated and finally rejected;--but she foundit very difficult to hold her tongue. 

In the meantime Mr. Gibson spent a good deal of his time atHeavitree. It should not perhaps be asserted broadly that he had madeup his mind that marriage would be good for him; but he had made uphis mind, at least, to this, that it was no longer to be postponedwithout a balance of disadvantage. The Charybdis in the Close drovehim helpless into the whirlpool of the Heavitree Scylla. He had nolonger an escape from the perils of the latter shore. He had been somauled by the opposite waves, that he had neither spirit nor skillleft to him to keep in the middle track. He was almost daily atHeavitree, and did not attempt to conceal from himself the approachof his doom. 

But still there were two of them. He knew that he must become a prey, but was there any choice left to him as to which siren should havehim? He had been quite aware in his more gallant days, before he hadbeen knocked about on that Charybdis rock, that he might sip, andtaste, and choose between the sweets. He had come to think latelythat the younger young lady was the sweeter. Eight years ago indeedthe passages between him and the elder had been tender; but Camillahad then been simply a romping girl, hardly more than a year or twobeyond her teens. Now, with her matured charms, Camilla was certainlythe more engaging as far as outward form went. Arabella's cheekswere thin and long, and her front teeth had come to show themselves. Her eyes were no doubt still bright, and what she had of hair wassoft and dark. But it was very thin in front, and what there was ofsupplemental mass behind, --the bandbox by which Miss Stanbury wasso much aggrieved, --was worn with an indifference to the lines ofbeauty, which Mr. Gibson himself found to be very depressing. A manwith a fair burden on his back is not a grievous sight; but whenwe see a small human being attached to a bale of goods which hecan hardly manage to move, we feel that the poor fellow has beencruelly overweighted. Mr. Gibson certainly had that sensation aboutArabella's chignon. And as he regarded it in a nearer and a dearerlight, --as a chignon that might possibly become his own, as a burdenwhich in one sense he might himself be called upon to bear, as adomestic utensil which he himself might be called upon to inspect, and perhaps to aid the shifting on and the shifting off, he did beginto think that that side of the Scylla gulf ought to be avoided ifpossible. And probably this propensity on his part, this feeling thathe would like to reconsider the matter dispassionately before hegave himself up for good to his old love, may have been increased byCamilla's apparent withdrawal of her claims. He felt mildly gratefulto the Heavitree household in general for accepting him in this timeof his affliction, but he could not admit to himself that they had aright to decide upon him in private conclave, and allot him either tothe one or to the other nuptials without consultation with himself. To be swallowed up by Scylla he now recognised as his doom; but hethought he ought to be asked on which side of the gulf he wouldprefer to go down. The way in which Camilla spoke of him as a thingthat wasn't hers, but another's; and the way in which Arabella lookedat him, as though he were hers and could never be another's, woundedhis manly pride. He had always understood that he might have hischoice, and he could not understand that the little mishap which hadbefallen him in the Close was to rob him of that privilege. 

He used to drink tea at Heavitree in those days. On one evening ongoing in he found himself alone with Arabella. "Oh, Mr. Gibson, " shesaid, "we weren't sure whether you'd come. And mamma and Camilla havegone out to Mrs. Camadge's. " Mr. Gibson muttered some word to theeffect that he hoped he had kept nobody at home; and, as he did so, he remembered that he had distinctly said that he would come onthis evening. "I don't know that I should have gone, " said Arabella, "because I am not quite, --not quite myself at present. No, not ill;not at all. Don't you know what it is, Mr. Gibson, to be, --to be, --tobe, --not quite yourself?" Mr. Gibson said that he had very often feltlike that. "And one can't get over it;--can one?" continued Arabella. "There comes a presentiment that something is going to happen, anda kind of belief that something has happened, though you don't knowwhat; and the heart refuses to be light, and the spirit becomesabashed, and the mind, though it creates new thoughts, will notsettle itself to its accustomed work. I suppose it's what the novelshave called Melancholy. "

"I suppose it is, " said Mr. Gibson. "But there's generally some causefor it. Debt for instance--"

"It's nothing of that kind with me. It's no debt, at least, that canbe written down in the figures of ordinary arithmetic. Sit down, Mr. Gibson, and we will have some tea. " Then, as she stretched forward toring the bell, he thought that he never in his life had seen anythingso unshapely as that huge wen at the back of her head. "Monstrumhorrendum, informe, ingens!" He could not help quoting the words tohimself. She was dressed with some attempt at being smart, but herribbons were soiled, and her lace was tawdry, and the fabric of herdress was old and dowdy. He was quite sure that he would feel nopride in calling her Mrs. Gibson, no pleasure in having her all tohimself at his own hearth. "I hope we shall escape the bitterness ofMiss Stanbury's tongue if we drink tea tête-à-tête, " she said, withher sweetest smile. 

"I don't suppose she'll know anything about it. "

"She knows about everything, Mr. Gibson. It's astonishing what sheknows. She has eyes and ears everywhere. I shouldn't care, if shedidn't see and hear so very incorrectly. I'm told now that shedeclares--; but it doesn't signify. "

"Declares what?" asked Mr. Gibson. 

"Never mind. But wasn't it odd how all Exeter believed that you weregoing to be married in that house, and to live there all the rest ofyour life, and be one of Miss Stanbury's slaves. I never believedit, Mr. Gibson. " This she said with a sad smile, that ought to havebrought him on his knees, in spite of the chignon. 

"One can't help these things, " said Mr. Gibson. 

"I never could have believed it;--not even if you had not given me anassurance so solemn, and so sweet, that there was nothing in it. " Thepoor man had given the assurance, and could not deny the solemnityand the sweetness. "That was a happy moment for us, Mr. Gibson;because, though we never believed it, when it was dinned into ourears so frequently, when it was made such a triumph in the Close, itwas impossible not to fear that there might be something in it. " Hefelt that he ought to make some reply, but he did not know what tosay. He was thoroughly ashamed of the lie he had told, but he couldnot untell it. "Camilla reproached me afterwards for asking you, "whispered Arabella, in her softest, tenderest voice. "She saidthat it was unmaidenly. I hope you did not think it unmaidenly, Mr. Gibson?"

"Oh dear no;--not at all, " said he. 

Arabella French was painfully alive to the fact that she must dosomething. She had her fish on the hook; but of what use is a fishon your hook, if you cannot land him? When could she have a betteropportunity than this of landing the scaly darling out of the freshand free waters of his bachelor stream, and sousing him into the poolof domestic life, to be ready there for her own household purposes?"I had known you so long, Mr. Gibson, " she said, "and had valued yourfriendship so--so deeply. " As he looked at her he could see nothingbut the shapeless excrescence to which his eyes had been so painfullycalled by Miss Stanbury's satire. It is true that he had formerlybeen very tender with her, but she had not then carried about withher that distorted monster. He did not believe himself to be at allbound by anything which had passed between them in circumstancesso very different. But yet he ought to say something. He ought tohave said something; but he said nothing. She was patient, however, very patient; and she went on playing him with her hook. "I am soglad that I did not go out to-night with mamma. It has been such apleasure to me to have this conversation with you. Camilla, perhaps, would say that I am--unmaidenly. "

"I don't think so. "

"That is all that I care for, Mr. Gibson. If you acquit me, I donot mind who accuses. I should not like to suppose that you thoughtme unmaidenly. Anything would be better than that; but I can throwall such considerations to the wind when true--true--friendship isconcerned. Don't you think that one ought, Mr. Gibson?"

If it had not been for the thing at the back of her head, he wouldhave done it now. Nothing but that gave him courage to abstain. It grew bigger and bigger, more shapeless, monstrous, absurd, andabominable, as he looked at it. Nothing should force upon him thenecessity of assisting to carry such an abortion through the world. "One ought to sacrifice everything to friendship, " said Mr. Gibson, "except self-respect. "

He meant nothing personal. Something special, in the way of anopinion, was expected of him; and, therefore, he had striven tosay something special. But she was in tears in a moment. "Oh, Mr. Gibson, " she exclaimed; "oh, Mr. Gibson!"

"What is the matter, Miss French?"

"Have I lost your respect? Is it that that you mean?"

"Certainly not, Miss French. "

"Do not call me Miss French, or I shall be sure that you condemn me. Miss French sounds so very cold. You used to call me--Bella. " Thatwas quite true; but it was long ago, thought Mr. Gibson, --before themonster had been attached. "Will you not call me Bella now?"

He thought that he had rather not; and yet, how was he to avoid it?On a sudden he became very crafty. Had it not been for the sharpnessof his mother wit, he would certainly have been landed at thatmoment. "As you truly observed just now, " he said, "the tonguesof people are so malignant. There are little birds that heareverything. "

"I don't care what the little birds hear, " said Miss French, throughher tears. "I am a very unhappy girl;--I know that; and I don't carewhat anybody says. It is nothing to me what anybody says. I know whatI feel. " At this moment there was some dash of truth about her. Thefish was so very heavy on hand that, do what she would, she couldnot land him. Her hopes before this had been very low, --hopes thathad once been high; but they had been depressed gradually; and, inthe slow, dull routine of her daily life, she had learned to beardisappointment by degrees, without sign of outward suffering, withoutconsciousness of acute pain. The task of her life had been weary, and the wished-for goal was ever becoming more and more distant;but there had been still a chance, and she had fallen away into alethargy of lessening expectation, from which joy, indeed, had beenbanished, but in which there had been nothing of agony. Then hadcome upon the whole house at Heavitree the great Stanbury peril, and, arising out of that, had sprung new hopes to Arabella, which made heragain capable of all the miseries of a foiled ambition. She couldagain be patient, if patience might be of any service; but in such acondition an eternity of patience is simply suicidal. She was willingto work hard, but how could she work harder than she had worked. Pooryoung woman, --perishing beneath an incubus which a false idea offashion had imposed on her!

"I hope I have said nothing that makes you unhappy, " pleaded Mr. Gibson. "I'm sure I haven't meant it. "

"But you have, " she said. "You make me very unhappy. You condemn me. I see you do. And if I have done wrong it has been all because-- Ohdear, oh dear, oh dear!"

"But who says you have done wrong?"

"You won't call me Bella, --because you say the little birds will hearit. If I don't care for the little birds, why should you?"

There is no question more difficult than this for a gentleman toanswer. Circumstances do not often admit of its being asked by a ladywith that courageous simplicity which had come upon Miss French inthis moment of her agonising struggle; but nevertheless it is onewhich, in a more complicated form, is often put, and to which somereply, more or less complicated, is expected. "If I, a woman, candare, for your sake, to encounter the public tongue, will you, a man, be afraid?" The true answer, if it could be given, would probablybe this; "I am afraid, though a man, because I have much to loseand little to get. You are not afraid, though a woman, because youhave much to get and little to lose. " But such an answer would beuncivil, and is not often given. Therefore men shuffle and lie, andtell themselves that in love, --love here being taken to mean allantenuptial contests between man and woman, --everything is fair. Mr. Gibson had the above answer in his mind, though he did not frameit into words. He was neither sufficiently brave nor sufficientlycruel to speak to her in such language. There was nothing for him, therefore, but that he must shuffle and lie. 

"I only meant, " said he, "that I would not for worlds do anything tomake you uneasy. "

She did not see how she could again revert to the subject of her ownChristian name. She had made her little tender, loving request, andit had been refused. Of course she knew that it had been refused as amatter of caution. She was not angry with him because of his caution, as she had expected him to be cautious. The barriers over whichshe had to climb were no more than she had expected to find in herway;--but they were so very high and so very difficult! Of course shewas aware that he would escape if he could. She was not angry withhim on that account. Anger could not have helped her. Indeed, she didnot price herself highly enough to make her feel that she would bejustified in being angry. It was natural enough that he shouldn'twant her. She knew herself to be a poor, thin, vapid, tawdrycreature, with nothing to recommend her to any man except a sortof second-rate, provincial-town fashion which, --infatuated as shewas, --she attributed in a great degree to the thing she carried onher head. She knew nothing. She could do nothing. She possessednothing. She was not angry with him because he so evidently wished toavoid her. But she thought that if she could only be successful shewould be good and loving and obedient, --and that it was fair for herat any rate to try. Each created animal must live and get its foodby the gifts which the Creator has given to it, let those gifts beas poor as they may, --let them be even as distasteful as they may toother members of the great created family. The rat, the toad, theslug, the flea, must each live according to its appointed mode ofexistence. Animals which are parasites by nature can only live byattaching themselves to life that is strong. To Arabella Mr. Gibsonwould be strong enough, and it seemed to her that if she could fixherself permanently upon his strength, that would be her propermode of living. She was not angry with him because he resistedthe attempt, but she had nothing of conscience to tell her thatshe should spare him as long as there remained to her a chance ofsuccess. And should not her plea of excuse, her justification beadmitted? There are tormentors as to which no man argues that theyare iniquitous, though they be very troublesome. He either ridshimself of them, or suffers as quiescently as he may. 

"We used to be such--great--friends, " she said, still crying, "and Iam afraid you don't like me a bit now. "

"Indeed I do;--I have always liked you. But--"

"But what? Do tell me what the but means. I will do anything that youbid me. "

Then it occurred to him that if, after such a promise, he were toconfide to her his feeling that the chignon which she wore was uglyand unbecoming, she would probably be induced to change her mode ofhead-dress. It was a foolish idea, because, had he followed it out, he would have seen that compliance on her part in such a matter couldonly be given with the distinct understanding that a certain rewardshould be the consequence. When an unmarried gentleman calls upon anunmarried lady to change the fashion of her personal adornments, theunmarried lady has a right to expect that the unmarried gentlemanmeans to make her his wife. But Mr. Gibson had no such meaning; andwas led into error by the necessity for sudden action. When sheoffered to do anything that he might bid her do, he could not take uphis hat and go away. She looked up into his face, expecting that hewould give her some order;--and he fell into the temptation that wasspread for him. 

"If I might say a word, --" he began. 

"You may say anything, " she exclaimed. 

"If I were you I don't think--"

"You don't think what, Mr. Gibson?"

He found it to be a matter very difficult of approach. "Do you know, I don't think the fashion that has come up about wearing your hairquite suits you, --not so well as the way you used to do it. " Shebecame on a sudden very red in the face, and he thought that she wasangry. Vexed she was, but still, accompanying her vexation, therewas a remembrance that she was achieving victory even by her ownhumiliation. She loved her chignon; but she was ready to abandon eventhat for him. Nevertheless she could not speak for a moment or two, and he was forced to continue his criticism. "I have no doubt thosethings are very becoming and all that, and I dare say they arecomfortable. "

"Oh, very, " she said. 

"But there was a simplicity that I liked about the other. "

Could it be then that for the last five years he had stood aloof fromher because she had arrayed herself in fashionable attire? She wasstill very red in the face, still suffering from wounded vanity, still conscious of that soreness which affects us all when we aremade to understand that we are considered to have failed there, wherewe have most thought that we excelled. But her womanly art enabledher quickly to conceal the pain. "I have made a promise, " she said, "and you will find that I will keep it. "

"What promise?" asked Mr. Gibson. 

"I said that I would do as you bade me, and so I will. I would havedone it sooner if I had known that you wished it. I would never haveworn it at all if I had thought that you disliked it. "

"I think that a little of them is very nice, " said Mr. Gibson. Mr. Gibson was certainly an awkward man. But there are men so awkwardthat it seems to be their especial province to say always the veryworst thing at the very worst moment. 

She became redder than ever as she was thus told of the hugeness ofher favourite ornament. She was almost angry now. But she restrainedherself, thinking perhaps of how she might teach him taste in days tocome as he was teaching her now. "I will change it to-morrow, " shesaid with a smile. "You come and see to-morrow. "

Upon this he got up and took his hat and made his escape, assuringher that he would come and see her on the morrow. She let him go nowwithout any attempt at further tenderness. Certainly she had gainedmuch during the interview. He had as good as told her in what hadbeen her offence, and of course, when she had remedied that offence, he could hardly refuse to return to her. She got up as soon as shewas alone, and looked at her head in the glass, and told herself thatthe pity would be great. It was not that the chignon was in itselfa thing of beauty, but that it imparted so unmistakable an air offashion! It divested her of that dowdiness which she feared aboveall things, and enabled her to hold her own among other young women, without feeling that she was absolutely destitute of attraction. There had been a certain homage paid to it, which she had recognisedand enjoyed. But it was her ambition to hold her own, not amongyoung women, but among clergymen's wives, and she would certainlyobey his orders. She could not make the attempt now because of thecomplications; but she certainly would make it before she laid herhead on the pillow, --and would explain to Camilla that it was alittle joke between herself and Mr. Gibson. 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

MR. GIBSON IS PUNISHED. 

Miss Stanbury was divine in her wrath, and became more and more sodaily as new testimony reached her of dishonesty on the part ofthe Frenches and of treachery on the part of Mr. Gibson. And thesepeople, so empty, so vain, so weak, were getting the better of her, were conquering her, were robbing her of her prestige and her ancientglory, simply because she herself was too generous to speak out andtell the truth! There was a martyrdom to her in this which was almostunendurable. 

Now there came to her one day at luncheon time, --on the daysucceeding that on which Miss French had promised to sacrifice herchignon, --a certain Mrs. Clifford from Budleigh Salterton, to whomshe was much attached. Perhaps the distance of Budleigh Saltertonfrom Exeter added somewhat to this affection, so that Mrs. Cliffordwas almost closer to our friend's heart even than Mrs. MacHugh, wholived just at the other end of the cathedral. And in truth Mrs. Clifford was a woman more serious in her mode of thought than Mrs. MacHugh, and one who had more in common with Miss Stanbury than thatother lady. Mrs. Clifford had been a Miss Noel of Doddiscombe Leigh, and she and Miss Stanbury had been engaged to be married at the sametime, --each to a man of fortune. One match had been completed in theordinary course of matches. What had been the course of the other wealready know. But the friendship had been maintained on very closeterms. Mrs. MacHugh was a Gallio at heart, anxious chiefly to removefrom herself, --and from her friends also, --all the troubles of life, and make things smooth and easy. She was one who disregarded greatquestions; who cared little or nothing what people said of her; whoconsidered nothing worth the trouble of a fight;--Epicuri de gregeporca. But there was nothing swinish about Mrs. Clifford of BudleighSalterton. She took life thoroughly in earnest. She was a Tory whosorrowed heartily for her country, believing that it was beingbrought to ruin by the counsels of evil men. She prayed daily tobe delivered from dissenters, radicals, and wolves in sheep'sclothing, --by which latter bad name she meant especially a certainleading politician of the day who had, with the cunning of thedevil, tempted and perverted the virtue of her own political friends. And she was one who thought that the slightest breath of scandalon a young woman's name should be stopped at once. An antique, pure-minded, anxious, self-sacrificing matron was Mrs. Clifford, andvery dear to the heart of Miss Stanbury. 

After lunch was over on the day in question Mrs. Clifford got MissStanbury into some closet retirement, and there spoke her mind asto the things which were being said. It had been asserted in herpresence by Camilla French that she, Camilla, was authorised by Mr. Gibson to declare that he had never thought of proposing to DorothyStanbury, and that Miss Stanbury had been "labouring under somestrange misapprehension in the matter. " "Now, my dear, I don't carevery much for the young lady in question, " said Mrs. Clifford, alluding to Camilla French. 

"Very little, indeed, I should think, " said Miss Stanbury, with ashake of her head. 

"Quite true, my dear, --but that does not make the words out of hermouth the less efficacious for evil. She clearly insinuated that youhad endeavoured to make up a match between this gentleman and yourniece, and that you had failed. " So much was at least true. MissStanbury felt this, and felt also that she could not explain thetruth, even to her dear old friend. In the midst of her divine wrathshe had acknowledged to herself that she had brought Mr. Gibson intohis difficulty, and that it would not become her to tell any oneof his failure. And in this matter she did not herself accuse Mr. Gibson. She believed that the lie originated with Camilla French, andit was against Camilla that her wrath raged the fiercest. 

"She is a poor, mean, disappointed thing, " said Miss Stanbury. 

"Very probably;--but I think I should ask her to hold her tongueabout Miss Dorothy, " said Mrs. Clifford. 

The consultation in the closet was carried on for about half-an-hour, and then Miss Stanbury put on her bonnet and shawl and descended intoMrs. Clifford's carriage. The carriage took the Heavitree road, anddeposited Miss Stanbury at the door of Mrs. French's house. The walkhome from Heavitree would be nothing, and Mrs. Clifford proceeded onher way, having given this little help in counsel and conveyance toher friend. Mrs. French was at home, and Miss Stanbury was shown upinto the room in which the three ladies were sitting. 

 [Illustration: Miss Stanbury visits the Frenches. ]

The reader will doubtless remember the promise which Arabella hadmade to Mr. Gibson. That promise she had already fulfilled, --to theamazement of her mother and sister;--and when Miss Stanbury enteredthe room the elder daughter of the family was seen without heraccustomed head-gear. If the truth is to be owned, Miss Stanbury gavethe poor young woman no credit for her new simplicity, but put downthe deficiency to the charge of domestic slatternliness. She wasunjust enough to declare afterwards that she had found ArabellaFrench only half dressed at between three and four o'clock in theafternoon! From which this lesson may surely be learned, --that thoughthe way down Avernus may be, and customarily is, made with greatcelerity, the return journey, if made at all, must be made slowly. Ayoung woman may commence in chignons by attaching any amount of anedifice to her head; but the reduction should be made by degrees. Arabella's edifice had, in Miss Stanbury's eyes, been the ugliestthing in art that she had known; but, now, its absence offended her, and she most untruly declared that she had come upon the young womanin the middle of the day just out of her bed-room and almost in herdressing-gown. 

And the whole French family suffered a diminution of power from thestrange phantasy which had come upon Arabella. They all felt, insight of the enemy, that they had to a certain degree lowered theirflag. One of the ships, at least, had shown signs of striking, and this element of weakness made itself felt through the wholefleet. Arabella, herself, when she saw Miss Stanbury, was painfullyconscious of her head, and wished that she had postponed theoperation till the evening. She smiled with a faint watery smile, andwas aware that something ailed her. 

The greetings at first were civil, but very formal, as are thosebetween nations which are nominally at peace, but which are waitingfor a sign at which each may spring at the other's throat. In thisinstance the Juno from the Close had come quite prepared to declareher casus belli as complete, and to fling down her gauntlet, unlessthe enemy should at once yield to her everything demanded with anabject submission. "Mrs. French, " she said, "I have called to-dayfor a particular purpose, and I must address myself chiefly to MissCamilla. "

"Oh, certainly, " said Mrs. French. 

"I shall be delighted to hear anything from you, Miss Stanbury, " saidCamilla, --not without an air of bravado. Arabella said nothing, butshe put her hand up almost convulsively to the back of her head. 

"I have been told to-day by a friend of mine, Miss Camilla, " beganMiss Stanbury, "that you declared yourself, in her presence, authorised by Mr. Gibson to make a statement about my niece Dorothy. "

"May I ask who was your friend?" demanded Mrs. French. 

"It was Mrs. Clifford, of course, " said Camilla. "There is nobodyelse would try to make difficulties. "

"There need be no difficulty at all, Miss Camilla, " said MissStanbury, "if you will promise me that you will not repeat thestatement. It can't be true. "

"But it is true, " said Camilla. 

"What is true?" asked Miss Stanbury, surprised by the audacity of thegirl. 

"It is true that Mr. Gibson authorised us to state what I did statewhen Mrs. Clifford heard me. "

"And what was that?"

"Only this, --that people had been saying all about Exeter that hewas going to be married to a young lady, and that as the report wasincorrect, and as he had never had the remotest idea in his mind ofmaking the young lady his wife, --" Camilla, as she said this, spokewith a great deal of emphasis, putting forward her chin and shakingher head, --"and as he thought it was uncomfortable both for the younglady and for himself, and as there was nothing in it the least in theworld, --nothing at all, no glimmer of a foundation for the report, itwould be better to have it denied everywhere. That is what I said;and we had authority from the gentleman himself. Arabella can saythe same, and so can mamma;--only mamma did not hear him. " Nor hadCamilla heard him, but that incident she did not mention. 

The circumstances were, in Miss Stanbury's judgment, becoming veryremarkable. She did not for a moment believe Camilla. She did notbelieve that Mr. Gibson had given to either of the Frenches anyjustification for the statement just made. But Camilla had been somuch more audacious than Miss Stanbury had expected, that that ladywas for a moment struck dumb. "I'm sure, Miss Stanbury, " said Mrs. French, "we don't want to give any offence to your niece, --very farfrom it. "

"My niece doesn't care about it two straws, " said Miss Stanbury. "Itis I that care. And I care very much. The things that have been saidhave been altogether false. "

"How false, Miss Stanbury?" asked Camilla. 

"Altogether false, --as false as they can be. "

"Mr. Gibson must know his own mind, " said Camilla. 

"My dear, there's a little disappointment, " said Miss French, "and itdon't signify. "

"There's no disappointment at all, " said Miss Stanbury, "and it doessignify very much. Now that I've begun, I'll go to the bottom of it. If you say that Mr. Gibson told you to make these statements, I'll goto Mr. Gibson. I'll have it out somehow. "

"You may have what you like out for us, Miss Stanbury, " said Camilla. 

"I don't believe Mr. Gibson said anything of the kind. "

"That's civil, " said Camilla. 

"But why shouldn't he?" asked Arabella. 

"There were the reports, you know, " said Mrs. French. 

"And why shouldn't he deny them when there wasn't a word of truthin them?" continued Camilla. "For my part I think the gentleman isbound for the lady's sake to declare that there's nothing in it whenthere is nothing in it. " This was more than Miss Stanbury could bear. Hitherto the enemy had seemed to have the best of it. Camilla wasfiring broadside after broadside, as though she was assured ofvictory. Even Mrs. French was becoming courageous; and Arabella wasforgetting the place where her chignon ought to have been. "I reallydo not know what else there is for me to say, " remarked Camilla, witha toss of her head, and an air of impudence that almost drove poorMiss Stanbury frantic. 

It was on her tongue to declare the whole truth, but she refrained. She had schooled herself on this subject vigorously. She would notbetray Mr. Gibson. Had she known all the truth, --or had she believedCamilla French's version of the story, --there would have been nobetrayal. But looking at the matter with such knowledge as she hadat present, she did not even yet feel herself justified in declaringthat Mr. Gibson had offered his hand to her niece, and had beenrefused. She was, however, sorely tempted. "Very well, ladies, " shesaid. "I shall now see Mr. Gibson, and ask him whether he did giveyou authority to make such statements as you have been spreadingabroad everywhere. " Then the door of the room was opened, and in amoment Mr. Gibson was among them. He was true to his promise, and hadcome to see Arabella with her altered head-dress;--but he had comeat this hour thinking that escape in the morning would be easier andquicker than it might have been in the evening. His mind had beenfull of Arabella and her head-dress even up to the moment of hisknocking at the door; but all that was driven out of his brain atonce when he saw Miss Stanbury. 

"Here is Mr. Gibson himself, " said Mrs. French. 

"How do you do, Mr. Gibson?" said Miss Stanbury, with a very statelycourtesy. They had never met since the day on which he had been, ashe stated, turned out of Miss Stanbury's house. He now bowed to her;but there was no friendly greeting, and the Frenches were able tocongratulate themselves on the apparent loyalty to themselves ofthe gentleman who stood among them. "I have come here, Mr. Gibson, "continued Miss Stanbury, "to put a small matter right in which youare concerned. "

"It seems to me to be the most insignificant thing in the world, "said Camilla. 

"Very likely, " said Miss Stanbury. "But it is not insignificantto me. Miss Camilla French has asserted publicly that you haveauthorised her to make a statement about my niece Dorothy. "

Mr. Gibson looked into Camilla's face doubtingly, inquisitively, almost piteously. "You had better let her go on, " said Camilla. "Shewill make a great many mistakes, no doubt, but you had better let hergo on to the end. "

"I have made no mistake as yet, Miss Camilla. She so asserted, Mr. Gibson, in the hearing of a friend of mine, and she repeated theassertion here in this room to me just before you came in. She saysthat you have authorised her to declare that--that--that, --I hadbetter speak it out plainly at once. "

"Much better, " said Camilla. 

"That you never entertained an idea of offering your hand to myniece. " Miss Stanbury paused, and Mr. Gibson's jaw fell visibly. Buthe was not expected to speak as yet; and Miss Stanbury continued heraccusation. "Beyond that, I don't want to mention my niece's name, ifit can be avoided. "

"But it can't be avoided, " said Camilla. 

"If you please, I will continue. Mr. Gibson will understand me. I will not, if I can help it, mention my niece's name again, Mr. Gibson. But I still have that confidence in you that I do not thinkthat you would have made such a statement in reference to yourselfand any young lady, --unless it were some young lady who hadabsolutely thrown herself at your head. " And in saying this shepaused, and looked very hard at Camilla. 

"That's just what Dorothy Stanbury has been doing, " said Camilla. 

"She has been doing nothing of the kind, and you know she hasn't, "said Miss Stanbury, raising her arm as though she were going tostrike her opponent. "But I am quite sure, Mr. Gibson, that younever could have authorised these young ladies to make such anassertion publicly on your behalf. Whatever there may have been ofmisunderstanding between you and me, I can't believe that of you. "Then she paused for a reply. "If you will be good enough to set usright on that point, I shall be obliged to you. "

Mr. Gibson's position was one of great discomfort. He had given noauthority to any one to make such a statement. He had said nothingabout Dorothy Stanbury to Camilla; but he had told Arabella, whenhard pressed by that lady, that he did not mean to propose toDorothy. He could not satisfy Miss Stanbury because he fearedArabella. He could not satisfy the Frenches because he feared MissStanbury. "I really do not think, " said he, "that we ought to talkabout a young lady in this way. "

"That's my opinion, too, " said Camilla; "but Miss Stanbury will. "

"Exactly so. Miss Stanbury will, " said that lady. "Mr. Gibson, I insist upon it, that you tell me whether you did give any suchauthority to Miss Camilla French, or to Miss French. "

"I wouldn't answer her, if I were you, " said Camilla. 

"I really don't think this can do any good, " said Mrs. French. 

"And it is so very harassing to our nerves, " said Arabella. 

"Nerves! Pooh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury. "Now, Mr. Gibson, I amwaiting for an answer. "

"My dear Miss Stanbury, I really think it better, --the situationis so peculiar, and, upon my word, I hardly know how not to giveoffence, which I wouldn't do for the world. "

"Do you mean to tell me that you won't answer my question?" demandedMiss Stanbury. 

"I really think that I had better hold my tongue, " pleaded Mr. Gibson. 

"You are quite right, Mr. Gibson, " said Camilla. 

"Indeed, it is wisest, " said Mrs. French. 

"I don't see what else he can do, " said Arabella. 

Then was Miss Stanbury driven altogether beyond her powers ofendurance. "If that be so, " said she, "I must speak out, though Ishould have preferred to hold my tongue. Mr. Gibson did offer to myniece the week before last, --twice, and was refused by her. My niece, Dorothy, took it into her head that she did not like him; and, uponmy word, I think she was right. We should have said nothing aboutthis, --not a word; but when these false assertions are made on Mr. Gibson's alleged authority, and Mr. Gibson won't deny it, I musttell the truth. " Then there was silence among them for a few seconds, and Mr. Gibson struggled hard, but vainly, to clothe his face ina pleasant smile. "Mr. Gibson, is that true?" said Miss Stanbury. But Mr. Gibson made no reply. "It is as true as heaven, " said MissStanbury, striking her hand upon the table. "And now you had better, all of you, hold your tongues about my niece, and she will hold hertongue about you. And as for Mr. Gibson, --anybody who wants himafter this is welcome to him for us. Good-morning, Mrs. French;good-morning, young ladies. " And so she stalked out of the room, andout of the house, and walked back to her house in the Close. 

"Mamma, " said Arabella, as soon as the enemy was gone, "I have gotsuch a headache that I think I will go up-stairs. "

"And I will go with you, dear, " said Camilla. 

Mr. Gibson, before he left the house, confided his secret to thematernal ears of Mrs. French. He certainly had been allured intomaking an offer to Dorothy Stanbury, but was ready to atone forthis crime by marrying her daughter, --Camilla, --as soon as mightbe convenient. He was certainly driven to make this declaration byintense cowardice, --not to excuse himself, for in that there couldbe no excuse;--but how else should he dare to suggest that he mightas well leave the house? "Shall I tell the dear girl?" asked Mrs. French. But Mr. Gibson requested a fortnight, in which to considerhow the proposition had best be made. 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

MR. BROOKE BURGESS AFTER SUPPER. 

Brooke Burgess was a clerk in the office of the EcclesiasticalCommissioners in London, and as such had to do with things verysolemn, grave, and almost melancholy. He had to deal with the rentsof episcopal properties, to correspond with clerical claimants, and to be at home with the circumstances of underpaid vicars andperpetual curates with much less than £300 a-year; but yet he wasas jolly and pleasant at his desk as though he were busied aboutthe collection of the malt tax, or wrote his letters to admiralsand captains instead of to deans and prebendaries. Brooke Burgesshad risen to be a senior clerk, and was held in some respect in hisoffice; but it was not perhaps for the amount of work he did, nor yeton account of the gravity of his demeanour, nor for the brilliancy ofhis intellect. But if not clever, he was sensible; though he was nota dragon of official virtue, he had a conscience;--and he possessedthose small but most valuable gifts by which a man becomes popularamong men. And thus it had come to pass in all those battles as tocompetitive merit which had taken place in his as in other publicoffices, that no one had ever dreamed of putting a junior overthe head of Brooke Burgess. He was tractable, easy, pleasant, andtherefore deservedly successful. All his brother clerks called himBrooke, --except the young lads who, for the first year or two oftheir service, still denominated him Mr. Burgess. 

"Brooke, " said one of his juniors, coming into his room and standingbefore the fireplace with a cigar in his mouth, "have you heard whois to be the new Commissioner?"

"Colenso, to be sure, " said Brooke. 

"What a lark that would be. And I don't see why he shouldn't. But itisn't Colenso. The name has just come down. "

"And who is it?"

"Old Proudie, from Barchester. "

"Why, we had him here years ago, and he resigned. "

"But he's to come on again now for a spell. It always seems to methat the bishops ain't a bit of use here. They only get blown up, andsnubbed, and shoved into corners by the others. "

"You young reprobate, --to talk of shoving an archbishop into acorner. "

"Well, --don't they? It's only for the name of it they have them. There's the Bishop of Broomsgrove;--he's always sauntering about theplace, looking as though he'd be so much obliged if somebody wouldgive him something to do. He's always smiling, and so gracious, --justas if he didn't feel above half sure that he had any right to bewhere he is, and he thought that perhaps somebody was going to kickhim. "

"And so old Proudie is coming up again, " said Brooke. "It certainlyis very much the same to us whom they send. He'll get shoved into acorner, as you call it, --only that he'll go into the corner withoutany shoving. " Then there came in a messenger with a card, and Brookelearned that Hugh Stanbury was waiting for him in the strangers'room. In performing the promise made to Dorothy, he had called uponher brother as soon as he was back in London, but had not found him. This now was the return visit. 

"I thought I was sure to find you here, " said Hugh. 

"Pretty nearly sure from eleven till five, " said Brooke. "A hardstepmother like the Civil Service does not allow one much chance ofrelief. I do get across to the club sometimes for a glass of sherryand a biscuit, --but here I am now, at any rate; and I'm very gladyou have come. " Then there was some talk between them about affairsat Exeter; but as they were interrupted before half an hour wasover their heads by a summons brought for Burgess from one ofthe secretaries, it was agreed that they should dine together atBurgess's club on the following day. "We can manage a pretty goodbeef-steak, " said Brooke, "and have a fair glass of sherry. I don'tthink you can get much more than that anywhere nowadays, --unless youwant a dinner for eight at three guineas a head. The magnificence ofmen has become so intolerable now that one is driven to be humble inone's self-defence. " Stanbury assured his acquaintance that he wasanything but magnificent in his own ideas, that cold beef and beerwas his usual fare, and at last allowed the clerk to wait upon thesecretary. 

"I wouldn't have any other fellow to meet you, " said Brooke as theysat at their dinners, "because in this way we can talk over the dearold woman at Exeter. Yes, our fellow does make good soup, and it'sabout all that he does do well. As for getting a potato properlyboiled, that's quite out of the question. Yes, it is a good glassof sherry. I told you we'd a fairish tap of sherry on. Well, I wasthere, backwards and forwards, for nearly six weeks. "

"And how did you get on with the old woman?"

"Like a house on fire, " said Brooke. 

"She didn't quarrel with you?"

"No, --upon the whole she did not. I always felt that it was touchand go. She might or she might not. Every now and then she looked atme, and said a sharp word, as though it was about to come. But I haddetermined when I went there altogether to disregard that kind ofthing. "

"It's rather important to you, --is it not?"

"You mean about her money?"

"Of course, I mean about her money, " said Stanbury. 

"It is important;--and so it was to you. "

"Not in the same degree, or nearly so. And as for me, it was not onthe cards that we shouldn't quarrel. I am so utterly a Bohemian inall my ideas of life, and she is so absolutely the reverse, that notto have quarrelled would have been hypocritical on my part or onhers. She had got it into her head that she had a right to rulemy life; and, of course, she quarrelled with me when I made herunderstand that she should do nothing of the kind. Now, she won'twant to rule you. "

"I hope not. "

"She has taken you up, " continued Stanbury, "on altogether adifferent understanding. You are to her the representative of afamily to whom she thinks she owes the restitution of the propertywhich she enjoys. I was simply a member of her own family, to whichshe owes nothing. She thought it well to help one of us out of whatshe regarded as her private purse, and she chose me. But the matteris quite different with you. "

"She might have given everything to you, as well as to me, " saidBrooke. 

"That's not her idea. She conceives herself bound to leave all shehas back to a Burgess, except anything she may save, --as she says, off her own back, or out of her own belly. She has told me so a scoreof times. "

"And what did you say?"

"I always told her that, let her do as she would, I should never askany question about her will. "

"But she hates us all like poison, --except me, " said Brooke. "I neverknew people so absurdly hostile as are your aunt and my uncle Barty. Each thinks the other the most wicked person in the world. "

"I suppose your uncle was hard upon her once. "

"Very likely. He is a hard man, --and has, very warmly, all thefeelings of an injured man. I suppose my uncle Brooke's will was acruel blow to him. He professes to believe that Miss Stanbury willnever leave me a shilling. "

"He is wrong, then, " said Stanbury. 

"Oh yes;--he's wrong, because he thinks that that's her presentintention. I don't know that he's wrong as to the probable result. "

"Who will have it, then?"

"There are ever so many horses in the race, " said Brooke. "I'm one. "

"You're the favourite, " said Stanbury. 

"For the moment I am. Then there's yourself. "

"I've been scratched, and am altogether out of the betting. "

"And your sister, " continued Brooke. 

"She's only entered to run for the second money; and, if she'll trotover the course quietly, and not go the wrong side of the posts, she'll win that. "

"She may do more than that. Then there's Martha. "

"My aunt will never leave her money to a servant. What she may giveto Martha would come from her own savings. "

"The next is a dark horse, but one that wins a good many races ofthis kind. He's apt to come in with a fatal rush at the end. "

"Who is it?"

"The hospitals. When an old lady finds in her latter days that shehates everybody, and fancies that the people around her are allthinking of her money, she's uncommon likely to indulge herself in alittle bit of revenge, and solace herself with large-handed charity. "

"But she's so good a woman at heart, " said Hugh. 

"And what can a good woman do better than promote hospitals?"

"She'll never do that. She's too strong. It's a maudlin sort ofthing, after all, for a person to leave everything to a hospital. "

"But people are maudlin when they're dying, " said Brooke, --"or evenwhen they think they're dying. How else did the Church get theestates, of which we are now distributing so bountifully some of thelast remnants down at our office? Come into the next room, and we'llhave a smoke. "

They had their smoke, and then they went at half-price to the play;and, after the play was over, they eat three or four dozen of oystersbetween them. Brooke Burgess was a little too old for oysters atmidnight in September; but he went through his work like a man. HughStanbury's powers were so great, that he could have got up and donethe same thing again, after he had been an hour in bed, without anyserious inconvenience. 

But, in truth, Brooke Burgess had still another word or two to saybefore he went to his rest. They supped somewhere near the Haymarket, and then he offered to walk home with Stanbury, to his chambers inLincoln's Inn. "Do you know that Mr. Gibson at Exeter?" he asked, asthey passed through Leicester Square. 

"Yes; I knew him. He was a sort of tame-cat parson at my aunt'shouse, in my days. "

"Exactly;--but I fancy that has come to an end now. Have you heardanything about him lately?"

"Well;--yes I have, " said Stanbury, feeling that dislike to speakof his sister which is common to most brothers when in company withother men. 

"I suppose you've heard of it, and, as I was in the middle of it all, of course I couldn't but know all about it too. Your aunt wanted himto marry your sister. "

"So I was told. "

"But your sister didn't see it, " said Brooke. 

"So I understand, " said Stanbury. "I believe my aunt was exceedinglyliberal, and meant to do the best she could for poor Dorothy; but, ifshe didn't like him, I suppose she was right not to have him, " saidHugh. 

"Of course she was right, " said Brooke, with a good deal ofenthusiasm. 

"I believe Gibson to be a very decent sort of fellow, " said Stanbury. 

"A mean, paltry dog, " said Brooke. There had been a littlewhisky-toddy after the oysters, and Mr. Burgess was perhaps moved toa warmer expression of feeling than he might have displayed had hediscussed this branch of the subject before supper. "I knew from thefirst that she would have nothing to say to him. He is such a poorcreature!"

"I always thought well of him, " said Stanbury, "and was inclined tothink that Dolly might have done worse. "

"It is hard to say what is the worst a girl might do; but I think shemight do, perhaps, a little better. "

"What do you mean?" said Hugh. 

"I think I shall go down, and ask her to take myself. "

"Do you mean it in earnest?"

"I do, " said Brooke. "Of course, I hadn't a chance when I was there. She told me--"

"Who told you;--Dorothy?"

"No, your aunt;--she told me that Mr. Gibson was to marry yoursister. You know your aunt's way. She spoke of it as though the thingwere settled as soon as she had got it into her own head; and she wasas hot upon it as though Mr. Gibson had been an archbishop. I hadnothing to do then but to wait and see. "

"I had no idea of Dolly being fought for by rivals. "

"Brothers never think much of their sisters, " said Brooke Burgess. 

"I can assure you I think a great deal of Dorothy, " said Hugh. "Ibelieve her to be as sweet a woman as God ever made. She hardly knowsthat she has a self belonging to herself. "

"I am sure she doesn't, " said Brooke. 

"She is a dear, loving, sweet-tempered creature, who is only tooready to yield in all things. "

"But she wouldn't yield about Gibson, " said Brooke. 

"How did she and my aunt manage?"

"Your sister simply said she couldn't, --and then that she wouldn't. Inever thought from the first moment that she'd take that fellow. Inthe first place he can't say boo to a goose. "

"But Dolly wouldn't want a man to say--boo. "

"I'm not so sure of that, old fellow. At any rate I mean to trymyself. Now, --what'll the old woman say?"

"She'll be pleased as Punch, I should think, " said Stanbury. 

"Either that;--or else she'll swear that she'll never speak anotherword to either of us. However, I shall go on with it. "

"Does Dorothy know anything of this?" asked Stanbury. 

"Not a word, " said Brooke. "I came away a day or so after Gibson wassettled; and as I had been talked to all through the affair by bothof them, I couldn't turn round and offer myself the moment he wasgone. You won't object;--will you?"

"Who; I?" said Stanbury. "I shall have no objection as long as Dollypleases herself. Of course you know that we haven't as much as abrass farthing among us?"

"That won't matter if the old lady takes it kindly, " said Brooke. Then they parted, at the corner of Lincoln's Inn Fields, and Hugh ashe went up to his own rooms, reflected with something of wondermenton the success of Dorothy's charms. She had always been the poor oneof the family, the chick out of the nest which would most requireassistance from the stronger birds; but it now appeared that shewould become the first among all the Stanburys. Wealth had firstflowed down upon the Stanbury family from the will of old BrookeBurgess; and it now seemed probable that poor Dolly would ultimatelyhave the enjoyment of it all. 

CHAPTER L. 

CAMILLA TRIUMPHANT. 

 [Illustration]

It was now New Year's day, and there was some grief and perhaps moreexcitement in Exeter, --for it was rumoured that Miss Stanbury layvery ill at her house in the Close. But in order that our somewhatuneven story may run as smoothly as it may be made to do, the littlehistory of the French family for the intervening months shall be toldin this chapter, in order that it may be understood how matters werewith them when the tidings of Miss Stanbury's severe illness firstreached their house at Heavitree. 

After that terrible scene in which Miss Stanbury had so dreadfullyconfounded Mr. Gibson by declaring the manner in which he had beenrebuffed by Dorothy, the unfortunate clergyman had endeavoured tomake his peace with the French family by assuring the mother that invery truth it was the dearest wish of his heart to make her daughterCamilla his wife. Mrs. French, who had ever been disposed to favourArabella's ambition, well knowing its priority and ancient right, and who of late had been taught to consider that even Camilla hadconsented to waive any claim that she might have once possessed, could not refrain from the expression of some surprise. That heshould be recovered at all out of the Stanbury clutches was verymuch to Mrs. French, --was so much that, had time been given her forconsideration, she would have acknowledged to herself readily thatthe property had best be secured at once to the family, withoutincurring that amount of risk which must unquestionably attend anyattempt on her part to direct Mr. Gibson's purpose hither or thither. But the proposition came so suddenly that time was not allowed to herto be altogether wise. "I thought it was poor Bella, " she said, withsomething of a piteous whine in her voice. At the moment Mr. Gibsonwas so humble, that he was half inclined to give way even on thathead. He felt himself to have been brought so low in the market bythat terrible story of Miss Stanbury's, --which he had been unableeither to contradict or to explain, --that there was but little powerof fighting left in him. He was, however, just able to speak a wordfor himself, and that sufficed. "I hope there has been no mistake, "he said; "but really it is Camilla that has my heart. " Mrs. Frenchmade 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 inthe Close, that she acknowledged to herself after that moment ofreflection that Arabella must be sacrificed for the good of thefamily interests. Poor, dear, loving, misguided, and spiritlessmother! She would have given the blood out of her bosom to gethusbands for her daughters, though it was not of her own experiencethat she had learned that of all worldly goods a husband is the best. But it was the possession which they had from their earliest yearsthought of acquiring, which they first expected, for which they hadthen hoped, and afterwards worked and schemed and striven with everyenergy, --and as to which they had at last almost despaired. And nowArabella's fire had been rekindled with a new spark, which, alas, was to be quenched so suddenly! "And am I to tell them?" askedMrs. French, with a tremor in her voice. To this, however, Mr. Gibson demurred. He said that for certain reasons he should like afortnight's grace; and that at the end of the fortnight he wouldbe prepared to speak. The interval was granted without furtherquestions, and Mr. Gibson was allowed to leave the house. 

After that Mrs. French was not very comfortable at home. As soon asMr. Gibson had departed, Camilla at once returned to her mother anddesired to know what had taken place. Was it true that the perjuredman had proposed to that young woman in the Close? Mrs. French wasnot clever at keeping a secret, and she could not keep this by herown aid. She told all that happened to Camilla, and between themthey agreed that Arabella should be kept in ignorance till the fatalfortnight should have passed. When Camilla was interrogated as toher own purpose, she said she should like a day to think of it. Shetook the twenty-four hours, and then made the following confessionof her passion to her mother. "You see, mamma, I always liked Mr. Gibson, --always. "

"So did Arabella, my dear, --before you thought of such things. "

"I dare say that may be true, mamma; but that is not my fault. Hecame here among us on such sweetly intimate terms that the feelinggrew up with me before I knew what it meant. As to any idea ofcutting out Arabella, my conscience is quite clear. If I thoughtthere had been anything really between them I would have goneanywhere, --to the top of a mountain, --rather than rob my sister of aheart 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 beslow, I suppose, when they think of their incomes. He only got St. Peter's-cum-Pumpkin three years ago, and didn't know for the firstyear whether he could hold that and the minor canonry together. Ofcourse a gentleman has to think of these things before he comesforward. "

"My dear, he has been very backward. "

"If I'm to be Mrs. Gibson, mamma, I beg that I mayn't hear anythingsaid 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 veryabsurd, --I'm sure I put myself out of the way entirely. If I'd buriedmyself under the ground I couldn't have done it more. And it's mybelief that what I've said, all for Arabella's sake, has put the oldwoman into such a rage that it has made a quarrel between him and theniece; otherwise that wouldn't be off. I don't believe a word of herrefusing him, and never shall. Is it in the course of things, mamma?"Mrs. French shook her head. "Of course not. Then when you questionhim, --very properly, --he says that he's devoted to--poor me. If I wasto refuse him, he wouldn't put up with Bella. "

"I suppose not, " said Mrs. French. 

"He hates Bella. I've known it all along, though I wouldn't sayso. If I were to sacrifice myself ever so it wouldn't be of anygood, --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, --norat the end of three weeks. Inquiries had of course been made, and itwas ascertained that he had gone into Cornwall for a parson's holidayof thirteen days. That might be all very well. A man might want therecruiting vigour of some change of air after such scenes as thoseMr. Gibson had gone through with the Stanburys, and before hisproposed encounter with new perils. And he was a man so tied by theleg that his escape could not be for any long time. He was backon the appointed Sunday, and on the Wednesday Mrs. French, underCamilla's instruction, wrote to him a pretty little note. He repliedthat he would be with her on the Saturday. It would then be nearlyfour weeks after the great day with Miss Stanbury, but no one wouldbe inclined to quarrel with so short a delay as that. Arabella in themeantime had become fidgety and unhappy. She seemed to understandthat something was expected, being quite unable to guess what thatsomething might be. She was true throughout these days to thesimplicity of head-gear which Mr. Gibson had recommended to her, and seemed in her questions to her mother and to Camilla to be morefearful of Dorothy Stanbury than of any other enemy. "Mamma, I thinkyou ought to tell her, " said Camilla more than once. But she had notbeen told when Mr. Gibson came on the Saturday. It may truly be saidthat the poor mother's pleasure in the prospects of one daughter wasaltogether destroyed by the anticipation of the other daughter'smisery. Had Mr. Gibson made Dorothy Stanbury his wife they couldhave all comforted themselves together by the heat of their jointanimosity. 

He came on the Saturday, and it was so managed that he was closetedwith Camilla before Arabella knew that he was in the house. Therewas a quarter of an hour during which his work was easy, and perhapspleasant. When he began to explain his intention, Camilla, with theutmost frankness, informed him that her mother had told her all aboutit. Then she turned her face on one side and put her hand in his; hegot 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 notbe undone. She had behaved with sisterly forbearance, and would notnow lose the reward of virtue. Not a word was said of Arabella atthis interview till he was pressed to come and drink tea with themall that night. He hesitated a moment; and then Camilla declared, with something perhaps of imperious roughness in her manner, that hehad better face it all at once. "Mamma will tell her, and she willunderstand, " said Camilla. He hesitated again, but at last promisedthat he would come. 

Whilst he was yet in the house Mrs. French had told the whole storyto her poor elder daughter. "What is he doing with Camilla?" Arabellahad 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 doing?" Then Mrs. French tried to take thepoor young woman in her arms, but Arabella would not submit to beembraced. "Don't!" she exclaimed. "Leave me alone. Nobody likes me, or cares a bit about me! Why is Cammy with him there, all alone?"

"I suppose he is asking her--to be--his wife. " Then Arabella threwherself in despair upon the bed, and wept without any further attemptat 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 forher. "If I could have arranged it the other way, you know that Iwould, " said the mother. 

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

"What did he tell you, Bella?"

"Never mind. Nothing shall ever make me speak to him again;--not ifhe 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 beforesince people--were--people at all. She has been doing it all thetime. I know she has. "

Nevertheless Arabella did sit down to tea with the two lovers thatnight. There was a terrible scene between her and Camilla; butCamilla held her own; and Arabella, being the weaker of the two, wasvanquished by the expenditure of her own small energies. Camillaargued that as her sister's chance was gone, and as the prize hadcome in her own way, there was no good reason why it should be lostto the family altogether, because Arabella could not win it. WhenArabella called her a treacherous vixen and a heartless, profligatehussy, she spoke out freely, and said that she wasn't going to beabused. A gentleman to whom she was attached had asked her for herhand, and she had given it. If Arabella chose to make herself a foolshe might, --but what would be the effect? Simply that all the worldwould know that she, Arabella, was disappointed. Poor Bella at lastgave way, put on her discarded chignon, and came down to tea. Mr. Gibson was already in the room when she entered it. "Arabella, " hesaid, getting up to greet her, "I hope you will congratulate me. "He had planned his little speech and his manner of making it, andhad wisely decided that in this way might he best get over thedifficulty. 

"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 Arabella tappedthe head of the sofa three or four times sharply with her knuckles. It was the only protest against the reading of the scene whichCamilla had given of which she was capable at that moment. After thatMrs. French gave out the tea, Arabella curled herself upon the sofaas though she were asleep, and the two lovers settled down to properlover-like conversation. 

The reader may be sure that Camilla was not slow in making the factof her engagement notorious through the city. It was not probablytrue that the tidings of her success had anything to do with MissStanbury's illness; but it was reported by many that such was thecase. It was in November that the arrangement was made, and itcertainly was true that Miss Stanbury was rather ill about the sametime. "You know, you naughty Lothario, that you did give her someground to hope that she might dispose of her unfortunate niece, " saidCamilla playfully to her own one, when this illness was discussedbetween them. "But you are caught now, and your wings are clipped, and you are never to be a naughty Lothario again. " The clericalDon Juan bore it all, awkwardly indeed, but with good humour, anddeclared that all his troubles of that sort were over, now and forever. Nevertheless he did not name the day, and Camilla began to feelthat there might be occasion for a little more of that imperiousroughness 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 subject;but on more than one occasion made some inquiry of her mother. Andshe came to perceive, or to think that she perceived, that her motherwas still anxious on the subject. "I shouldn't wonder if he wasn'toff 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 todo. "

"It would kill me, " said the mother. 

"I don't know about killing, " said Arabella; "it's nothing to whatI've had to go through. I shouldn't pretend to be sorry if he were togo to Hong-Kong to-morrow. "

But Mr. Gibson had no idea of going to Hong-Kong. He was simplycarrying out his little scheme for securing the advantages of a "longday. " He was fully resolved to be married, and was contented to thinkthat his engagement was the best thing for him. To one or two malefriends he spoke of Camilla as the perfection of female virtue, andentertained no smallest idea of ultimate escape. But a "long day" isoften a convenience. A bill at three months sits easier on a man thanone at sixty days; and a bill at six months is almost as little of aburden as no bill at all. 

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

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

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

"In what way, dearest?"

"About a thousand things. She can't arrange anything till our plansare made. Of course there are little troubles about money when peopleain't rich. " Then it occurred to her that this might seem to be aplea for postponing rather than for hurrying the marriage, and shemended her argument. "The truth is, Thomas, she wants to know whenthe day is to be fixed, and I've promised to ask. She said she'd askyou 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 doyou say to January?" This was on the last day of November. 

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

"I thought a clergyman could always manage that for his marriage, "said Camilla. 

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

They were still in November, and he was thinking of postponing ittill the summer! Camilla immediately perceived how necessary it wasthat she should be plain with him. "We shall not have warm weather, as you call it, for a very long time, Thomas;--and I don't think thatit would be wise to wait for the weather at all. Indeed, I've begunto get my things for doing it in the winter. Mamma said that she wassure January would be the very latest. And it isn't as though we hadto get furniture or anything of that kind. Of course a lady shouldn'tbe pressing. " She smiled sweetly and leaned on his arm as she saidthis. "But I hate all girlish nonsense and that kind of thing. It issuch a bore to be kept waiting. I'm sure there's nothing to preventit coming off in February. "

The 31st of March was fixed before they reached Heavitree, andCamilla 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 agirl who hadn't a shilling of money, --not a shilling till her motherdied, --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 thatArabella would have been more discreet and less exacting. He was veryangry with his dear Cammy as he went across the Close to his house. 

CHAPTER LI. 

SHEWING WHAT HAPPENED DURING MISS STANBURY'S ILLNESS. 

It was on Christmas-day that Sir Peter Mancrudy, the highestauthority on such matters in the west of England, was sent for to seeMiss Stanbury; and Sir Peter had acknowledged that things were veryserious. He took Dorothy on one side, and told her that Mr. Martin, the ordinary practitioner, had treated the case, no doubt, quitewisely throughout; that there was not a word to be said againstMr. Martin, whose experience was great, and whose discretion wasundeniable; but, nevertheless, --at least it seemed to Dorothy thatthis was the only meaning to be attributed to Sir Peter's words, --Mr. Martin had in this case taken one line of treatment, when he oughtto have taken another. The plan of action was undoubtedly changed, and Mr. Martin became very fidgety, and ordered nothing without SirPeter's sanction. Miss Stanbury was suffering from bronchitis, and acomplication of diseases about her throat and chest. Barty Burgessdeclared to more than one acquaintance in the little parlour behindthe bank, that she would go on drinking four or five glasses ofnew port wine every day, in direct opposition to Martin's request. Camilla French heard the report, and repeated it to her lover, andperhaps another person or two, with an expression of her assuredconviction that it must be false, --at any rate, as regarded thefifth glass. Mrs. MacHugh, who saw Martha daily, was much frightened. The peril of such a friend disturbed equally the repose and thepleasures of her life. Mrs. Clifford was often at Miss Stanbury'sbed-side, --and would have sat there reading for hours together, had she not been made to understand by Martha that Miss Stanburypreferred that Miss Dorothy should read to her. The sick womanreceived the Sacrament weekly, --not from Mr. Gibson, but from thehands of another minor canon; and, though she never would admit herown danger, or allow others to talk to her of it, it was known tothem all that she admitted it to herself because she had, with muchpersonal annoyance, caused a codicil to be added to her will. "Asyou didn't marry that man, " she said to Dorothy, "I must change itagain. " It was in vain that Dorothy begged her not to trouble herselfwith such thoughts. "That's trash, " said Miss Stanbury, angrily. "Aperson who has it is bound to trouble himself about it. You don'tsuppose I'm afraid of dying;--do you?" she added. Dorothy answeredher with some commonplace, --declaring how strongly they all expectedto see her as well as ever. "I'm not a bit afraid to die, " said theold 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; butI'm not going to have mistakes when I'm gone. " This was on the eveof the new year, and on the same night she asked Dorothy to write toBrooke Burgess, and request him to come to Exeter. This was Dorothy'sletter:--

 Exeter, 31st December, 186--. 

 MY DEAR MR. 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. Sir Peter Mancrudy has been here every day since Christmas-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 lawyer here with 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 stop 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 werenumbered. Questions were asked of Sir Peter at every corner of thestreet; but Sir Peter was a discreet man, who could answer suchquestions without giving any information. If it so pleased God, hispatient 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 anylight, according to the idiosyncracies of the reader. Mrs. MacHughwas quite sure that the danger was over, and had a little game ofcribbage on the sly with old Miss Wright;--for, during the severityof Miss Stanbury's illness, whist was put on one side in the vicinityof the Close. Barty Burgess was still obdurate, and shook his head. He was of opinion that they might soon gratify their curiosity, andsee the last crowning iniquity of this wickedest of old women. Mrs. Clifford declared that it was all in the hands of God; but thatshe saw no reason why Miss Stanbury should not get about again. Mr. Gibson thought that it was all up with his late friend; and Camillawished that at their last interview there had been more of charityon the part of one whom she had regarded in past days with respectand esteem. Mrs. French, despondent about everything, was quitedespondent in this case. Martha almost despaired, and already wasburdened with the cares of a whole wardrobe of solemn funerealclothing. She was seen peering in for half-an-hour at the windows anddoorway of a large warehouse for the sale of mourning. Giles Hickbodywould not speak above his breath, and took his beer standing; butDorothy was hopeful, and really believed that her aunt would recover. Perhaps Sir Peter had spoken to her in terms less oracular than thosewhich he used towards the public. 

Brooke Burgess came, and had an interview with Sir Peter, and tohim Sir Peter was under some obligation to speak plainly, as beingthe person whom Miss Stanbury recognised as her heir. So Sir Peterdeclared that his patient might perhaps live, and perhaps might die. "The truth is, Mr. Burgess, " said Sir Peter, "a doctor doesn't knowso very much more about these things than other people. " It wasunderstood that Brooke was to remain three days in Exeter, and thenreturn to London. He would, of course, come again if--if anythingshould happen. Sir Peter had been quite clear in his opinion, that noimmediate result was to be anticipated, --either in the one directionor the other. His patient was doomed to a long illness; she might getover it, or she might succumb to it. 

Dorothy and Brooke were thus thrown much together during these threedays. Dorothy, indeed, spent most of her hours beside her aunt's bed, instigating sleep by the reading of a certain series of sermons inwhich Miss Stanbury had great faith; but nevertheless, there weresome minutes in which she and Brooke were necessarily together. Theyeat their meals in each other's company, and there was a period inthe 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 hourwhen the will to say it is there. Brooke Burgess had by no meanschanged his mind since he had declared it to Hugh Stanbury under themidnight lamps of Long Acre, when warmed by the influence of oystersand whisky toddy. The whisky toddy had in that instance brought outtruth and not falsehood, --as is ever the nature of whisky toddy andsimilar dangerous provocatives. There is no saying truer than thatwhich declares that there is truth in wine. Wine is a dangerousthing, and should not be made the exponent of truth, let the truthbe good as it may; but it has the merit of forcing a man to show histrue colours. A man who is a gentleman in his cups may be trusted tobe a gentleman at all times. I trust that the severe censor will notturn upon me, and tell me that no gentleman in these days is ever tobe seen in his cups. There are cups of different degrees of depth;and cups do exist, even among gentlemen, and seem disposed to holdtheir own let the censor be ever so severe. The gentleman in his cupsis a gentleman always; and the man who tells his friend in his cupsthat he is in love, does so because the fact has been very presentto himself in his cooler and calmer moments. Brooke Burgess, whohad seen Hugh Stanbury on two or three occasions since that of theoysters and toddy, had not spoken again of his regard for Hugh'ssister; but not the less was he determined to carry out his plan andmake Dorothy his wife if she would accept him. But could he ask herwhile the old lady was, as it might be, dying in the house? He putthis question to himself as he travelled down to Exeter, and had toldhimself that he must be guided for an answer by circumstances asthey might occur. Hugh had met him at the station as he started forExeter, and there had been a consultation between them as to thepropriety of bringing about, or of attempting to bring about, aninterview between Hugh and his aunt. "Do whatever you like, " Hugh hadsaid. "I would go down to her at a moment's warning, if she shouldexpress a desire to see me. "

On the first night of Brooke's arrival this question had beendiscussed between him and Dorothy. Dorothy had declared herselfunable to give advice. If any message were given to her she woulddeliver it to her aunt, but she thought that anything said to heraunt on the subject had better come from Brooke himself. "Youevidently are the person most important to her, " Dorothy said, "andshe would listen to you when she would not let any one else say aword. " Brooke promised that he would think of it; and then Dorothytripped up to relieve Martha, dreaming nothing at all of that otherdoubt to which the important personage downstairs was now subject. Dorothy was, in truth, very fond of the new friend she had made; butit had never occurred to her that he might be a possible suitor toher. Her old conception of herself, --that she was beneath the noticeof any man, --had only been partly disturbed by the absolute fact ofMr. Gibson's courtship. She had now heard of his engagement withCamilla French, and saw in that complete proof that the foolish manhad been induced to offer his hand to her by the promise of heraunt's money. If there had been a moment of exaltation, --a period inwhich 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 wishesof one to whom it was so manifest that she had not made herself inthe least dear. 

On the second day of his visit, Brooke was summoned to MissStanbury's room at noon. She was forbidden to talk, and during agreat portion of the day could hardly speak without an effort; butthere would be half hours now and again in which she would becomestronger than usual, at which time nothing that Martha and Dorothycould say would induce her to hold her tongue. When Brooke came toher on this occasion he found her sitting up in bed with a greatshawl round her; and he at once perceived she was much more like herown self than on the former day. She told him that she had been anold fool for sending for him, that she had nothing special to sayto him, that she had made no alteration in her will in regard tohim, --"except that I have done something for Dolly that will have tocome out of your pocket, Brooke. " Brooke declared that too much couldnot be done for a person so good, and dear, and excellent as DorothyStanbury, let it come out of whose pocket it might. "She is nothingto you, you know, " said Miss Stanbury. 

"She is a great deal to me, " said Brooke. 

"What is she?" asked Miss Stanbury. 

"Oh;--a friend; a great friend. "

"Well; yes. I hope it may be so. But she won't have anything thatI haven't saved, " said Miss Stanbury. "There are two houses at St. Thomas's; but I bought them myself, Brooke;--out of the income. "Brooke could only declare that as the whole property was hers, to dowhat she liked with it as completely as though she had inherited itfrom her own father, no one could have any right to ask questionsas 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 isGod's will, I am ready. Not that I'm fit, Brooke. God forbid that Ishould ever think that. But I doubt whether I shall ever be fitter. Ican go without repining if He thinks best to take me. " Then he stoodup by her bedside, with his hand upon hers, and after some hesitationasked her whether she would wish to see her nephew Hugh. "No, " saidshe, sharply. Brooke went on to say how pleased Hugh would have beento 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 loveme, and I don't know what good we should do each other. " Brookedeclared 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 dinedat the same table with Brooke that afternoon, but a servant had beenin the room all the time and nothing had been said between them. Assoon as Brooke had got his tea he began to tell the story of hisfailure about Hugh. He was sorry, he said, that he had spoken on thesubject, as it had moved Miss Stanbury to an acrimony which he hadnot expected. 

"She always declares that he never loved her, " said Dorothy. "She hastold me so twenty times. "

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

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

"Why natural?"

"Just as it is natural that there should be dogs and cats that arepetted and loved and made much of, and others that have to crawlthrough life as they can, cuffed and kicked and starved. "

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

"So does the other. How many people there are that don't seem tobelong to anybody, --and if they do, they're no good to anybody. They're not cuffed exactly, or starved; but--"

"You mean that they don't get their share of affection?"

"They get perhaps 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 toanybody, and so they go on living till they die. You know what Imean, Mr. Burgess. A man who is a nobody can perhaps make himselfsomebody, --or, at any rate, he can try; but a woman has no means oftrying. She is a nobody, and a nobody she must remain. She has herclothes and her food, but she isn't wanted anywhere. People put upwith her, and that is about the best of her luck. If she were to diesomebody perhaps would be sorry for her, but nobody would be worseoff. She doesn't earn anything or do any good. She is just there andthat's all. "

Brooke had never heard her speak after this fashion before, had neverknown her to utter so many consecutive words, or to put forward anyopinion of her own with so much vigour. And Dorothy herself, when shehad concluded her speech, was frightened by her own energy and grewred in the face, and showed very plainly that she was half ashamedof herself. Brooke thought that he had never seen her look so prettybefore, and was pleased by her enthusiasm. He understood perfectlythat she was thinking of her own position, though she had entertainedno idea that he would so read her meaning; and he felt that it wasincumbent on him to undeceive her, and make her know that she was notone of those women who are "just there and that's all. " "One does seesuch a woman as that now and again, " he said. 

"There are hundreds of them, " said Dorothy. "And of course it can'tbe 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 agreat 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 considersherself to be one of the reigning beauties of Exeter. "

"She has had a very long reign, and dominion of that sort to besuccessful ought to be short. "

"That is spiteful, Mr. Burgess. "

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

"Nor I either, 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 reasonagainst 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 resolvedshould be told on this occasion. Dorothy finished her tea and got upas though she were about to go to her duty up-stairs. She had been asyet hardly an hour in the room, and the period of her relief was notfairly over. But there had come something of a personal flavour intheir conversation which prompted her, unconsciously, to leave him. She had, without any special indication of herself, included herselfamong that company of old maids who are born and live and die withoutthat vital interest in the affairs of life which nothing but familyduties, the care of children, or at least of a husband, will give toa woman. If she had not meant this she had felt it. He had understoodher meaning, or at least her feeling, and had taken upon himself toassure her that she was not one of the company whose privations shehad endeavoured to describe. Her instinct rather than her reason puther at once upon her guard, and she prepared to leave the room. "Youare not going yet, " he said. 

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

"Don't go quite yet, " he said, pulling out his watch. "I know allabout 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 gotsomething I want to say to you. "

He was now standing between her and the door, so that she could notget away from him; but at this moment she was absolutely ignorant ofhis purpose, expecting nothing of love from him more than she wouldfrom Sir Peter Mancrudy. Her face had become flushed when she madeher long speech, but there was no blush on it as she answered himnow. "Of course, I can wait, " she said, "if you have anything to sayto me. "

"Well;--I have. I should have said it before, only that that otherman was here. " He was blushing now, --up to the roots of his hair, andfelt that he was in a difficulty. There are men, to whom such momentsof their lives are pleasurable, but Brooke Burgess was not one ofthem. He would have been glad to have had it done and over, --so thatthen 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 willagain. Aunt Stanbury is so very angry with him. "

"I don't care whether he comes or not. What I mean is this. When Iwas 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 didknow it after I came back from Dartmoor. " He paused a moment, asthough she might have a word to say. She had no word to say, anddid not in the least know what was coming. She was so far fromanticipating 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 herebefore 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. Burgess!"

"Dorothy, my darling, I love you better than all the world. I do, indeed. " As soon as he had commenced his protestations he becameprofuse enough with them, and made a strong attempt to support themby 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 sheseated herself, --safely, as she thought; but he was close to her, over her shoulder, still continuing his protestations, offering uphis vows, and imploring her to reply to him. She, as yet, had notanswered him by a word, save by that one half-terrified exclamationof his name. "Tell me, at any rate, that you believe me, when Iassure you that I love you, " he said. The room was going round withDorothy, and the world was going round, and there had come upon herso strong a feeling of the disruption of things in general, that shewas at the moment anything but happy. Had it been possible for her tofind that the last ten minutes had been a dream, she would at thismoment have wished that it might become one. A trouble had come uponher, out of which she did not see her way. To dive among the watersin warm weather is very pleasant; there is nothing pleasanter. Butwhen the young swimmer first feels the thorough immersion of hisplunge, there comes upon him a strong desire to be quickly out again. He will remember afterwards how joyous it was; but now, at thismoment, the dry land is everything to him. So it was with Dorothy. She had thought of Brooke Burgess as one of those bright ones of theworld, with whom everything is happy and pleasant, whom everybodyloves, who may have whatever they please, whose lines have been laidin pleasant places. She thought of him as a man who might some daymake some woman very happy as his wife. To be the wife of such a manwas, in Dorothy's estimation, one of those blessed chances which cometo some women, but which she never regarded as being within her ownreach. Though she had thought much about him, she had never thoughtof him as a possible possession for herself; and now that he wasoffering himself to her, she was not at once made happy by his love. Her ideas of herself and of her life were all dislocated for themoment, and she required to be alone, that she might set herself inorder, and try herself all over, and find whether her bones werebroken. "Say that you believe me, " he repeated. 

 [Illustration: The world was going round with Dorothy. ]

"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. "

"Why not? Do you mean that you cannot love me?"

"I think, if you please, I'll go up to Aunt Stanbury. It is time forme; indeed it is; and she will be wondering, and Martha will be putout. 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 toconsider. 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 reachedat ten minutes after her usual time, and before Martha had begunto be put out. She was very civil to Martha, as though Martha hadbeen injured; and she put her hand on her aunt's arm, with a soft, caressing, apologetic touch, feeling conscious that she had givencause for offence. "What has he been saying to you?" said her aunt, as soon as Martha had closed the door. This was a question whichDorothy, certainly, could not answer. Miss Stanbury meant nothingby it, --nothing beyond a sick woman's desire that something of theconversation of those who were not sick should be retailed to her;but to Dorothy the question meant so much! How should her aunt haveknown that he had said anything? She sat herself down and waited, giving no answer to the question. "I hope he gets his mealscomfortably, " said Miss Stanbury. 

"I am sure he does, " said Dorothy, infinitely relieved. Then, knowinghow important it was that her aunt should sleep, she took up thevolume of Jeremy Taylor, and, with so great a burden on her mind, she went on painfully and distinctly with the second sermon on theMarriage Ring. She strove valiantly to keep her mind to the godlinessof the discourse, so that it might be of some possible service toherself; and to keep her voice to the tone that might be of serviceto her aunt. Presently she heard the grateful sound which indicatedher 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 hourshe persevered, reading the sermon of the Marriage Ring with suchattention to the godly principles of the teaching as she couldgive, --with that terrible burden upon her mind. 

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

"I'll go on reading, aunt, if you'll let me, " said Dorothy. ButMiss Stanbury, who was not a cruel woman, would have no more of thereading, and Dorothy's mind was left at liberty to think of theproposition that had been made to her. To one resolution she camevery quickly. The period of her aunt's illness could not be a propertime for marriage vows, or the amenities of love-making. She did notfeel that he, being a man, had offended; but she was quite sure thatwere she, a woman, the niece of so kind an aunt, the nurse at thebed-side of such an invalid, --were she at such a time to consent totalk of love, she would never deserve to have a lover. And from thisresolve she got great comfort. It would give her an excuse for makingno more assured answer at present, and would enable her to reflectat leisure as to the reply she would give him, should he ever, byany chance, renew his offer. If he did not, --and probably he wouldnot, --then it would have been very well that he should not have beenmade the victim of a momentary generosity. She had complained of thedulness of her life, and that complaint from her had produced hisnoble, kind, generous, dear, enthusiastic benevolence towards her. As she thought of it all, --and by degrees she took great pleasure inthinking of it, --her mind bestowed upon him all manner of eulogies. She could not persuade herself that he really loved her, and yet shewas 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 ofcourse know that she loved him;--that from this moment there wasnothing belonging to him, down to his shoe-tie, that would not bedear to her heart and an emblem so tender as to force a tear fromher. He had already become her god, though she did not know it. Shemade comparisons between him and Mr. Gibson, and tried to convinceherself that the judgment, which was always pronounced very clearlyin Brooke's favour, came from anything but her heart. And thusthrough the long watches of the night she became very happy, feelingbut not knowing that the whole aspect of the world was changed to herby those few words which her lover had spoken to her. She thought nowthat it would be consolation enough to her in future to know thatsuch a man as Brooke Burgess had once asked her to be the partner ofhis life, and that it would be almost ungenerous in her to push heradvantage further and attempt to take him at his word. Besides, therewould 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 wouldnot 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 hadmade her. Then Martha came to her at five o'clock, and she went toher bed to dream for an hour or two of Brooke Burgess and her futurelife. 

On the next morning she met him at breakfast. She went down stairslater than usual, not till ten, having hung about her aunt's room, thinking that thus she would escape him for the present. She wouldwait 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 murmuredsomething about Brooke's breakfast. She was told to go down, and shewent. But when on the stairs she slunk back to her own room, andstood there for awhile, aimless, motionless, not knowing what to do. Then one of the girls came to her, and told her that Mr. Burgess waswaiting breakfast for her. She knew not what excuse to make, and atlast descended slowly to the parlour. She was very happy, but had itbeen possible for her to have run away she would have gone. 

"Dear Dorothy, " he said at once. "I may call you so, --may I not?"

"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 beright;--would it?"

"You may say that you love me. "

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

"But do you love me?"

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

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

CHAPTER LII. 

MR. OUTHOUSE COMPLAINS THAT IT'S HARD. 

Life had gone on during the winter at St. Diddulph's Parsonage in adull, weary, painful manner. There had come a letter in November fromTrevelyan to his wife, saying that as he could trust neither her norher uncle with the custody of his child, he should send a personarmed with due legal authority, addressed to Mr. Outhouse, for therecovery of the boy, and desiring that little Louis might be at oncesurrendered to the messenger. Then of course there had arisen greattrouble in the house. Both Mrs. Trevelyan and Nora Rowley had learnedby this time that, as regarded the master of the house, they were notwelcome guests at St. Diddulph's. When the threat was shewn to Mr. Outhouse, he did not say a word to indicate that the child should begiven up. He muttered something, indeed, about impotent nonsense, which seemed to imply that the threat could be of no avail; but therewas none of that reassurance to be obtained from him which a positivepromise on his part to hold the bairn against all comers would havegiven. Mrs. Outhouse told her niece more than once that the childwould be given to no messenger whatever; but even she did not givethe assurance with that energy which the mother would have liked. "They shall drag him away from me by force if they do take him!" saidthe 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 nomessenger had presented himself by Christmas time, they all began tobelieve that the threat had in truth meant nothing, --that it had beenpart of the ravings of a madman. 

But the threat had meant something. Early on one morning in JanuaryMr. Outhouse was told that a person in the hall wanted to see him, and Mrs. Trevelyan, who was sitting at breakfast, the child being atthe moment up-stairs, started from her seat. The maid described theman as being "All as one as a gentleman, " though she would not go sofar as to say that he was a gentleman in fact. Mr. Outhouse slowlyrose from his breakfast, went out to the man in the passage, and badehim follow into the little closet that was now used as a study. It isneedless 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 hecertainly did not. "My name, Mr. Houthouse, is Samuel Bozzle, and Ilive at No. 55, Stony Walk, Union Street, Borough. I was in the Forceonce, 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 underyour protection; and it isn't so much with the lady as it is with herinfant. "

"Then you may go away, Mr. Bozzle, " said Mr. Outhouse, impatiently. "You may as well go away at once. "

"Will you please read them few lines, sir, " said Mr. Bozzle. "Theyis in Mr. Trewilyan's handwriting, which will no doubt be familiarcharacters, --leastways to Mrs. T. , if you don't know the gent'sfist. " Mr. Outhouse, after looking at the paper for a minute, andconsidering deeply what in this emergency he had better do, did takethe paper and read it. The words ran as follows: "I hereby give fullauthority to Mr. Samuel Bozzle, of 55, Stony Walk, Union Street, Borough, to claim and to enforce possession of the body of my child, Louis Trevelyan; and I require that any person whatsoever who maynow have the custody of the said child, whether it be my wife or anyof her friends, shall at once deliver him up to Mr. Bozzle, on theproduction of this authority. --LOUIS TREVELYAN. " It may be explainedthat before this document had been written there had been muchcorrespondence on the subject between Bozzle and his employer. Togive the ex-policeman his due, he had not at first wished to meddlein the matter of the child. He had a wife at home who expressed anopinion 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, thatit was his business to find out facts, and not to perform actions. But his employer had become very urgent with him. Mr. Bideawhile hadpositively refused to move in the matter; and Trevelyan, mad as hewas, had felt a disinclination to throw his affairs into the hands ofa certain Mr. Skint, of Stamford Street, whom Bozzle had recommendedto him as a lawyer. Trevelyan had hinted, moreover, that if Bozzlewould make the application in person, that application, if notobeyed, would act with usefulness as a preliminary step for furtherpersonal measures to be taken by himself. He intended to returnto England for the purpose, but he desired that the order for thechild's rendition should be made at once. Therefore Bozzle had come. He was an earnest man, and had now worked himself up to a certaindegree of energy in the matter. He was a man loving power, andspecially anxious to enforce obedience from those with whom he camein contact by the production of the law's mysterious authority. Inhis heart he was ever tapping people on the shoulder, and tellingthem that they were wanted. Thus, when he displayed his document toMr. Outhouse, he had taught himself at least to desire that thatdocument should be obeyed. 

Mr. Outhouse read the paper and turned up his nose at it. "You hadbetter 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 thepaternal parent's legal authority?"

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

"Go away!"

"Yes;--out of this house. It's my belief that you are a knave. "

"A knave, Mr. Houthouse?"

"Yes;--a knave. No one who was not a knave would lend a hand towardsseparating a little child from its mother. I think you are a knave, but I don't think you are fool enough to suppose that the child willbe given up to you. "

"It's my belief that knave is hactionable, " said Bozzle, --whoserespect, however, for the clergyman was rising fast. "Would you mindringing the bell, Mr. Houthouse, and calling me a knave again beforethe young woman?"

"Go away, " said Mr. Outhouse. 

"If you have no objection, sir, I should be glad to see the ladybefore I goes. "

"You won't see any lady here; and if you don't get out of my housewhen I tell you, I'll send for a real policeman. " Then was Bozzleconquered; and, as he went, he admitted to himself that he had sinnedagainst all the rules of his life in attempting to go beyond thelegitimate line of his profession. As long as he confined himselfto the getting up of facts nobody could threaten him with a "realpoliceman. " But one fact he had learned to-day. The clergyman of St. Diddulph's, who had been represented to him as a weak, foolish man, was anything but that. Bozzle was much impressed in favour of Mr. Outhouse, and would have been glad to have done that gentleman akindness had an opportunity come in his way. 

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

"You had better 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 mycondition. "

"He had some stupid paper in his hand from your husband, but it meantnothing. "

"He was the messenger, then?"

"Yes, he was the messenger. But I don't suppose he expected to getanything. Never mind. Go up and look after the child. " Then Mrs. Trevelyan returned to her boy, and Mr. Outhouse went back to hispapers. 

It was very hard upon him, Mr. Outhouse thought, --very hard. Hewas threatened with an action now, and most probably would becomesubject to one. Though he had been spirited enough in presence of theenemy, he was very much out of spirits at this moment. Though he hadadmitted to himself that his duty required him to protect his wife'sniece, he had never taken the poor woman to his heart with a loving, generous feeling of true guardianship. Though he would not give upthe child to Bozzle, he thoroughly wished that the child was out ofhis house. Though he called Bozzle a knave and Trevelyan a madman, still he considered that Colonel Osborne was the chief sinner, andthat Emily Trevelyan had behaved badly. He constantly repeated tohimself the old adage, that there was no smoke without fire; andlamented the misfortune that had brought him into close relationwith things and people that were so little to his taste. He sat forawhile, with a pen in his hand, at the miserable little substitutefor a library table which had been provided for him, and strove tocollect his thoughts and go on with his work. But the effort was invain. Bozzle would be there, presenting his document, and beggingthat the maid might be rung for, in order that she might hear himcalled a knave. And then he knew that on this very day his nieceintended to hand him money, which he could not refuse. Of what usewould it be to refuse it now, after it had been once taken? As hecould not write 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 way!"

"That's all very well. I suppose I ought to say that I like it. Therehas been a policeman here who is going to bring an action againstme. "

"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. Whenit comes to this, that a policeman is sent here to fetch any man'schild, and threatens me with an action because I tell him to leave myhouse, it is very hard upon me, seeing how very little I've had to dowith it. It's all over the parish now that my niece is kept here awayfrom her husband, and that a lover comes to see her. This about thepoliceman will be known now, of course. I only say it is hard; that'sall. " The wife did all that she could to comfort him, reminding himthat Sir Marmaduke would be home soon, and that then the burden wouldbe taken from his shoulders. But she was forced to admit that it wasvery hard. 

CHAPTER LIII. 

HUGH STANBURY IS SHEWN TO BE NO CONJUROR. 

 [Illustration]

Many weeks had now passed since Hugh Stanbury had paid his visit toSt. Diddulph's, and Nora Rowley was beginning to believe that herrejection of her lover had been so firm and decided that she wouldnever see him or hear from him more; and she had long since confessedto herself that if she did not see him or hear from him soon, lifewould not be worth a straw to her. To all of us a single treasurecounts for much more when the outward circumstances of our life aredull, unvaried, and melancholy, than it does when our days are fullof pleasure, or excitement, or even of business. With Nora Rowley atSt. Diddulph's life at present was very melancholy. There was littleor no society to enliven her. Her sister was sick at heart, andbecoming ill in health under the burden of her troubles. Mr. Outhousewas moody and wretched; and Mrs. Outhouse, though she did her bestto make her house comfortable to her unwelcome inmates, could notmake it appear that their presence there was a pleasure to her. Nora understood better than did her sister how distasteful thepresent arrangement was to their uncle, and was consequently veryuncomfortable on that score. And in the midst of that unhappiness, she of course told herself that she was a young woman miserable andunfortunate altogether. It is always so with us. The heart when it isburdened, though it may have ample strength to bear the burden, losesits buoyancy and doubts its own power. It is like the springs of acarriage which are pressed flat by the superincumbent weight. But, because the springs are good, the weight is carried safely, and theyare the better afterwards for their required purposes because of thetrial to which they have been subjected. 

Nora had sent her lover away, and now at the end of three monthsfrom the day of his dismissal she had taught herself to believe thathe would never come again. Amidst the sadness of her life at St. Diddulph's some confidence in a lover expected to come again wouldhave done much to cheer her. The more she thought of Hugh Stanbury, the more fully she became convinced that he was the man who as alover, as a husband, and as a companion, would just suit all hertastes. She endowed him liberally with a hundred good gifts in thedisposal of which Nature had been much more sparing. She made forherself a mental portrait of him more gracious in its flattery thanever was canvas coming from the hand of a Court limner. She gavehim all gifts of manliness, honesty, truth, and energy, and feltregarding him that he was a Paladin, --such as Paladins are in thisage, that he was indomitable, sure of success, and fitted in allrespects to take the high position which he would certainly winfor himself. But she did not presume him to be endowed with such aconstancy as would make him come to seek her hand again. Had Nora atthis time of her life been living at the West-end of London, andgoing out to parties three or four times a week, she would have beenquite easy about his coming. The springs would not have been weightedso heavily, and her heart would have been elastic. 

No doubt she had forgotten many of the circumstances of his visitand of his departure. Immediately on his going she had told hersister that he would certainly come again, but had said at the sametime that his coming could be of no use. He was so poor a man; andshe, --though poorer than he, --had been so little accustomed topoverty of life, that she had then acknowledged to herself that shewas 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 he neverwould come again; but that if he did she would confess to him thather own views about life were changed. "I would tell him franklythat I could eat a crust with him in any garret in London. " But thiswas said to herself;--never to her sister. Emily and Mrs. Outhousehad determined together that it would be wise to abstain from allmention of Hugh Stanbury's name. Nora had felt that her sister had soabstained, and this reticence had assisted in producing the despairwhich had come upon her. Hugh, when he had left her, had certainlygiven her encouragement to expect that he would return. She had beensure then that he would return. She had been sure of it, though shehad told him that it would be useless. But now, when these sad weekshad slowly crept over her head, when during the long hours of thelong days she had thought of him continually, --telling herself thatit was impossible that she should ever become the wife of any man ifshe did not become his, --she assured herself that she had seen andheard the last of him. She must surely have forgotten his hot wordsand that daring embrace. 

Then there came a letter to her. The question of the management ofletters for young ladies is handled very differently in differenthouses. In some establishments the post is as free to young ladiesas it is to the reverend seniors of the household. In others it isconsidered to be quite a matter of course that some experienceddiscretion should sit in judgment on the correspondence of thedaughters of the family. When Nora Rowley was living with her sisterin Curzon Street, she would have been very indignant indeed had itbeen suggested to her that there was any authority over her lettersvested in her sister. But now, circumstanced as she was at St. Diddulph's, she did understand that no letter would reach herwithout her aunt knowing that it had come. All this was distastefulto her, --as were indeed all the details of her life at St. Diddulph's;--but she could not help herself. Had her aunt told herthat she should never be allowed to receive a letter at all, she musthave submitted till her mother had come to her relief. The letterwhich reached her now was put into her hands by her sister, but ithad been given to Mrs. Trevelyan by Mrs. Outhouse. "Nora, " saidMrs. Trevelyan, "here is a letter for you. I think it is from Mr. Stanbury. "

"Give it me, " said Nora greedily. 

"Of course I will give it you. But I hope you do not intend tocorrespond 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 papa and mamma havearrived. "

"If Aunt Mary is afraid of me let her tell me so, and I will contriveto go somewhere else. " Poor Nora knew that this threat was futile. There was no house to which she could take herself. 

"She is not afraid of you at all, Nora. She only says that she thinksyou should not write to Mr. Stanbury. " Then Nora escaped to the coldbut solitary seclusion 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 adespairing lover. He had spoken his mind freely to Nora, and had felthimself justified in believing that he had not spoken in vain. He hadhad her in his arms, and she had found it impossible to say that shedid not love him. But then she had been quite firm in her purpose togive him no encouragement that she could avoid. She had said no wordthat would justify him in considering that there was any engagementbetween them; and, moreover, he had been warned not to come to thehouse by its mistress. From day to day he thought of it all, nowtelling himself that there was nothing to be done but to trust inher fidelity till he should be in a position to offer her a fittinghome, and then reflecting that he could not expect such a girl asNora Rowley to wait for him, unless he could succeed in making herunderstand that he at any rate intended to wait for her. On one dayhe would think that good faith and proper consideration for Noraherself required him to keep silent; on the next he would tellhimself that such maudlin chivalry as he was proposing to himself wassure to go to the wall and be neither rewarded nor recognised. So atlast he sat down and wrote the following letter:--

 Lincoln's Inn Fields, January, 186--. 

 DEAREST NORA, 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. Sometimes 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 wrong you will be thoroughly disgusted with me and will never willingly 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 me now, you never will love me. 

"I do--I do!" said Nora, pressing the letter to her bosom. 

 If you do, I think that you owe it me to say so, and to let me have all the joy and all the feeling of responsibility which such an assurance will give me. 

"I will tell him so, " said Nora; "I don't care what may comeafterwards, 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 without some risk. There are risks of different kinds, --

She wondered whether he was thinking when he wrote this of the rockon which her sister's barque had been split to pieces;--

 and we may hardly hope to avoid them all. For myself, 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 be 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 yours only, HUGH STANBURY. 

Write to him! Of course she would write to him. Of course she wouldconfess to him the truth. "He tells me that I owe it to him to sayso, and I acknowledge the debt, " she said aloud to herself. "And asfor a proper home, he shall be the judge of that. " She resolved thatshe would not be a fine lady, not fastidious, not coy, not afraidto take her full share of the risk of which he spoke in such manlyterms. "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 waswalking 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 thenshe held it out to her sister. "There it is. You may read it. " Mrs. Trevelyan took the letter and read it slowly, during which Norastood looking out of the window. She would not watch her sister'sface, as she did not wish to have to reply to any outward signs ofdisapproval. "Give it me back, " she said, when she heard by therefolding 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. Trevelyan. 

"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 doin such words as he would put into my mouth. I shall strive to writejust what I think he 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 eversince 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, andthat ought to have made you know what it must come to. When I amthinking of him every day, and every hour, how can I not be glad tohave an engagement settled with him? I couldn't marry anybody else, and I don't want to remain as I am. " The tears came into the marriedsister'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 speakof myself. Will you postpone your answer till mamma is here?"

"I cannot do that, Emily. What; receive such a letter as that, andsend 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 shewnyou that, because I trust you; but I have fully made up my mind asto what I shall write. It will have been written and sent beforedinner. "

"I think you will be wrong, Nora. "

"Why wrong! When I came over here to stay with you, would mamma everhave thought of directing me not to accept any offer till her consenthad been obtained all the way from the Mandarins? She would neverhave dreamed of such a thing. "

"Will you ask Aunt Mary?"

"Certainly not. What is Aunt Mary to me? We are here in her house fora 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 Ishall not ask him to come. I would not willingly bring any one intoUncle Oliphant's house that he and she do not wish to see. But I willnot 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 tomyself. "

Mrs. Trevelyan found it impossible to shake her sister's firmness, and could herself do nothing, except tell Mrs. Outhouse what was thestate of affairs. When she said that she should do this, there almostcame to be a flow of high words between the two sisters; but at lastNora assented. "As for knowing, I don't care if all the world knowsit. I shall do nothing in a corner. I don't suppose Aunt Mary willendeavour to prevent my posting my letter. "

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

 Parsonage, St. Diddulph's, January, 186--. 

 DEAR HUGH, For I suppose I may as well write to you 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 think that you are a conjuror at all. 

 [Illustration: Nora's letter. ]

As soon as ever the letter was written, she put on her bonnet, andwent forth with it herself to the post-office. Mrs. Trevelyan stoppedher on the stairs, and endeavoured to detain her, but Nora would notbe detained. "I must judge for myself about this, " she said. "Ifmamma were here, it would be different, but, as she is not here, Imust judge for myself. "

What Mrs. Outhouse might have done had she been at home at the time, it would be useless to surmise. She was told what had happenedwhen it occurred, and questioned Nora on the subject. "I thought Iunderstood from you, " she said, with something of severity in hercountenance, "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, " Norasaid. "I think he promised that he would not come here, and I don'tsuppose that he means to come. If he should do so, I shall not seehim. "

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

CHAPTER LIV. 

MR. GIBSON'S THREAT. 

Miss Stanbury for a long time persisted in being neither better norworse. Sir Peter would not declare her state to be precarious, norwould he say that she was out of danger; and Mr. Martin had been soutterly prostrated by the nearly-fatal effects of his own mistakethat he was quite unable to rally himself and talk on the subjectwith any spirit or confidence. When interrogated he would simplyreply that Sir Peter said this and Sir Peter said that, and thusadd to, rather than diminish, the doubt, and excitement, and variedopinion which prevailed through the city. On one morning it wasabsolutely asserted within the limits of the Close that Miss Stanburywas dying, --and it was believed for half a day at the bank that shewas then lying in articulo mortis. There had got about, too, a reportthat a portion of the property had only been left to Miss Stanburyfor her life, that the Burgesses would be able to reclaim thehouses in the city, and that a will had been made altogether infavour of Dorothy, cutting out even Brooke from any share in theinheritance;--and thus Exeter had a good deal to say respectingthe affairs and state of health of our old friend. Miss Stanbury'sillness, however, was true enough. She was much too ill to hearanything of what was going on;--too ill to allow Martha to talk toher at all about the outside public. When the invalid herself wouldask questions about the affairs of the world, Martha would be verydiscreet and turn away from the subject. Miss Stanbury, for instance, ill as she was, exhibited a most mundane interest, not exactly inCamilla French's marriage, but in the delay which that marriageseemed destined to encounter. "I dare say he'll slip out of it yet, "said the sick lady to her confidential servant. Then Martha hadthought it right to change the subject, feeling it to be wrongthat an old lady on her death-bed should be taking joy in thedisappointment of her young neighbour. Martha changed the subject, first to jelly, and then to the psalms of the day. Miss Stanburywas too weak to resist; but the last verse of the last psalm of theevening had hardly been finished before she remarked that she wouldnever believe it till she saw it. "It's all in the hands of Him as ison high, mum, " said Martha, turning her eyes up to the ceiling, andclosing the book at the same time, with a look strongly indicative ofdispleasure. 

Miss Stanbury understood it all as well as though she were in perfecthealth. She knew her own failings, was conscious of her worldlytendencies, and perceived that her old servant was thinking of it. And then sundry odd thoughts, half-digested thoughts, ideas toodifficult for her present strength, crossed her brain. Had it beenwicked of her when she was well to hope that a scheming woman shouldnot succeed in betraying a man by her schemes into an ill-assortedmarriage; and if not wicked then, was it wicked now because she wasill? And from that thought her mind travelled on to the ordinarypractices of death-bed piety. Could an assumed devotion be of use toher now, --such a devotion as Martha was enjoining upon her from hourto hour, in pure and affectionate solicitude for her soul? She hadspoken one evening of a game of cards, saying that a game of cribbagewould have consoled her. Then Martha, with a shudder, had suggesteda hymn, and had had recourse at once to a sleeping draught. MissStanbury had submitted, but had understood it all. If cards werewicked, she had indeed been a terrible sinner. What hope could therebe now, on her death-bed, for one so sinful? And she could not repentof her cards, and would not try to repent of them, not seeing theevil of them; and if they were innocent, why should she not have theconsolation now, --when she so much wanted it? Yet she knew that thewhole household, even Dorothy, would be in arms against her, were sheto suggest such a thing. She took the hymn and the sleeping draught, telling herself that it would be best for her to banish such ideasfrom her mind. Pastors and masters had laid down for her a mode ofliving, which she had followed, but indifferently perhaps, but stillwith an intention of obedience. They had also laid down a mode ofdying, and it would be well that she should follow that as closelyas possible. She would say nothing more about cards. She wouldthink nothing more of Camilla French. But, as she so resolved, withintellect half asleep, with her mind wandering between fact anddream, she was unconsciously comfortable with an assurance that ifMr. Gibson did marry Camilla French, Camilla French would lead himthe very devil of a life. 

During three days Dorothy went about the house as quiet as a mouse, sitting nightly at her aunt's bedside, and tending the sick womanwith the closest care. She, too, had been now and again somewhatstartled by the seeming worldliness of her aunt in her illness. Heraunt talked to her about rents, and gave her messages for BrookeBurgess on subjects which seemed to Dorothy to be profane when spokenof on what might perhaps be a death-bed. And this struck her the morestrongly, because she had a matter of her own on which she would havemuch wished to ascertain her aunt's opinion, if she had not thoughtthat it would have been exceedingly wrong of her to trouble heraunt's mind at such a time by any such matter. Hitherto she had saidnot a word of Brooke's proposal to any living being. At present itwas a secret with herself, but a secret so big that it almost causedher bosom to burst with the load that it bore. She could not, shethought, write to Priscilla till she had told her aunt. If she wereto write a word on the subject to any one, she could not fail to makemanifest the extreme longing of her own heart. She could not havewritten Brooke's name on paper, in reference to his words to herself, without covering it with epithets of love. But all that must be knownto no one if her love was to be of no avail to her. And she had anidea that her aunt would not wish Brooke to marry her, --would thinkthat Brooke should do better; and she was quite clear that in such amatter as this her aunt's wishes must be law. Had not her aunt thepower of disinheriting Brooke altogether? And what then if her auntshould die, --should die now, --leaving Brooke at liberty to do as hepleased? There was something so distasteful to her in this view ofthe matter that she would not look at it. She would not allow herselfto think of any success which might possibly accrue to herself byreason of her aunt's death. Intense as was the longing in her heartfor permission from those in authority over her to give herself toBrooke Burgess, perfect as was the earthly Paradise which appeared tobe open to her when she thought of the good thing which had befallenher in that matter, she conceived that she would be guilty of thegrossest ingratitude were she in any degree to curtail even her ownestimate of her aunt's prohibitory powers because of her aunt'sillness. The remembrance of the words which Brooke had spoken to herwas with her quite perfect. She was entirely conscious of the joywhich would be hers, if she might accept those words as properlysanctioned; but she was a creature in her aunt's hands, --according toher own ideas of her own duties; and while her aunt was ill she couldnot even learn what might be the behests which she would be called onto obey. 

She was sitting one evening alone, thinking of all this, having leftMartha with her aunt, and was trying to reconcile the circumstancesof her life as it now existed with the circumstances as they had beenwith her in the old days at Nuncombe Putney, wondering at herself inthat she should have a lover, and trying to convince herself that forher this little episode of romance could mean nothing serious, whenMartha crept down into the room to her. Of late days, --the alterationmight perhaps be dated from the rejection of Mr. Gibson, --Martha, whohad always been very kind, had become more respectful in her mannerto Dorothy than had heretofore been usual with her. Dorothy was quiteaware of it, and was not unconscious of a certain rise in the worldwhich was thereby indicated. "If you please, miss, " said Martha, "whodo 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! He asked for your aunt, andwhen, of course, he could not see her, he asked for you. " Dorothy fora few minutes was utterly disconcerted, but at last she consented tosee Mr. Gibson. "I think it is best, " said Martha, "because it is badto be fighting, and missus so ill. 'Blessed are the peace-makers, 'miss, 'for they shall be called the children of God. '" Convinced bythis argument, or by the working of her own mind, Dorothy directedthat Mr. Gibson might be shewn into the room. When he came, she foundherself unable to address him. She remembered the last time in whichshe had seen him, and was lost in wonder that he should be there. Butshe shook hands with him, and went through some form of greeting inwhich no word was uttered. 

"I hope you will not think that I have done wrong, " said he, "incalling 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 thehour of her distress, and perhaps mortal malady, I cannot stop toremember 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 forgiveand 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, MissDorothy, --here to-day and gone to-morrow, as sparks fly upwards. Justfit to be cut down and cast into the oven. Mr. Jennings has been withher, 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 agreat comfort to me to have Jennings with me. But he's very young, Miss Dorothy; isn't he?" Dorothy muttered something, purporting todeclare that she was not acquainted with the exact circumstances ofMr. Jennings' age. "I should be so glad to come if my old friendwould allow me, " said Mr. Gibson, almost with a sigh. Dorothy wasclearly of opinion that any change at the present would be bad forher aunt, but she did not know how to express her opinion; so shestood silent and looked at him. "There needn't be a word spoken, youknow, about the ladies at Heavitree, " said Mr. Gibson. 

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

"There was some little misunderstanding, " said Mr. Gibson; "but allthat should be over now. We both intended for the best, Miss Dorothy;and I'm sure nobody here can say that I wasn't sincere. " But Dorothy, though she could not bring herself to answer Mr. Gibson plainly, could not be induced to assent to his proposition. She mutteredsomething about her aunt's weakness, and the great attention whichMr. Jennings shewed. Her aunt had become very fond of Mr. Jennings, and she did at last express her opinion, with some clearness, thather aunt should not be disturbed by any changes at present. "Afterthat I should not think of pressing it, Miss Dorothy, " said Mr. Gibson; "but, still, I do hope that I may have the privilege ofseeing her yet once again in the flesh. And touching my approachingmarriage, Miss Dorothy--" He paused, and Dorothy felt that shewas blushing up to the roots of her hair. "Touching my marriage, "continued Mr. Gibson, "which however will not be solemnized till theend of March;"--it was manifest that he regarded this as a point thatwould in that household be regarded as an argument in his favour, --"Ido hope that you will look upon it in the most favourable light, --andyour 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 muchblamed;--but so unfairly! I have never meant to be untrue to a mouse, Miss Dorothy. " Dorothy did not at all understand whether she were themouse, or Camilla French, or Arabella. "And it is so hard to findthat 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 thatnothing would give him so much pleasure as to be called upon oncemore to see his old friend in her last moments. 

Though Miss Stanbury had been described as sleeping "like a babby, "she had heard the footsteps of a strange man in the house, and hadmade Martha tell her whose footsteps they were. As soon as Dorothywent 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 littlebetter, you know. He spoke a good deal of his old friendship andrespect. "

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

"But when you are better, aunt--?"

"How do I know that I shall ever be better? He isn't off with thosepeople at Heavitree, --is he?"

"I hope not, aunt. "

"Psha! A poor, weak, insufficient creature;--that's what he is. Mr. Jennings is worth twenty of him. " Dorothy, though she put thequestion again in its most alluring form of Christian charity andforgiveness, could not induce her aunt to say that she would seeMr. Gibson. "How can I see him, when you know that Sir Peter hasforbidden me to see anybody except Mrs. Clifford and Mr. Jennings?"

Two days afterwards there was an uncomfortable little scene atHeavitree. It must, no doubt, have been the case, that the same trainof circumstances which had produced Mr. Gibson's visit to the Close, produced also the scene in question. It was suggested by some whowere attending closely to the matter that Mr. Gibson had already cometo repent his engagement with Camilla French; and, indeed, there werethose who pretended to believe that he was induced, by the prospectof Miss Stanbury's demise, to transfer his allegiance yet again, andto bestow his hand upon Dorothy at last. There were many in the citywho could never be persuaded that Dorothy had refused him, --thesebeing, for the most part, ladies in whose estimation the value of ahusband was counted so great, and a beneficed clergyman so valuableamong suitors, that it was to their thinking impossible that DorothyStanbury should in her sound senses have rejected such an offer. "Idon't believe a bit of it, " said Mrs. Crumbie to Mrs. Apjohn; "isit likely?" The ears of all the French family were keenly aliveto rumours, and to rumours of rumours. Reports of these opinionsrespecting Mr. Gibson reached Heavitree, and had their effect. As long as Mr. Gibson was behaving well as a suitor, they wereinoperative there. What did it matter to them how the prize mighthave been struggled for, --might still be struggled for elsewhere, while they enjoyed the consciousness of possession? But when theconsciousness of possession became marred by a cankerous doubt, suchrumours were very important. Camilla heard of the visit in the Close, and swore that she would have justice done her. She gave her motherto understand that, if any trick were played upon her, the dioceseshould be made to ring of it, in a fashion that would astonish themall, from the bishop downwards. Whereupon Mrs. French, putting muchfaith in her daughter's threats, sent for Mr. Gibson. 

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

"Pining, Mrs. French!"

"Yes;--pining, Mr. Gibson. I am afraid that you little understandhow sensitive is that young heart. Of course, she is your own now. To her thinking, it would be treason to you for her to indulge inconversation with any other gentleman; but, then, she expects thatyou should spend your evenings with her, --of course!"

"But, Mrs. French, --think of my engagements, as a clergyman. "

"We know all about that, Mr. Gibson. We know what a clergyman's callsare. It isn't like a doctor's, Mr. Gibson. "

"It's very often worse, Mrs. French. "

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

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

"After what has occurred, " said Mrs. French, shaking her head at him, "and while things are just as they are now, it would be more like anhonest man of you to stay away. And, of course, Camilla feels it. Shefeels it very much;--and she won't put up with it neither. "

"I think this is the cruellest, cruellest thing I ever heard, " saidMr. Gibson. 

"It is you that are cruel, sir. "

Then the wretched man turned at bay. "I tell you what it is, Mrs. French;--if I am treated in this way, I won't stand it. I won't, indeed. I'll go away. I'm not going to be suspected, nor yet blownup. I think I've behaved handsomely, at any rate to Camilla. "

"Quite so, Mr. Gibson, if you would come and see her on evenings, "said Mrs. French, who was falling back into her usual state oftimidity. 

"But, if I'm to be treated in this way, I will go away. I've thoughtof it as it is. I've been already invited to go to Natal, and if Ihear anything more of these accusations, I shall certainly make upmy mind to go. " Then he left the house, before Camilla could be downupon him from her perch on the landing-place. 

CHAPTER LV. 

THE REPUBLICAN BROWNING. 

Mr. Glascock had returned to Naples after his sufferings in thedining-room of the American Minister, and by the middle of Februarywas back again in Florence. His father was still alive, and it wassaid that the old lord would now probably live through the winter. And it was understood that Mr. Glascock would remain in Italy. Hehad declared that he would pass his time between Naples, Rome, andFlorence; but it seemed to his friends that Florence was, of thethree, the most to his taste. He liked his room, he said, at the YorkHotel, and he liked being in the capital. That was his own statement. His friends said that he liked being with Carry Spalding, thedaughter of the American Minister; but none of them, then in Italy, were sufficiently intimate with him to express that opinion tohimself. 

It had been expressed more than once to Carry Spalding. The world ingeneral says such things to ladies more openly than it does to men, and the probability of a girl's success in matrimony is canvassedin her hearing by those who are nearest to her with a freedom whichcan seldom be used in regard to a man. A man's most intimate friendhardly speaks to him of the prospect of his marriage till he himselfhas told that the engagement exists. The lips of no living person hadsuggested to Mr. Glascock that the American girl was to become hiswife; but a great deal had been said to Carry Spalding about theconquest she had made. Her uncle, her aunt, her sister, and her greatfriend Miss Petrie, the poetess, --the Republican Browning as shewas called, --had all spoken to her about it frequently. Olivia haddeclared her conviction that the thing was to be. Miss Petrie had, with considerable eloquence, explained to her friend that thatEnglish title, which was but the clatter of a sounding brass, shouldbe regarded as a drawback rather than as an advantage. Mrs. Spalding, who was no poetess, would undoubtedly have welcomed Mr. Glascock asher niece's husband with all an aunt's energy. When told by MissPetrie that old Lord Peterborough was a tinkling cymbal she snappedangrily 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 urgeher on. Mr. Spalding as an American minister, with full powers at thecourt of a European sovereign, felt that he had full as much to giveas to receive; but he was well inclined to do both. He would havebeen much pleased to talk about his nephew Lord Peterborough, andhe loved his niece dearly. But by the middle of February he wasbeginning to think that the matter had been long enough in training. If the Honourable Glascock meant anything, why did he not speakout his mind plainly? The American Minister in such matters wasaccustomed to fewer ambages than were common in the circles amongwhich Mr. Glascock had lived. 

In the meantime Caroline Spalding was suffering. She had allowedherself to think that Mr. Glascock intended to propose to her, andhad acknowledged to herself that were he to do so she would certainlyaccept him. All that she had seen of him, since the day on which hehad been courteous to her about the seat in the diligence, had beenpleasant to her. She had felt the charm of his manner, his education, and his gentleness; and had told herself that with all her love forher own country, she would willingly become an Englishwoman for thesake of being that man's wife. But nevertheless the warnings of hergreat friend, the poetess, had not been thrown away upon her. Shewould put away from herself as far as she could any desire to becomeLady Peterborough. There should be no bias in the man's favour onthat score. The tinkling cymbal and the sounding brass should benothing 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 shouldunder no circumstances place trust in an English aristocrat. "Theircountry, Carry, is a game played out, while we are still breastingthe hill with our young lungs full of air. " Carry Spalding was proudof her intimacy with the Republican Browning; but nevertheless sheliked Mr. Glascock; and when Mr. Glascock had been ten days inFlorence, on his third visit to the city, and had been four or fivetimes at the embassy without expressing his intentions in the properform, Carry Spalding began to think that she had better save herselffrom a heartbreak while salvation might be within her reach. Sheperceived that her uncle was gloomy and almost angry when he spoke ofMr. Glascock, and that her aunt was fretful with disappointment. TheRepublican Browning had uttered almost a note of triumph; and had itnot been that Olivia persisted, Carry Spalding would have consentedto go away with Miss Petrie to Rome. "The old stones are rotten too, "said the poetess; "but their dust tells no lies. " That well knownpiece of hers--"Ancient Marbles, while ye crumble, " was written atthis time, and contained an occult reference to Mr. Glascock and herfriend. 

But Livy Spalding clung to the alliance. She probably knew hersister's heart better than did the others; and perhaps also had aclearer insight into Mr. Glascock's character. She was at any rateclearly of opinion that there should be no running away. "Either youdo like him, or you don't. If you do, what are you to get by going toRome?" said Livy. 

"I shall get quit of doubt and trouble. "

"I call that cowardice. I would never run away from a man, Carry. Aunt Sophie forgets that they don't manage these things in Englandjust as we do. "

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

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

"Who 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 likeafterwards. But if you have anything to do with people it must bewell to know what their manners are. I think the richer sort ofpeople in England slide into these things more gradually than we do. You stand your ground, Carry, and hold your own, and take the goodsthe gods provide you. " Though Caroline Spalding opposed her sister'sarguments, and was particularly hard upon that allusion to "thericher sort of people, "--which, as she knew, Miss Petrie would haveregarded as evidence of reverence for sounding brasses and tinklingcymbals, --nevertheless she loved Livy dearly for what she said, andkissed the sweet counsellor, and resolved that she would for thepresent decline the invitation of the poetess. Then was Miss Petriesomewhat indignant with her friend, and threw out her scorn in thoselines which have been mentioned. 

But the American Minister hardly knew how to behave himself when hemet 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 greatkingdom; but still people meet in Florence much more frequentlythan they do in Paris or in London. It may almost be said that theywhose habit it is to go into society, and whose circumstances bringthem into the same circles, will see each other every day. Now theAmerican Minister delighted to see and to be seen in all placesfrequented by persons of a certain rank and position in Florence. Having considered the matter much, he had convinced himself thathe could thus best do his duty as minister from the great Republicof Free States to the newest and, --as he called it, --"the free-estof the European kingdoms. " The minister from France was a marquis;he from England was an earl; from Spain had come a count, --and soon. In the domestic privacy of his embassy Mr. Spalding would besevere 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 a post ofhonour; but he liked to be heard among the cymbals and seen amongthe brasses, and to feel that his position was as high as theirs. Mr. Glascock also was frequently in the same circles, and thus it cameto 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 coulddoubt; but he did not quite know how to carry himself before Mr. Glascock. At home at Boston he would have been more completely masterof the situation. 

He thought too that he began to perceive that Mr. Glascock avoidedhim, though he would hear on his return home that that gentleman hadbeen at the embassy, or had been walking in the Cascine with hisnieces. That their young ladies should walk in public places withunmarried 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 ofEnglishmen, and as to the phase in which English habits might mostproperly exhibit themselves in Italy. He knew that people weretalking about Mr. Glascock and his niece. Why then did Mr. Glascockavoid him? It was perhaps natural that Mr. Spalding should haveomitted to observe that Mr. Glascock was not delighted by thoselectures on the American constitution which formed so large a part ofhis ordinary conversation with Englishmen. 

It happened one afternoon that they were thrown together so closelyfor nearly an hour that neither could avoid the other. They were bothat the old palace in which the Italian parliament is held, and werekept waiting during some long delay in the ceremonies of the place. They were seated next to each other, and during such delay there wasnothing for them but to talk. On the other side of each of them was astranger, and not to talk in such circumstances would be to quarrel. Mr. Glascock began by asking after the ladies. 

"They are quite well, sir, thank you, " said the minister. "I hopethat Lord Peterborough was pretty well when last you heard fromNaples, Mr. Glascock. " Mr. Glascock explained that his father'scondition was not much altered, and then there was silence for amoment. 

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

"Such is their intention, sir. "

"They seem to like Florence, I think. "

"Yes;--yes; I think they do like Florence. They see this capital, sir, perhaps under more favourable circumstances than are accordedto most of my countrywomen. Our republican simplicity, Mr. Glascock, has this drawback, that away from home it subjects us somewhat to thecold shade of unobserved obscurity. That it possesses merits whichmuch more than compensate for this trifling evil I should be the lastman in Europe to deny. " It is to be observed that American citizensare always prone to talk of Europe. It affords the best counterpoisethey know to that other term, America, --and America and the UnitedStates are of course the same. To speak of France or of England asweighing equally against their own country seems to an American to bean absurdity, --and almost an insult to himself. With Europe he cancompare himself, but even this is done generally in the style of theRepublican Browning when she addressed the Ancient Marbles. 

"Undoubtedly, " said Mr. Glascock, "the family of a ministerabroad has great advantages in seeing the country to which he isaccredited. "

"That is my meaning, sir. But, as I was remarking, we carry with usas a people no external symbols of our standing at home. The wivesand daughters, sir, of the most honoured of our citizens have nonomenclature different from that which belongs to the least notedamong us. It is perhaps a consequence of this that Europeans who areaccustomed in their social intercourse to the assistance of titles, will not always trouble themselves to inquire who and what are theAmerican citizens who may sit opposite to them at table. I haveknown, Mr. Glascock, the wife and daughter of a gentleman who hasbeen thrice sent as senator from his native State to Washington, to remain as disregarded in the intercourse of a European city, asthough they had formed part of the family of some grocer from yourRussell Square!"

"Let the Miss Spaldings go where they will, " said Mr. Glascock, "theywill not fare in that way. "

"The Miss Spaldings, sir, are very much obliged to you, " said theminister with a bow. 

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

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

"That was a matter of course. I and my friend would have done thesame for the grocer's wife and daughter of whom you spoke. Littleservices such as that do not come from appreciation of merit, but aresimply the payment of the debt due by all men to all women. "

"Such is certainly the rule of living in our country, sir, " said Mr. Spalding. 

"The chances are, " continued the Englishman, "that no furtherobservation follows the payment of such a debt. It has been a thingof course. "

"We delight to think it so, Mr. Glascock, in our own cities. "

"But in this instance it has given rise to one of the pleasantest, and as I hope most enduring friendships that I have ever formed, "said Mr. Glascock with enthusiasm. What could the American Ministerdo but bow again three times? And what other meaning could he attachto such words than that which so many of his friends had beenattributing to Mr. Glascock for some weeks past? It had occurred toMr. Spalding, even since he had been sitting in his present closeproximity to Mr. Glascock, that it might possibly be his duty as anuncle having to deal with an Englishman, to ask that gentleman whatwere his intentions. He would do his duty let it be what it might;but the asking of such a question would be very disagreeable to him. For the present he satisfied himself with inviting his neighbour tocome and drink tea with Mrs. Spalding on the next evening but one. "The girls will be delighted, I am sure, " said he, thinking himselfto be justified in this friendly familiarity by Mr. Glascock'senthusiasm. For Mr. Spalding was clearly of opinion that, let thevalue of republican simplicity be what it might, an alliance with thecrumbling marbles of Europe would in his niece's circumstances be notinexpedient. Mr. Glascock accepted the invitation with alacrity, andthe minister when he was closeted with his wife that evening declaredhis opinion that after all the Britisher meant fighting. The aunttold the girls that Mr. Glascock was coming, and in order that itmight not seem that a net was being specially spread for him, otherswere invited to join the party. Miss Petrie consented to be there, and the Italian, Count Buonarosci, to whose presence, though shecould not speak to him, Mrs. Spalding was becoming accustomed. Itwas painful to her to feel that she could not communicate with thosearound her, and for that reason she would have avoided Italians. Butshe had an idea that she could not thoroughly realise the advantagesof foreign travel unless she lived with foreigners; and, therefore, she was glad to become intimate at any rate with the outside of CountBuonarosci. 

"I think your uncle is wrong, dear, " said Miss Petrie early in theday to her friend. 

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

"If Mr. Glascock kept a store in Broadway he would not have thoughtit 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 yourhand upon your heart and say that this inherited title, this tinklingcymbal as I call it, has no attraction for you or yours? Is it theunadorned simple man that you welcome to your bosom, or a thing ofstars and garters, a patch of parchment, the minion of a throne, the lordling of twenty descents, in which each has been weaker thanthat before it, the hero of a scutcheon, whose glory is in hisquarterings, and whose worldly wealth comes from the sweat of serfswhom the euphonism of an effete country has learned to decorate withthe name of tenants?"

But Caroline Spalding had a spirit of her own, and had already madeup her mind that she would not be talked down by Miss Petrie. "UncleJonas, " said she, "asks him because we like him; and would do sotoo if he kept the store in Broadway. But if he did keep the storeperhaps we should not like him. "

"I trow not, " said Miss Petrie. 

Livy was much more comfortable in her tactics, and without consultinganybody sent for a hairdresser. "It's all very well for Wallachia, "said Livy, --Miss Petrie's name was Wallachia, --"but I know a nicesort of man when I see him, and the ways of the world are not to bealtered because Wally writes poetry. "

When Mr. Glascock was announced Mrs. Spalding's handsome rooms werealmost filled, as rooms in Florence are filled, --obstruction in everyavenue, a crowd in every corner, and a block at every doorway, notbeing among the customs of the place. Mr. Spalding immediately caughthim, --intercepting him between the passages and the ladies, --andengaged 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 writesmyself. "

This acknowledgment seemed to the minister to be almost disgraceful, 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 ofthe few Europeans who can look forward, and see how the rivers ofcivilization are running on. He has understood that women must atlast 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. 

But the minister was down upon him at once, --had him by the lappetof his coat, though he knew how important it was for his dear niecethat he should allow Mr. Glascock to amuse himself this evening afteranother fashion. "I have an answer ready, sir, for that difficulty, "he said. "Step aside with me for a moment. The question is important, and I should be glad if you would communicate my ideas to your greatphilosopher. Nature, sir, has laid down certain laws, which areimmutable; and, against them, --"

But Mr. Glascock had not come to Florence for this. There werecircumstances in his present position which made him feel that hewould be gratified in escaping, even at the cost of some seemingincivility. "I must go in to the ladies at once, " he said, "or Ishall never get a word with them. " There came across the minister'sbrow a momentary frown of displeasure, as though he felt that he werebeing robbed of that which was justly his own. For an instant hisgrasp fixed itself more tightly to the coat. It was quite withinthe scope of his courage to hold a struggling listener by physicalstrength;--but he remembered that there was a purpose, and he relaxedhis hold. 

"I will take another opportunity, " said the minister. "As you haveraised that somewhat trite objection of the bearing of children, which we in our country, sir, have altogether got over, I must putyou in possession of my views on that subject; but I will findanother occasion. " Then Mr. Glascock began to reflect whether anAmerican lady, married in England, would probably want to see much ofher uncle in her adopted country. 

Mrs. Spalding was all smiles when her guest reached her. "We did notmean to have such a crowd of people, " she said, whispering; "but youknow how one thing leads to another, and people here really likeshort invitations. " Then the minister's wife bowed very low to anItalian lady, and for the moment wished herself in Beacon Street. Itwas a great trouble to her that she could not pluck up courage tospeak a word in Italian. "I know more about it than some that areglib enough, " she would say to her niece Livy, "but these Tuscans areso particular with their Bocca Toscana. "

It was almost spiteful on the part of Miss Petrie, --the manner inwhich, on this evening, she remained close to her friend CarolineSpalding. It is hardly possible to believe that it came altogetherfrom high principle, --from a determination to save her friend froman impending danger. One's friend has no right to decide for onewhat is, and what is not dangerous. Mr. Glascock after awhile foundhimself seated on a fixed couch, that ran along the wall, betweenCarry Spalding and Miss Petrie; but Miss Petrie was almost as badto him as had been the minister himself. "I am afraid, " she said, looking up into his face with some severity, and rushing upon hersubject with audacity, "that the works of your Browning have notbeen received in your country with that veneration to which they areentitled. "

"Do you mean Mr. Or Mrs. Browning?" asked Mr. Glascock, --perhaps withsome mistaken idea that the lady was out of her depth, and did notknow the difference. 

"Either;--both; for they are one, the same, and indivisible. Thespirit 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 oneis tempted to acknowledge that here and there a marriage may havebeen arranged in Heaven. I don't think that in your country you haveperceived this, Mr. Glascock. "

"I am not quite sure that we have, " said Mr. Glascock. 

"Yours is not altogether an inglorious mission, " continued MissPetrie. 

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

Miss Petrie laughed with a scornful laugh. "I spoke, sir, of themission of that small speck on the earth's broad surface, of whichyou 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 withan artistic motion as she spoke. "It utters prophecies, though itcannot read them. It sends forth truth, though it cannot understandit. Though its own ears are deaf as adders', it is the nursery ofpoets, who sing not for their own countrymen, but for the highersensibilities and newer intelligences of lands, in which philanthropyhas made education as common as the air that is breathed. "

"Wally, " said Olivia, coming up to the poetess, in anger that wasalmost apparent, "I want to take you, and introduce you to theMarchesa Pulti. "

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

CHAPTER LVI. 

WITHERED GRASS. 

 [Illustration]

When Caroline Spalding perceived how direct an attempt had been madeby her sister to take the poetess away, in order that she mightthus be left alone with Mr. Glascock, her spirit revolted againstthe manoeuvre, and she took herself away amidst the crowd. If Mr. Glascock should wish to find her again he could do so. And there cameacross her mind something of a half-formed idea that, perhaps afterall her friend Wallachia was right. Were this man ready to take herand she ready to be taken, would such an arrangement be a happy onefor both of them? His high-born, wealthy friends might very probablydespise her, and it was quite possible that she also might despisethem. To be Lady Peterborough, and have the spending of a largefortune, 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 bedangerous, and therefore should be avoided. But she did like the man. Her friend was untrue to her and cruel in those allusions to tinklingcymbals. It might be well for her to get over her liking, and tothink no more of one who was to her a foreigner and a stranger, --ofwhose ways of living in his own home she knew so little, whose peoplemight be antipathetic to her, enemies instead of friends, among whomher life would be one long misery; but it was not on that groundthat Miss Petrie had recommended her to start for Rome as soon asMr. Glascock had reached Florence. "There is no reason, " she said toherself, "why I should not marry a man if I like him, even thoughhe be a lord. And of him I should not be the least afraid. It's thewomen that I fear. " And then she called to mind all that she had everheard of English countesses and duchesses. She thought that she knewthat they were generally cold and proud, and very little given toreceive outsiders graciously within their ranks. Mr. Glascock hadan aunt who was a Duchess, and a sister who would be a Countess. Caroline Spalding felt how her back would rise against these newrelations, if it should come to pass that they should look unkindlyupon her when she was taken to her own home;--how she would fightwith them, giving them scorn for scorn; how unutterably miserableshe would be; how she would long to be back among her own equals, inspite 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 tosome extent allured by the social position of the man. She couldperceive that he had a charm of manner which her countrymen lacked. He had read, perhaps, less than her uncle;--knew, perhaps, less thanmost of those men with whom she had been wont to associate in herown city life at home;--was not braver, or more virtuous, or moreself-denying than they; but there was a softness and an ease inhis manner which was palatable to her, and an absence of that toovisible effort of the intellect which is so apt to mark and marthe conversation of Americans. She almost wished that she had beenEnglish, in order that the man's home and friends might have suitedher. She was thinking of all this as she stood pretending to talk toan American lady, who was very eloquent on the delights of Florence. 

In the meantime Olivia and Mr. Glascock had moved away together, andMiss Petrie was left alone. This was no injury to Miss Petrie, as hermind at once set itself to work on a sonnet touching the frivolityof modern social gatherings; and when she complained afterwards toCaroline that it was the curse of their mode of life that no momentcould be allowed for thought, --in which she referred specially to afew words that Mr. Gore had addressed to her at this moment of hermeditations, --she was not wilfully a hypocrite. She was painfullyturning her second set of rhymes, and really believed that she hadbeen subjected to a hardship. In the meantime Olivia and Mr. Glascockwere discussing her at a distance. 

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

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

"She is Carry's ally, not mine, " said Olivia. Then she rememberedthat by saying this she might be doing her sister an injury. Mr. Glascock might object to such a bosom friend for his wife. "That isto say, of course we are all intimate with her, but just at thismoment Carry is most in favour. "

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

"Oh yes;--she's a genius. You must not doubt that on the peril ofmaking 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 tell me that you are notacquainted with her works, --that you don't know pages of them byheart, that you don't sleep with them under your pillow, don't travelabout with them in your dressing-bag? I'm afraid we have mistakenyou, Mr. Glascock. "

"Is it so great a sin?"

"If you'll own 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 horrible? But, perhaps, if I heard Tennysontalking every day, I shouldn't read Tennyson. Familiarity does breedcontempt;--doesn't it? And then poor dear Wallachia is such a bore. Isometimes wonder, when English people are listening to her, whetherthey 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 theway in which people form their opinions about foreigners. Somespecially self-asserting American speaks his mind louder than otherpeople, 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 againstus, expressed or unexpressed. We don't think ourselves a bit betterthan you; or, if the truth were known, half as good. We are alwaysstruggling to be as polished and easy as the French, or as sensibleand dignified as the English; but when our defects are thrown in ourteeth--"

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

"You look it, --all of you, --if you do not speak it out. You do assumea superiority, Mr. Glascock; and that we cannot endure. "

"I do not feel that I assume anything, " said Mr. Glascock, meekly. 

"If three gentlemen be together, an Englishman, a Frenchman, and anAmerican, is not the American obliged to be on his mettle to provethat he is somebody among the three? I admit that he is alwaysclaiming to be the first; but he does so only that he may not be tooevidently the last. If you knew us, Mr. Glascock, you would find usto be very mild, and humble and nice, and good, and clever, and kind, and charitable, and beautiful, --in short, the finest people that haveas yet been created on the broad face of God's smiling earth. " Theselast words she pronounced with a nasal twang, and in a tone of voicewhich almost seemed to him to be a direct mimicry of the AmericanMinister. The upshot of the conversation, however, was that thedisgust against Americans which, to a certain degree, had beenexcited in Mr. Glascock's mind by the united efforts of Mr. Spaldingand the poetess, had been almost entirely dispelled. From all ofwhich the reader ought to understand that Miss Olivia Spalding was avery clever young woman. 

But nevertheless Mr. Glascock had not quite made up his mind to askthe elder sister to be his wife. He was one of those men to whomlove-making does not come very easy, although he was never so much athis ease as when he was in company with ladies. He was sorely in wantof a wife, but he was aware that at different periods during the lastfifteen years he had been angled for as a fish. Mothers in Englandhad tried to catch him, and of such mothers he had come to have thestrongest possible detestation. He had seen the hooks, --or perhapshad fancied that he saw them when they were not there. Lady Janes andLady Sarahs had been hard upon him, till he learned to buckle himselfinto triple armour when he went amongst them, and yet he wanteda wife;--no man more sorely wanted one. The reader will perhapsremember how he went down to Nuncombe Putney in quest of a wife, butall in vain. The lady in that case had been so explicit with him thathe could not hope for a more favourable answer; and, indeed, he wouldnot have cared to marry a girl who had told him that she preferredanother man to himself, even if it had been possible for him to doso. Now he had met a lady very different from those with whom he hadhitherto associated, --but not the less manifestly a lady. CarolineSpalding was bright, pleasant, attractive, very easy to talk to, andyet quite able to hold her own. But the American Minister was--abore; and Miss Petrie was--unbearable. He had often told himself thatin this matter of marrying a wife he would please himself altogether, that he would allow himself to be tied down by no consideration offamily pride, --that he would consult nothing but his own heart andfeelings. 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 blaséewith the world, that was not a fool, and who would respect him. Themore he thought of it, the more sure he was that he had seen none whopleased him so well as Caroline Spalding; and yet he was a littleafraid of taking a step that would be irrevocable. Perhaps theAmerican Minister might express a wish to end his days at Monkhams, and might think it desirable to have Miss Petrie always with him as aprivate secretary in poetry!

"Between you and us, Mr. Glascock, the spark of sympathy does notpass with a strong flash, " said a voice in his ear. As he turnedround rapidly to face his foe, he was quite sure, for the moment, that under no possible circumstances would he ever take an Americanwoman to his bosom as his wife. 

"No, " said he; "no, no. I rather think that I agree with you. "

"The antipathy is one, " continued Miss Petrie, "which has beencommon on the face of the earth since the clown first trod upon thecourtier's heels. It is the instinct of fallen man to hate equality, to desire ascendancy, to crush, to oppress, to tyrannise, toenslave. Then, when the slave is at last free, and in his freedomdemands--equality, man is not great enough to take his enfranchisedbrother to his bosom. "

"You mean negroes, " said Mr. Glascock, looking round and planning forhimself a mode of escape. 

"Not negroes only, --not the enslaved blacks, who are now enslaved nomore, --but the rising nations of white men wherever they are to beseen. You English have no sympathy with a people who claim to be atleast your equals. The clown has trod upon the courtier's heels tillthe clown is clown no longer, and the courtier has hardly a court inwhich he may dangle his sword-knot. "

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

"Ah--h, --but the clown will not spare the courtier, Mr. Glascock. Iunderstand the gibe, and I tell you that the courtier shall be sparedno longer;--because he is useless. He shall be cut down together withthe withered grasses and thrown into the oven, and there shall be anend of him. " Then she turned round to appeal to an American gentlemanwho had joined them, and Mr. Glascock made his escape. "I hold it tobe the holiest duty which I owe to my country never to spare one ofthem when I meet him. "

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

"Down with them, down with them!" exclaimed the poetess, with abeautiful enthusiasm. In the meantime Mr. Glascock had made up hismind that he could not dare to ask Caroline Spalding to be his wife. There were certain forms of the American female so dreadful that nowise man would wilfully come in contact with them. Miss Petrie'sferocity was distressing to him, but her eloquence and enthusiasmwere worse even than her ferocity. The personal incivility of whichshe had been guilty in calling him a withered grass was distastefulto him, as being opposed to his ideas of the customs of society; butwhat would be his fate if his wife's chosen friend should be for everdinning her denunciation of withered grasses into his ear?

He was still thinking of all this when he was accosted by Mrs. Spalding. "Are you going to dear Lady Banbury's to-morrow?" sheasked. 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 soft, 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, with one of her sweetest smiles. "The truth is, we all value whatwe have not got. There are no Lady Banburys in our country, andtherefore we think the more of them when we meet them here. She istalking of going to Rome for the Carnival, and has asked Carolineto go with her. I am so pleased to find that my dear girl is such afavourite. "

Mr. Glascock immediately told himself that he saw the hook. If hewere to be fished for by this American aunt as he had been fishedfor by English mothers, all his pleasure in the society of CarolineSpalding would be at once over. It would be too much, indeed, ifin this American household he were to find the old vices of anaristocracy superadded to young republican sins! Nevertheless LadyBanbury was, as he knew well, a person whose opinion about youngpeople was supposed to be very good. She noticed those only who wereworthy of notice; and to have been taken by the hand by Lady Banburywas acknowledged to be a passport into good society. If CarolineSpalding was in truth going to Rome with Lady Banbury, that factwas in itself a great confirmation of Mr. Glascock's good opinionof her. Mrs. Spalding had perhaps understood this; but had notunderstood that having just hinted that it was so, she should haveabstained from saying a word more about her dear girl. Clever andwell-practised must, indeed, be the hand of the fisherwoman inmatrimonial waters who is able to throw her fly without showingany glimpse of the hook to the fish for whom she angles. Poor Mrs. Spalding, though with kindly instincts towards her niece she did onthis occasion make some slight attempt at angling, was innocent ofany concerted plan. It seemed to her to be so natural to say a goodword in praise of her niece to the man whom she believed to be inlove with her niece. 

Caroline and Mr. Glascock did not meet each other again till late inthe evening, and just as he was about to take his leave. As they cametogether each of them involuntarily looked round to see whether MissPetrie was near. Had she been there nothing would have been saidbeyond the shortest farewell greeting. But Miss Petrie was afaroff, electrifying some Italian by the vehemence of her sentiments, and the audacious volubility of a language in which all arbitraryrestrictions were ignored. "Are you going?" she asked. 

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

"Ah;--you don't know her. If you did you wouldn't laugh at her. "

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

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

"Not much, when it comes up in the ordinary course of conversation;but it palls upon one when it is asserted for the fourth or fifthtime 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 oldworld 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 pinching uson our most tender spot. And we never meet you without treading onyour gouty toes. "

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

"I apologise to your own, individually, Mr. Glascock; but I mustassert that nationally you are subject to the gout. "

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

"Never mind the oven now, Mr. Glascock. If my friend has beenover-zealous I will beg pardon for her. But it does seem to me, indeed it does, with all the reverence and partiality I havefor everything European, "--the word European was an offence tohim, and he shewed that it was so by his countenance, --"that theidiosyncrasies of you and of us are so radically different, thatwe cannot be made to amalgamate and sympathise with each otherthoroughly. "

He paused for some seconds before he answered her, but it was soevident by his manner that he was going to speak, that she couldneither leave him nor interrupt him. "I had thought that it mighthave been otherwise, " he said at last, and the tone of his voice wasso 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 itcannot be so, " she said, speaking after her old fashion--half inearnest, half in banter. "We may make up our minds to be very civilto each other when we meet. The threats of the oven may no doubt bedropped on our side, and you may abstain from expressing in wordsyour sense of our inferiority. "

"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. Such ofus as have to meet in society may agree to be very courteous; butcourtesy and cordiality are not only not the same, but they areincompatible. "

"Why so?"

"Courtesy is an effort, and cordiality is free. I must be allowedto contradict the friend that I love; but I assent, --too oftenfalsely, --to what is said to me by a passing acquaintance. In spiteof what the Scripture says, I think it is one of the greatestprivileges 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 meof all. Unless he were so, he certainly would not be my husband. Butbetween a man and his wife there does not spring up that playful, violent intimacy admitting of all liberties, which comes from earlynursery associations; and then, there is the difference 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. Marry anEnglish wife in your own class, --as, of course, you will, --and thenyou will be safe. "

"But I have set my heart fast on marrying an American wife, " he said. 

"Then I can't tell what may befall you. It's like enough, if you dothat, that you may be called by some name you will think hard tobear. 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 losein dignity as much as she would lose in comfort. " Then they parted, and she went off to say farewell to other guests. The manner in whichshe had answered what he had said to her had certainly been of anature to stop any further speech of the same kind. Had she beengentle with him, then he would certainly have told her that she wasthe American woman whom he desired to take with him to his home inEngland. 

CHAPTER LVII. 

DOROTHY'S FATE. 

Towards the end of February Sir Peter Mancrudy declared Miss Stanburyto be out of danger, and Mr. Martin began to be sprightly on thesubject, taking to himself no inconsiderable share of the praiseaccruing to the medical faculty in Exeter generally for the saving ofa life so valuable to the city. "Yes, Mr. Burgess, " Sir Peter saidto old Barty of the bank, "our friend will get over it this time, and without any serious damage to her constitution, if she will onlytake care of herself. " Barty made some inaudible grunt, intendedto indicate his own indifference on the subject, and expressed hisopinion to the chief clerk that old Jemima Wideawake, --as he waspleased to call her, --was one of those tough customers who wouldnever die. "It would be nothing to us, Mr. Barty, one way or theother, " said the clerk; to which Barty Burgess assented with anothergrunt. 

Camilla French declared that she was delighted to hear the news. Atthis time there had been some sort of a reconciliation between herand her lover. Mrs. French had extracted from him a promise that hewould not go to Natal; and Camilla had commenced the preparations forher wedding. His visits to Heavitree were as few and far between ashe could make them with any regard to decency; but the 31st of Marchwas coming on quickly, and as he was to be made a possession of themfor ever, it was considered to be safe and well to allow him someliberty in his present condition. "My dear, if they are driven, thereis no knowing what they won't do, " Mrs. French said to her daughter. Camilla had submitted with compressed lips and a slight nod of herhead. She had worked very hard, but her day of reward was coming. Itwas impossible not to perceive, --both for her and her mother, --thatthe scantiness of Mr. Gibson's attention to his future bride wascause of some weak triumph to Arabella. She said that it was very oddthat he did not come, --and once added with a little sigh that he usedto come in former days, alluding to those happy days in which anotherlove was paramount. Camilla could not endure this with an equal mind. "Bella, dear, " she said, "we know what all that means. He has madehis choice, and if I am satisfied with what he does now, surely youneed not grumble. " Miss Stanbury's illness had undoubtedly been agreat source of contentment to the family at Heavitree, as they hadall been able to argue that her impending demise was the naturalconsequence of her great sin in the matter of Dorothy's proposedmarriage. When, however, they heard from Mr. Martin that she wouldcertainly recover, that Sir Peter's edict to that effect had goneforth, they were willing to acknowledge that Providence, having sofar punished the sinner, was right in staying its hand and abstainingfrom the final blow. "I'm sure we are delighted, " said Mrs. French, "for though she has said cruel things of us, --and so untrue too, --yetof course it is our duty to forgive her. And we do forgive her. "

Dorothy had written three or four notes to Brooke since hisdeparture, which contained simple bulletins of her aunt's health. She always began her letters with "My dear Mr. Burgess, " and endedthem with "yours truly. " She never made any allusion to Brooke'sdeclaration of love, or gave the slightest sign in her letters toshew that she even remembered it. At last she wrote to say that heraunt was convalescent; and, in making this announcement, she allowedherself some enthusiasm of expression. She was so happy, and was sosure that Mr. Burgess would be equally so! And her aunt had askedafter her "dear Brooke, " expressing her great satisfaction withhim, in that he had come down to see her when she had been almosttoo ill to see any one. In answer to this there came to her a reallove-letter from Brooke Burgess. It was the first occasion onwhich he had written to her. The little bulletins had demanded noreplies, and had received none. Perhaps there had been a shade ofdisappointment on Dorothy's side, in that she had written thrice, andhad been made rich with no word in return. But, although her hearthad palpitated on hearing the postman's knock, and had palpitated invain, she had told herself that it was all as it should be. She wroteto him, because she possessed information which it was necessary thatshe should communicate. He did not write to her, because there wasnothing for him to tell. Then had come the love-letter, and in thelove-letter there was an imperative demand for a reply. 

What was she to do? To have recourse to Priscilla for advice washer first idea; but she herself believed that she owed a debtof gratitude to her aunt, which Priscilla would not take intoaccount, --the existence of which Priscilla would by no meansadmit. She knew Priscilla's mind in this matter, and was sure thatPriscilla's advice, whatever it might be, would be given without anyregard to her aunt's views. And then Dorothy was altogether ignorantof her aunt's views. Her aunt had been very anxious that she shouldmarry Mr. Gibson, but had clearly never admitted into her mind theidea that she might possibly marry Brooke Burgess; and it seemed toher that she herself would be dishonest, both to her aunt and to herlover, if she were to bind this man to herself without her aunt'sknowledge. He was to be her aunt's heir, and she was maintained byher aunt's liberality! Thinking of all this, she at last resolvedthat she would take the bull by the horns, and tell her aunt. Shefelt that the task would be one almost beyond her strength. Thriceshe went into her aunt's room, intending to make a clean breast. Thrice her courage failed her, and she left the room with her taleuntold, excusing herself on various pretexts. Her aunt had seemed tobe not quite so well, or had declared herself to be tired, or hadbeen a little cross;--or else Martha had come in at the nick of time. But there was Brooke Burgess's letter unanswered, --a letter that wasread night and morning, and which was never for an instant out of hermind. 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 hadventured to speak to her aunt on the subject. 

On the first of March Miss Stanbury came out of her bed-room for thefirst time. Dorothy, on the previous day, had decided on postponingher communication for this occasion; but, when she found herselfsitting in the little sitting-room up-stairs close at her aunt'selbow, and perceived the signs of weakness which the new move hadmade conspicuous, and heard the invalid declare that the littlejourney had been almost too much for her, her heart misgave her. Sheought to have told her tale while her aunt was still in bed. Butpresently there came a question, which put her into such a flutterthat she was for the time devoid of all resolution. "Has Brookewritten?" said Miss Stanbury. 

"Yes, --aunt; he has written. "

"And what did he say?" Dorothy was struck quite dumb. "Is thereanything wrong?" And now, as Miss Stanbury asked the question, sheseemed herself to have forgotten that she had two minutes beforedeclared herself to be almost too feeble to speak. "I'm sure there issomething wrong. What is it? I will know. "

"There is nothing wrong, Aunt Stanbury. "

"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 Stanbury. "

"Shew me the letter. I will see the letter. I know that there issomething the matter. Do you mean to say you won't shew me Brooke'sletter?"

There was a moment's pause before Dorothy answered. "I will shew youhis letter;--though I am sure he didn't mean that I should shew it toanyone. "

"He hasn't written evil of me?"

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

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

"Aunt Stanbury, Brooke, --Brooke, --wants me to be his--wife!"

 [Illustration: "Brooke wants me to be his wife. "]

"What!"

"You cannot be more surprised than I have been, Aunt Stanbury; andthere 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 wasquite prepared to be obedient, but she felt that her aunt's manner ofreceiving 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 acrossDorothy's cheeks as she gave herself a few moments to prepare ananswer. She already perceived that her aunt would be altogetheradverse to the marriage, and that therefore the marriage could nevertake place. She had never for a moment allowed herself to thinkotherwise, but, nevertheless, the blow was heavy on her. We all knowhow constantly hope and expectation will rise high within our ownbosoms in opposition to our own judgment, --how we become sanguinein regard to events which we almost know can never come to pass. Soit had been with Dorothy. Her heart had been almost in a flutter ofhappiness since she had had Brooke's letter in her possession, andyet she never ceased to declare to herself her own conviction thatthat letter could lead to no good result. In regard to her own wisheson the subject she had never asked herself a single question. As ithad been quite beyond her power to bring herself to endure the ideaof marrying Mr. Gibson, so it had been quite impossible to her notto long to be Brooke's wife from the moment in which a suggestion tothat effect had fallen from his lips. This was a state of things socertain, so much a matter of course, that, though she had not spokena word to him in which she owned her love, she had never for a momentdoubted that he knew the truth, --and that everybody else concernedwould know it too. But she did not suppose that her wishes would gofor anything with her aunt. Brooke Burgess was to become a rich manas her aunt's heir, and her aunt would of course have her own ideasabout Brooke's advancement in life. She was quite prepared to submitwithout quarrelling when her aunt should tell her that the idea mustnot be entertained. But the order might be given, the prohibitionmight be pronounced, without an insult to her own feelings as awoman. "He must be a fool, " Miss Stanbury had said, and Dorothy tooktime to collect her thoughts before she would reply. In the meantimeher aunt finished the reading of the letter. 

"He may be foolish in this, " Dorothy said; "but I don't think youshould call him a fool. "

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

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

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

"It is not--an untruth, " said Dorothy, almost sobbing, but driven atthe same time to much anger. 

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

"I have never said so, Aunt Stanbury. "

"Yes, you did. "

"I said that nothing--was--going on, when Mr. Gibson--was--. If youchoose to suspect me, Aunt Stanbury, I'll go away. I won't stay hereif you suspect me. When Brooke spoke to me, I told him you wouldn'tlike it. "

"Of course I don't like it. " But she gave no reason why she did notlike it. 

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

"Psha!"

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

"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 ofcourse you can say what you please. I know what it will be. I shallhave to take to my bed again, and then, --in a very little time, --youcan both--make fools of yourselves, --just as you like. "

This was an argument against which Dorothy of course found it to bequite impossible to make continued combat. She could only shuffle herletter back into her pocket, and be, if possible, more assiduous thanever in her attentions to the invalid. She knew that she had beentreated most unjustly, and there would be a question to be answeredas soon as her aunt should be well as to the possibility of herremaining in the Close subject to such injustice; but let her auntsay what she might, or do what she might, Dorothy could not leaveher for the present. Miss Stanbury sat for a considerable time quitemotionless, with her eyes closed, and did not stir or make signs oflife till Dorothy touched her arm, asking her whether she would nottake some broth which had been prepared for her. "Where's Martha? Whydoes not Martha come?" said Miss Stanbury. This was a hard blow, andfrom that moment Dorothy believed that it would be expedient thatshe should return to Nuncombe Putney. The broth, however, was taken, while Dorothy sat by in silence. Only one word further was said thatevening by Miss Stanbury about Brooke and his love affair. "Theremust be nothing more about this, Dorothy; remember that; nothing atall. I won't have it. " Dorothy made no reply. Brooke's letter was inher pocket, and it should be answered that night. On the followingday she would let her aunt know what she had said to Brooke. Her auntshould not see the letter, but should be made acquainted with itspurport in reference to Brooke's proposal of marriage. 

"I won't have it!" That had been her aunt's command. What right hadher aunt to give any command upon the matter? Then crossed Dorothy'smind, as she thought of this, a glimmering of an idea that no one canbe entitled to issue commands who cannot enforce obedience. If Brookeand she chose to become man and wife by mutual consent, how could heraunt prohibit the marriage? Then there followed another idea, thatcommands are enforced by the threatening and, if necessary, by theenforcement of penalties. Her aunt had within her hand no penalty ofwhich Dorothy was afraid on her own behalf; but she had the powerof inflicting a terrible punishment on Brooke Burgess. Now Dorothyconceived that she herself would be the meanest creature alive if shewere actuated by fears as to money in her acceptance or rejection ofa man whom she loved as she did Brooke Burgess. Brooke had an incomeof his own which seemed to her to be ample for all purposes. But thatwhich would have been sordid in her, did not seem to her to have anystain of sordidness for him. He was a man, and was bound to be richif he could. And, moreover, what had she to offer in herself, --such apoor thing as was she, --to make compensation to him for the loss offortune? Her aunt could inflict this penalty, and therefore the powerwas hers, and the power must be obeyed. She would write to Brooke ina manner that should convey to him her firm decision. But not theless on that account would she let her aunt know that she thoughtherself to have been ill-used. It was an insult to her, a mostill-natured insult, --that telling her that Brooke had been a foolfor loving her. And then that accusation against her of having beenfalse, of having given one reason for refusing Mr. Gibson, whilethere was another reason in her heart, --of having been cunning andthen untrue, was not to be endured. What would her aunt think of herif she were to bear such allegations without indignant protest? Shewould write her letter, and speak her mind to her aunt as soon as heraunt should be well enough to hear it. 

As she had resolved, she wrote her letter that night before she wentto bed. She wrote it with floods of tears, and a bitterness of heartwhich almost conquered her. She too had heard of love, and had beentaught to feel that the success or failure of a woman's life dependedupon that, --whether she did, or whether she did not, by such giftsas God might have given to her, attract to herself some man strongenough, and good enough, and loving enough to make straight for herher paths, to bear for her her burdens, to be the father of herchildren, the staff on which she might lean, and the wall againstwhich she might grow, feeling the sunshine, and sheltered from thewind. She had ever estimated her own value so lowly as to have toldherself often that such success could never come in her way. From herearliest years she had regarded herself as outside the pale withinwhich such joys are to be found. She had so strictly taught herselfto look forward to a blank existence, that she had learned to do sowithout active misery. But not the less did she know where happinesslay; and when the good thing came almost within her reach, when itseemed that God had given her gifts which might have sufficed, whena man had sought her hand whose nature was such that she could haveleaned on him with a true worship, could have grown against him asagainst a wall with perfect confidence, could have lain with her headupon his bosom, and have felt that of all spots that in the world wasthe most fitting for her, --when this was all but grasped, and mustyet be abandoned, there came upon her spirit an agony so bitterthat she had not before known how great might be the depth of humandisappointment. But the letter was at last written, and when finishedwas as follows:--

 The Close, Exeter, March 1, 186--. 

 DEAR BROOKE, There had been many doubts about this; but at last they wereconquered, 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 bound 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 thethird day she was manifestly becoming stronger. Dorothy had as yetnot spoken of her letter, but was prepared to do so as soon as shethought that a fitting opportunity had come. She had a word or two tosay for herself; but she must not again subject herself to being toldthat she was taking her will of her aunt because her aunt was too illto defend herself. But on the third day Miss Stanbury herself askedthe question. "Have you written anything to Brooke?" she asked. 

"I have answered his letter, Aunt Stanbury. "

"And what have you said to him?"

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

"Yes;--of course you made me out to be an ogre. "

"I don't know what you mean by that, aunt. I am sure that I told himthe truth. "

"May I seethe letter?"

"It has gone. "

"But you have kept a copy, " said Miss Stanbury. 

"Yes; I have got a copy, " replied Dorothy; "but I would rather notshew it. I told him just what I tell you. "

"Dorothy, it is not at all becoming that you should have acorrespondence with any young man of such a nature that you should beashamed to shew it to your aunt. "

"I am not ashamed of anything, " said Dorothy sturdily. 

"I don't know what young women in these days have come to, " continuedMiss Stanbury. "There is no respect, no subjection, no obedience, andtoo often--no modesty. "

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

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

Then Dorothy spoke out her mind. "As you think that, Aunt Stanbury, I had better go away. And if you please I will, --when you are wellenough 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. Idon't think that there can be anything immodest in opening a letterwhen it comes by the post. And as soon as I had it I determined toshew it to you. As for what happened before, when Mr. Burgess spoketo 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 nomore about it. You were so ill that I could not tell you. Now youknow it all. "

"I have not seen your letter to him. "

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

"Of course! Everything I say is wrong. "

"You have told me that I was telling untruths, and you have calledme--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 Hughheard me 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 ifyou please, I'll go home as soon as you are well enough to spare me. "

Quickly after this there were very many letters coming and goingbetween the house in the Close and the ladies at Nuncombe Putney, andHugh Stanbury and Brooke Burgess. The correspondent of Brooke Burgesswas of course Miss Stanbury herself. The letters to Hugh and toNuncombe Putney were written by Dorothy. Of the former we need betold nothing at the present moment; but the upshot of all poorDolly's letters was, that on the tenth of March she was to returnhome to Nuncombe Putney, share once more her sister's bed andmother's poverty, and abandon the comforts of the Close. Beforethis became a definite arrangement Miss Stanbury had given way in acertain small degree. She had acknowledged that Dorothy had intendedno harm. But this was not enough for Dorothy, who was conscious ofno harm either done or intended. She did not specify her terms, orrequire specifically that her aunt should make apology for that wordimmodest, or at least withdraw it; but she resolved that she would gounless it was most absolutely declared to have been applied to herwithout the slightest reason. She felt, moreover, that her aunt'shouse ought to be open to Brooke Burgess, and that it could not beopen to them both. And so she went;--having resided under her aunt'sroof between nine and ten months. 

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

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

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

CHAPTER LVIII. 

DOROTHY AT HOME. 

Dorothy was received at home with so much affection and suchexpressions of esteem as to afford her much consolation in hermisery. Both her mother and her sister approved of her conduct. Mrs. Stanbury's approval was indeed accompanied by many expressionsof regret as to the good things lost. She was fully alive to thefact that life in the Close at Exeter was better for her daughterthan life in their little cottage at Nuncombe Putney. The outwardappearance which Dorothy bore on her return home was proof of this. Her clothes, the set of her hair, her very gestures and motions hadframed themselves on town ideas. The faded, wildered, washed-outlook, the uncertain, purposeless bearing which had come from hersecluded life and subjection to her sister had vanished from her. She had lived among people, and had learned something of their gaitand carriage. Money we know will do almost everything, and no doubtmoney had had much to do with this. It is very pretty to talk of thealluring simplicity of a clean calico gown; but poverty will shewitself to be meagre, dowdy, and draggled in a woman's dress, letthe woman be ever so simple, ever so neat, ever so independent, andever so high-hearted. Mrs. Stanbury was quite alive to all that heryounger daughter was losing. Had she not received two offers ofmarriage while she was at Exeter? There was no possibility thatoffers of marriage should be made in the cottage at Nuncombe Putney. A man within the walls of the cottage would have been considered asmuch out of place as a wild bull. It had been matter of deep regretto Mrs. Stanbury that her daughter should not have found herself ableto marry Mr. Gibson. She knew that there was no matter for reproachin this, but it was a misfortune, --a great misfortune. And in themother's breast there had been a sad, unrepressed feeling of regretthat young people should so often lose their chances in the worldthrough over-fancifulness, and ignorance as to their own good. Nowwhen she heard the story of Brooke Burgess, she could not but thinkthat had Dorothy remained at Exeter, enduring patiently such hardwords as her aunt might speak, the love affair might have beenbrought at some future time to a happy conclusion. She did not sayall this; but there came on her a silent melancholy, made expressiveby constant little shakings of the head and a continued reproachfulsadness of demeanour, which was quite as intelligible to Priscillaas would have been any spoken words. But Priscilla's approval of hersister's conduct was clear, outspoken, and satisfactory. She had beenquite sure that her sister had been right about Mr. Gibson; and wasequally sure that she was now right about Brooke Burgess. Priscillahad in her mind an idea that if B. B. , as they called him, was halfas good as her sister represented him to be, --for indeed Dorothyendowed him with every virtue consistent with humanity, --he wouldnot be deterred from his pursuit either by Dolly's letter or by AuntStanbury's commands. But of this she thought it wise to say nothing. She paid Dolly the warm and hitherto unaccustomed compliment ofequality, assuming to regard her sister's judgment and persistentindependence to be equally strong with her own; and, as she knewwell, she could not have gone further than this. "I never shall agreewith you about Aunt Stanbury, " she said. "To me she seems to be soimperious, 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 thatkicks you. But it is ill living with biting dogs and kicking horses. But all that matters little as you are still your own mistress. Howstrange these nine months have been, with you in Exeter, while wehave been at the Clock House. And here we are, together again in theold way, just as though nothing had happened. " But Dorothy knew wellthat a great deal had happened, and that her life could never be asit had been heretofore. The very tone in which her sister spoke toher was proof of this. She had an infinitely greater possession inherself than had belonged to her before her residence at Exeter; butthat possession was so heavily mortgaged and so burthened as to makeher believe that the change was to be regretted. 

At the end of the first week there came a letter from Aunt Stanburyto Dorothy. It began by saying that Dolly had left behind her certainsmall properties which had now been made up in a parcel and sent bythe railway, carriage paid. "But they weren't mine at all, " saidDolly, alluding to certain books in which she had taken delight. "Shemeans to give them to you, " said Priscilla, "and I think you musttake them. " "And the shawl is no more mine than it is yours, thoughI wore it two or three times in the winter. " Priscilla was of opinionthat the shawl must be taken also. Then the letter spoke of thewriter's health, and at last fell into such a strain of confidentialgossip that Mrs. Stanbury, when she read it, could not understandthat there had been a quarrel. "Martha says that she saw CamillaFrench in the street to-day, such a guy in her new finery as neverwas seen before except on May-day. " Then in the postscript Dorothywas enjoined to answer this letter quickly. "None of your shortscraps, my dear, " said Aunt Stanbury. 

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

"No doubt she does, " said Priscilla; "but Dolly need not go becausemy aunt means it. We are not her creatures. "

But Dorothy answered her aunt's letter in the spirit in which it hadbeen written. She asked after her aunt's health, thanked her aunt forthe gift of the books, --in each of which her name had been clearlywritten, --protested about the shawl, sent her love to Martha and herkind regards to Jane, and expressed a hope that C. F. Enjoyed her newclothes. She described the cottage, and was funny about the cabbagestumps in the garden, and at last succeeded in concocting a longepistle. "I suppose there will be a regular correspondence, " saidPriscilla. 

Two days afterwards, however, the correspondence took altogetheranother form. The cottage in which they now lived was supposed to bebeyond the beat of the wooden-legged postman, and therefore it wasnecessary that they should call at the post-office for their letters. On the morning in question Priscilla obtained a thick letter fromExeter for her mother, and knew that it had come from her aunt. Her aunt could hardly have found it necessary to correspond withDorothy's mother so soon after that letter to Dorothy had beenwritten had there not arisen some very peculiar cause. Priscilla, after much meditation, thought it better that the letter should beopened in Dorothy's absence, and in Dorothy's absence the followingletter was read both by Priscilla and her mother:--

 The Close, March 19, 186--. 

 DEAR SISTER STANBURY, After much consideration, I think it best to send under cover to you the enclosed letter from Mr. Brooke Burgess, intended for your daughter Dorothy. You will see that I have opened it and read it, --as I was clearly entitled to do, the letter having been addressed to my niece while she was supposed to be under my care. I do not like to destroy the letter, though, perhaps, that would be 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. 

 I have also told him that I cannot sanction a marriage between him and your daughter. There are many reasons of old date, --not to speak of present reasons also, --which would make such a marriage highly inexpedient. Mr. Brooke Burgess is, of course, his own master, but your daughter understands completely how the matter stands. 

 Yours truly, JEMIMA STANBURY. 

"What a wicked old woman!" said Priscilla. Then there arose aquestion whether they should read Brooke's letter, or whether theyshould give it unread to Dorothy. Priscilla denounced her aunt inthe strongest language she could use for having broken the seal. "'Clearly entitled, '--because Dorothy had been living with her!"exclaimed Priscilla. "She can have no proper conception of honouror of honesty. She had no more right to open Dorothy's letter thanshe had to take her money. " Mrs. Stanbury was very anxious to readBrooke's letter, alleging that they would then be able to judgewhether it should be handed over to Dorothy. But Priscilla's sense ofright would not admit of this. Dorothy must receive the letter fromher lover with no further stain from unauthorised eyes than that towhich it had been already subjected. She was called in, therefore, from the kitchen, and the whole packet was given to her. "Your aunthas read the enclosure, Dolly; but we have not opened it. "

Dorothy took the packet without a word and sat herself down. Shefirst read her aunt's letter very slowly. "I understand perfectly, "she said, folding it up, almost listlessly, while Brooke's letter laystill unopened on her lap. Then she took it up, and held it awhile inboth hands, while her mother and Priscilla watched 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 theprecious contents from the envelope, and opened the folds of thepaper. When she had read a dozen words, her eyes were so suffusedwith tears, that she could hardly make herself mistress of thecontents of the letter; but she knew that it contained renewedassurances of her lover's love, and assurance on his part that hewould take no refusal from her based on any other ground than that ofher own indifference to him. He had written to Miss Stanbury to thesame effect; but he had not thought it necessary to explain this toDorothy; nor did Miss Stanbury in her letter tell them that she hadreceived any communication from him. "Shall I read it now?" saidPriscilla, as soon as Dorothy again allowed the letter to fall intoher lap. 

Both Priscilla and Mrs. Stanbury read it, and for awhile they satwith the two letters among them without much speech about them. Mrs. Stanbury was endeavouring to make herself believe that hersister-in-law's opposition might be overcome, and that then Dorothymight be married. Priscilla was inquiring of herself whether it wouldbe well that Dorothy should defy her aunt, --so much, at any rate, would be well, --and marry the man, even to his deprivation of theold woman's fortune. Priscilla had her doubts about this, being verystrong in her ideas of self-denial. That her sister should put upwith the bitterest disappointment rather than injure the man sheloved was right;--but then it would also be so extremely right todefy Aunt Stanbury to her teeth! But Dorothy, in whose character wasmixed 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. Whatgratitude did she not owe to a man who was so true to her! What wasshe that she should stand in his way? To lay herself down that shemight 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 young 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 isrespectable?" said Mrs. Stanbury. 

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

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

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

But Dorothy said nothing. Her heart was too full to enable her todefend her aunt; nor at the present moment was she strong enough tomake her mother understand that no hope was to be entertained. In thecourse of the day she walked out with her sister on the road towardsRidleigh, and there, standing among the rocks and ferns, looking downupon the river, with the buzz of the little mill within her ears, she explained the feelings of her heart and her many thoughts with aflow of words stronger, as Priscilla thought, than she had ever usedbefore. 

"It is not what he would suffer now, Pris, or what he would feel, butwhat he would feel ten, twenty years hence, when he would know thathis children would have been all provided for, had he not lost hisfortune by marrying me. "

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

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

"You can love him. "

"Yes;--I can do that. " And Dorothy paused a moment, to think howexceedingly well she could do that one thing. "But what is that? Asyou said the other day, a dog can do that. I am not clever. I can'tplay, 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 heshould lose a great fortune?"

"That is his look out. "

"No, dearest;--it is mine, and I will look out. I shall be able, atany rate, to remember always that I have loved him, and have notinjured him. He may be angry with me now, "--and there was a feelingof pride at her heart, as she thought that he would be angry withher, because she did not go to him, --"but he will know at last that Ihave 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 own sister!" They walked on further, discussing the matter in all its bearings, talking of the act ofself-denial which Dorothy was called on to perform, as though it weresome abstract thing, the performance of which was, or perhaps wasnot, imperatively demanded by the laws which should govern humanity;but with no idea on the mind of either of them that there was anylonger a doubt as to this special matter in hand. They were awayfrom home over three hours; and, when they returned, Dorothy at oncewrote her two letters. They were very simple, and very short. Shetold Brooke, whom she now addressed as "Dear Mr. Burgess, " thatit could not be as he would have it; and she told her aunt, --withsome terse independence of expression, which Miss Stanbury quiteunderstood, --that she had considered the matter, and had thought itright to refuse Mr. Burgess's offer. 

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

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

CHAPTER LIX. 

MR. BOZZLE AT HOME. 

 [Illustration]

It had now come to pass that Trevelyan had not a friend in the worldto whom he could apply in the matter of his wife and family. In thelast communication which he had received from Lady Milborough shehad scolded him, in terms that were for her severe, because he hadnot returned to his wife and taken her off with him to Naples. Mr. Bideawhile had found himself obliged to decline to move in the matterat all. With Hugh Stanbury, Trevelyan had had a direct quarrel. Mr. And Mrs. Outhouse he regarded as bitter enemies, who had taken thepart of his wife without any regard to the decencies of life. And nowit had come to pass that his sole remaining ally, Mr. Samuel Bozzle, the ex-policeman, was becoming weary of his service. Trevelyanremained in the north of Italy up to the middle of March, spending afortune in sending telegrams to Bozzle, instigating Bozzle by all themeans in his power to obtain possession of the child, desiring him atone time to pounce down upon the parsonage of St. Diddulph's with abattalion of policemen armed to the teeth with the law's authority, and at another time suggesting to him to find his way by stratageminto Mr. Outhouse's castle and carry off the child in his arms. Atlast he sent word to say that he himself would be in England beforethe end of March, and would see that the majesty of the law should bevindicated in his favour. 

Bozzle had in truth made but one personal application for the childat St. Diddulph's. In making this he had expected no success, though, from the energetic nature of his disposition, he had made the attemptwith some zeal. But he had never applied again at the parsonage, disregarding the letters, the telegrams, and even the promises whichhad come to him from his employer with such frequency. The truth wasthat Mrs. Bozzle was opposed to the proposed separation of the motherand the child, and that Bozzle was a man who listened to the words ofhis wife. Mrs. Bozzle was quite prepared to admit that Madame T. , --asMrs. Trevelyan had come to be called at No. 55, Stony Walk, --wasno better than she should be. Mrs. Bozzle was disposed to thinkthat ladies of quality, among whom Madame T. Was entitled in herestimation to take rank, were seldom better than they ought to be, and she was quite willing that her husband should earn his breadby watching the lady or the lady's lover. She had participated inBozzle's triumph when he had discovered that the Colonel had gone toDevonshire, and again when he had learned that the Lothario had beenat St. Diddulph's. And had the case been brought before the judgeordinary by means of her husband's exertions, she would have takenpleasure in reading every word of the evidence, even though herhusband should have been ever so roughly handled by the lawyers. Butnow, when a demand was made upon Bozzle to violate the sanctity ofthe clergyman's house, and withdraw the child by force or stratagem, she began to perceive that the palmy days of the Trevelyan affairwere over for them, and that it would be wise on her husband's partgradually to back out of the gentleman's employment. "Just put it onthe fire-back, Bozzle, " she said one morning, as her husband stoodbefore her reading for the second time a somewhat lengthy epistlewhich had reached him from Italy, while he held the baby over hisshoulder with his left arm. He had just washed himself at the sink, and though his face was clean, his hair was rough, and his shirtsleeves were tucked up. 

 [Illustration: "Put it on the fire-back, Bozzle. "]

"That's all very well, Maryanne; but when a party has took a gent'smoney, 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, --andthere'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 ereclergyman'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 beshewed up in the papers as that black, that they'd hoot us along thestreets. It ain't the regular line of business, Bozzle; and thereain't no good to be got, never, by going off the regular line. "Whereupon Bozzle scratched his head and again read the letter. Adistinct promise of a hundred pounds was made to him, if he wouldhave the child ready to hand over to Trevelyan on Trevelyan's arrivalin England. 

"It ain't to be 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'the go to Skint, as I told him, when his own lawyer was too dainty forthe job? The paternal parent has a right to his infants, no doubt. "That was Bozzle's law. 

"I don't believe it, B. "

"But he have, I tell you. "

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

"When a married woman has followers, and the husband don't go thewrong 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 beenbefore the court a hundred times. He'll get the child fast enough ifhe'll go before the court. "

"Anyways it ain't your business, Bozzle, and don't you meddle normake. The money's good money as long as it's honest earned; but whenyou come to rampaging and breaking into a gent's house, then I saymoney may be had a deal too hard. " In this special letter, which hadnow come to hand, Bozzle was not instructed to "rampage. " He wassimply desired to make a further official requisition for the boy atthe parsonage, and to explain to Mr. Outhouse, Mrs. Outhouse, andMrs. Trevelyan, or to as many of them as he could contrive to see, that Mr. Trevelyan was immediately about to return to London, andthat he would put the law into execution if his son were not givenup 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 for her as has done it then, " said Bozzle, shaking hishead. 

"I'm not a taking of her part, B. A woman as has a husband as findsher with her wittels regular, and with what's decent and comfortablebeside, ought to be contented. I've never said no other than that. I ain't no patience with your saucy madames as can't remember asthey're eating an honest man's bread. Drat 'em all; what is it theywants? They don't know what they wants. It's just hidleness, --causethere ain't a ha'porth for 'em to do. It's that as makes 'em--, Iwon't say what. But as for this here child, B. --. " At that momentthere came a knock at the door. Mrs. Bozzle going into the passage, opened it herself, and saw a strange gentleman. Bozzle, who had stoodat the inner door, saw that the gentleman was Mr. Trevelyan. 

The letter, which was still in the ex-policeman's hand, had reachedStony Walk on the previous day; but the master of the house had beenabsent, finding out facts, following up his profession, and earningan honest penny. Trevelyan had followed his letter quicker thanhe had intended when it was written, and was now with his primeminister, before his prime minister had been able to take any actionon the last instruction received. "Does one Mr. Samuel Bozzle livehere?" asked Trevelyan. Then Bozzle came forward and introduced hiswife. There was no one else present except the baby, and Bozzleintimated that let matters be as delicate as they might, they couldbe discussed with perfect security in his wife's presence. ButTrevelyan was of a different opinion, and he was disgusted andrevolted, --most unreasonably, --by the appearance of his minister'sdomestic arrangements. Bozzle had always waited upon him with adecent coat, and a well-brushed hat, and clean shoes. It is very mucheasier for such men as Mr. Bozzle to carry decency of appearanceabout with them than to keep it at home. Trevelyan had never believedhis ally to be more than an ordinary ex-policeman, but he had notconsidered how unattractive might be the interior of a privatedetective's private residence. Mrs. Bozzle had set a chair forhim, but he had declined to sit down. The room was dirty, and veryclose, --as though no breath of air was ever allowed to find entrancethere. "Perhaps you could put on your coat, and walk out with me fora few minutes, " said Trevelyan. Mrs. Bozzle, who well understood thatbusiness was business, and that wives were not business, felt noanger at this, and handed her husband his best coat. The well-brushedhat was fetched from a cupboard, and it was astonishing to seehow easily and how quickly the outer respectability of Bozzle wasrestored. 

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

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

"Why not?" Trevelyan could perceive at once that the authority whichhe had once respected had gone from the man. Bozzle away from his ownhome, out on business, with his coat buttoned over his breast, andhis best hat in his hand, was aware that he commanded respect, --andhe could carry himself accordingly. He knew himself to besomebody, and could be easy, self-confident, confidential, severe, authoritative, or even arrogant, as the circumstances of the momentmight demand. But he had been found with his coat off, and a baby inhis arms, and he could not recover himself. "I do not suppose thatanybody will question my right to have the care of my own child, "said Trevelyan. 

"If you would have gone to Mr. Skint, sir--, " suggested Bozzle. "There ain't no smarter gent in all the profession, sir, than Mr. Skint. "

Mr. Trevelyan made no reply to this, but walked on in silence, withhis minister at his elbow. He was very wretched, understanding wellthe degradation to which he was subjecting himself in discussing hiswife's conduct with this man;--but with whom else could he discussit? The man seemed to be meaner now than he had been before he hadbeen seen in his own home. And Trevelyan was conscious too that hehimself was not in outward appearance as he used to be; that he wasill-dressed, and haggard, and worn, and visibly a wretched being. Howcan any man care to dress himself with attention who is always alone, and always miserable when alone? During the months which had passedover him since he had sent his wife away from him, his very naturehad been altered, and he himself was aware of the change. As he wentabout, his eyes were ever cast downwards, and he walked with a quickshuffling gait, and he suspected others, feeling that he himself wassuspected. And all work had ceased with him. Since she had left himhe had not read a single book that was worth the reading. And he knewit all. He was conscious that he was becoming disgraced and degraded. He would sooner have shot himself than have walked into his club, or even have allowed himself to be seen by daylight in Pall Mall, or Piccadilly. He had taken in his misery to drinking little dropsof brandy in the morning, although he knew well that there was noshorter road to the devil than that opened by such a habit. He lookedup for a moment at Bozzle, and then asked him a question. "Where ishe now?"

"You mean the Colonel, sir. He's up in town, sir, a minding of hisparliamentary duties. He have been up all this month, sir. "

"They haven't met?"

Bozzle paused a moment before he replied, and then smiled as hespoke. "It is so hard to say, sir. Ladies is so cute and cunning. I've watched as sharp as watching can go, pretty near. I've put ayoungster on at each hend, and both of 'em 'd hear a mouse stirringin his sleep. I ain't got no evidence, Mr. Trevelyan. But if you askme my opinion, why in course they've been together somewhere. Itstands to reason, Mr. Trevelyan; don't it?" And Bozzle as he saidthis smiled almost aloud. 

"D----n and b----t it all for ever!" said Trevelyan, gnashing histeeth, and moving away into Union Street as fast as he could walk. And he did go away, leaving Bozzle standing in the middle of StonyWalk. 

"He's disturbed in his mind, --quite 'orrid, " Bozzle said when he gotback to his wife. "He cursed and swore as made even me feel bad. "

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

CHAPTER LX. 

ANOTHER STRUGGLE. 

Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley were to reach England about the end ofMarch or the beginning of April, and both Mrs. Trevelyan and NoraRowley were almost sick for their arrival. Both their uncle and aunthad done very much for them, had been true to them in their need, andhad submitted to endless discomforts in order that their nieces mighthave respectable shelter in their great need; but nevertheless theirconduct had not been of a kind to produce either love or friendship. Each of the sisters felt that she had been much better off atNuncombe Putney, and that either the weakness of Mrs. Stanbury, or the hardness of Priscilla, was preferable to the repulsiveforbearance of their clerical host. He did not scold them. He neverthrew it in Mrs. Trevelyan's teeth that she had been separatedfrom her husband by her own fault; he did not tell them of his owndiscomfort. But he showed it in every gesture, and spoke of it inevery tone of his voice;--so that Mrs. Trevelyan could not refrainfrom apologising for the misfortune of her presence. 

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

She had almost given up in her mind the hope that she had longcherished, that she might some day be able to live again with herhusband. Every step which he now took in reference to her seemed tobe prompted by so bitter an hostility, that she could not but believethat she was hateful to him. How was it possible that a husband andhis wife should again come together, when there had been betweenthem such an emissary as a detective policeman? Mrs. Trevelyanhad gradually come to learn that Bozzle had been at NuncombePutney, watching her, and to be aware that she was still under thesurveillance of his eye. For some months past now she had neitherseen Colonel Osborne, nor heard from him. He had certainly by hisfolly done much to produce the ruin which had fallen upon her; but itnever occurred to her to blame him. Indeed she did not know that hewas liable to blame. Mr. Outhouse always spoke of him with indignantscorn, and Nora had learned to think that much of their misery wasdue to his imprudence. But Mrs. Trevelyan would not see this, and, not seeing it, was more widely separated from her husband thanshe would have been had she acknowledged that any excuse for hismisconduct had been afforded by the vanity and folly of the otherman. 

Lady Rowley had written to have a furnished house taken for themfrom the first of April, and a house had been secured in ManchesterStreet. The situation in question is not one which is of itself verycharming, nor is it supposed to be in a high degree fashionable; butNora looked forward to her escape from St. Diddulph's to ManchesterStreet as though Paradise were to be re-opened to her as soon as sheshould be there with her father and mother. She was quite clear nowas to her course about Hugh Stanbury. She did not doubt but that shecould so argue the matter as to get the consent of her father andmother. She felt herself to be altogether altered in her views oflife, 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 hadprevailed with her when she had told herself, as she used to do sofrequently, that she was unfit to be a poor man's wife. Why shouldshe be more unfit for such a position than another? Of course therewere many thoughts in her mind, much of memory if nothing of regret, in regard to Mr. Glascock and the splendour that had been offeredto her. She had had her chance of being a rich man's wife, and hadrejected it, --had rejected it twice, with her eyes open. Readerswill say that if she loved Hugh Stanbury with all her heart, therecould be nothing of regret in her reflections. But we are perhapsaccustomed in judging for ourselves and of others to draw thelines too sharply, and to say that on this side lie vice, folly, heartlessness, and greed, --and on the other honour, love, truth, andwisdom, --the good and the bad each in its own domain. But the goodand the bad mix themselves so thoroughly in our thoughts, even in ouraspirations, that we must look for excellence rather in overcomingevil than in freeing ourselves from its influence. There had beenmany moments of regret with Nora;--but none of remorse. At the verymoment in which she had sent Mr. Glascock away from her, and hadfelt that he had now been sent away for always, she had been full ofregret. Since that there had been many hours in which she had thoughtof her own self-lesson, of that teaching by which she had striven toconvince 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 forher husband if he required it. It had been given her to choose, andshe had chosen. She had found herself unable to tell a man that sheloved him when she did not love him, --and equally unable to concealthe love which she did feel. "If he wheeled a barrow of turnips aboutthe street, I'd marry him to-morrow, " she said to her sister oneafternoon as they were sitting together in the room which ought tohave been their uncle's study. 

"If he wheeled a big barrow, you'd have to wheel a little one, " saidher sister. 

"Then I'd do it. I shouldn't mind. There has been this advantage inSt. Diddulph's, that nothing can be triste, nothing dull, nothingugly 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 nevercould have learned in Curzon Street. I used to think myself such afine young woman, --but, upon my word, I think myself a finer onenow. "

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

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

"You'll change it, dear, when mamma is here, and things arecomfortable again. It's my belief that Mr. Glascock would come to youagain to-morrow if you would let him. " Mrs. Trevelyan was, naturally, in complete ignorance of the experience of transatlantic excellencewhich Mr. Glascock had encountered in Italy. 

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

"All that might pass away, " said Mrs. Trevelyan, --slowly, after along pause. 

"All 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 be trueto him? Can that be made to pass away, --even if one wished it?"

"Of course it can. Nothing need be fixed for you till you have stoodat the altar with a man and been 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, " saidthe elder sister, "that after what you have seen you should be sokeen to be married to any one. "

"What is a girl to do?"

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

"Come to us, " said Nora. 

"Us, Nora! Who are the us? But in no way would that be possible. Papa will be here, perhaps, for six months. " Nora thought it quitepossible that she might have a home of her own before six months werepassed, --even though she might be wheeling the smaller barrow, --butshe would not say so. "And by that time everything must be decided. "

"I suppose it must. "

"Of course 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 goback, and I must go with them. Who else would take me in?"

"I know who would take you in, Emily. "

"My darling, that is romance. As for myself, I should not care whereI went. If it were even to remain here, I could bear it. "

"I could not, " said Nora, decisively. 

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

Nora was silent for some minutes, but at last she spoke. "Why do younot go back to him, Emily?"

"How am I to go back to him? What am I to do to make him take meback?" At this very moment Trevelyan was in the house, but they didnot know it. 

"Write to him, " said Nora. 

"What am I to say? In very truth I do believe that he is mad. If Iwrite to him, should I defend myself or accuse myself? A dozen timesI have striven to write such a letter, --not that I might send it, butthat I might find what I could say should I ever wish to send it. Andit is impossible. I can only tell him how unjust he has been, howcruel, how mad, how wicked!"

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

"While he is watching me with a policeman? While he is still thinkingthat I entertain a--lover? While he believes that I am the base thingthat 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 couldnot go to him, Nora;--not unless I went to him as one who was knownto be mad, over whom in his wretched condition it would be my dutyto keep watch. In no other way could I overcome my abhorrence of theoutrages to which he has subjected me. "

"But for the child's sake, Emily. "

"Ah, yes! If it were simply to grovel in the dust before him itshould be done. If humiliation would suffice, --or any self-abasementthat were possible to me! But I should be false if I said that I lookforward to any such possibility. How can he wish to have me backagain after what he has said and done? I am his wife, and he hasdisgraced 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 thatI should have done? It is hard that the foolish workings of a weakman's mind should be able so completely to ruin the prospects of awoman's life!"

Nora was beginning to answer this by attempting to shew that thehusband's madness was, perhaps, only temporary, when there came aknock at the door, and Mrs. Outhouse was at once in the room. Itwill be well that the reader should know what had taken place at theparsonage while the two sisters had been together up-stairs, so thatthe nature of Mrs. Outhouse's mission to them may explain itself. Mr. Outhouse had been in his closet down-stairs, when the maid-servantbrought word to him that Mr. Trevelyan was in the parlour, and wasdesirous of seeing him. 

"Mr. Trevelyan!" said the unfortunate clergyman, holding up both hishands. The servant understood the tragic importance of the occasionquite as well as did her master, and simply shook her head. "Has yourmistress seen him?" said the master. The girl again shook her head. "Ask your mistress to come to me, " said the clergyman. Then the girldisappeared; and in a few minutes Mrs. Outhouse, equally imbued withthe tragic elements of the day, was with her husband. 

Mr. Outhouse began by declaring that no consideration should inducehim to see Trevelyan, and commissioned his wife to go to the man andtell him that he must leave the house. When the unfortunate womanexpressed an opinion that Trevelyan had some legal rights upon whichhe might probably insist, Mr. Outhouse asserted roundly that he couldhave no legal right to remain in that parsonage against the willof the rector. "If he wants to claim his wife and child, he mustdo it by law, --not by force; and thank God, Sir Marmaduke will behere before he can do that. " "But I can't make him go, " said Mrs. Outhouse. "Tell him that you'll send for a policeman, " said theclergyman. 

It had come to pass that there had been messages backwards andforwards between the visitor and the master of the house, all carriedby that unfortunate lady. Trevelyan did not demand that his wife andchild 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 wouldbe willing to take his wife to live with him again. This appearedto Mrs. Outhouse to be so manifestly the one thing that wasdesirable, --to be the only solution of the difficulty that could beadmitted as a solution at all, --that she went to work on that hint, and ventured to entertain a hope that a reconciliation might beeffected. She implored her husband to lend a hand to the work;--bywhich she intended to imply that he should not only see Trevelyan, but consent to meet the sinner on friendly terms. But Mr. Outhousewas on the occasion even more than customarily obstinate. His wifemight do what she liked. He would neither meddle nor make. He wouldnot willingly see Mr. Trevelyan in his own house;--unless, indeed, Mr. 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, shouldany violence be attempted, her husband would manfully join the mêlée. 

But it soon became evident that no such attempt was to be made onthat day. Trevelyan was lachrymose, heartbroken, and a sight pitiableto behold. When Mrs. Outhouse loudly asserted that his wife had notsinned against him in the least, --"not in a tittle, Mr. Trevelyan, "she repeated over and over again, --he began to assert himself, declaring that she had seen the man in Devonshire, and correspondedwith him since she had been at St. Diddulph's; and when the lady haddeclared that the latter assertion was untrue, he had shaken hishead, and had told her that perhaps she did not know all. But themisery of the man had its effect upon her, and at last she proposedto be the bearer of a message to his wife. He had demanded to see hischild, offering to promise that he would not attempt to take the boyby force on this occasion, --saying, also, that his claim by law wasso good, that no force could be necessary. It was proposed by Mrs. Outhouse that he should first see the mother, --and to this he at lastassented. How blessed a thing would it be if these two persons couldbe induced to forget the troubles of the last twelve months, and oncemore to love and trust each other! "But, sir, " said Mrs. Outhouse, putting her hand upon his arm;--"you must not upbraid her, forshe will not bear it. " "She knows nothing of what is due to ahusband, " 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 downand see her husband. Little Louis had at the time been with thenurse, and the very moment that the mother heard that the child'sfather was in the house, she jumped up and rushed away to getpossession of her treasure. "Has he come for baby?" Nora asked indismay. Then Mrs. Outhouse, anxious to obtain a convert to herpresent views, boldly declared that Mr. Trevelyan had no suchintention. Mrs. Trevelyan came back at once with the boy, and thenlistened to all her aunt's arguments. "But I will not take baby withme, " 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 thedrawing-room; Mrs. Outhouse pledging herself that the whole householdshould combine in her defence if Mr. Trevelyan should attempt to takethe 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 himunderstand 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 herselfto descend the stairs. Now that her husband was so near her, and thather aunt had assured her that she might reinstate herself in herposition, if she could only abstain from saying hard words to him, she wished that he was away from her again, in Italy. She knew thatshe could not refrain from hard words. How was it possible that sheshould vindicate her own honour, without asserting with all herstrength that she had been ill-used; and, to speak truth on thematter, her love for the man, which had once been true and eager, hadbeen quelled by the treatment she had received. She had clung to herlove in some shape, in spite of the accusations made against her, till she had heard that the policeman had been set upon her heels. Could it be possible that any woman should love a man, or at leastthat any wife should love a husband, after such usage as that? Atlast she crept gently down the stairs, and stood at the parlour-door. She listened, and could hear his steps, as he paced backwards andforwards through the room. She looked back, and could see the faceof the servant peering round from the kitchen-stairs. She could notendure to be watched in her misery, and, thus driven, she opened theparlour-door. "Louis, " she said, walking into the room, "Aunt Maryhas desired me to come to you. "

"Emily!" he exclaimed, and ran to her and embraced her. She did notseek to stop him, but she did not return the kiss which he gave her. Then he held her by her hands, and looked into her face, and shecould see how strangely he was altered. She thought that she wouldhardly have known him, had she not been sure that it was he. Sheherself was also changed. Who can bear sorrow without such change, till age has fixed the lines of the face, or till care has made themhard and unmalleable? But the effect on her was as nothing to thatwhich grief, remorse, and desolation had made on him. He had hadno child with him, no sister, no friend. Bozzle had been his onlyrefuge, --a refuge not adapted to make life easier to such a man asTrevelyan; and he, --in spite of the accusations made by himselfagainst his wife, within his own breast hourly since he hadleft her, --had found it to be very difficult to satisfy his ownconscience. He told himself from hour to hour that he knew that hewas right; but in very truth he was ever doubting his own conduct. 

"You have been ill, Louis, " she said, looking at him. 

"Ill at ease, Emily;--very ill at ease! A sore heart will make theface thin, as well as fever or ague. Since we parted I have not hadmuch to comfort me. "

"Nor have I, --nor any of us, " said she. "How was comfort to come fromsuch a parting?"

Then they both stood silent together. He was still holding her bythe hand, but she was careful not to return his pressure. She wouldnot take her hand away from him; but she would show him no signof softness till he should have absolutely acquitted her of theaccusation he had made against her. "We are man and wife, " he saidafter awhile. "In spite of all that has come and gone I am yours, andyou are mine. "

"You should have remembered that always, Louis. "

"I have never forgotten it, --never. In no thought have I been untrueto you. My heart has never changed since first I gave it you. " Therecame a bitter frown upon her face, of which she was so consciousherself, that she turned her face away from him. She still rememberedher lesson, that she was not to anger him, and, therefore, sherefrained from answering him at all. But the answer was there, hotwithin her bosom. Had he loved her, --and yet suspected that she wasfalse to him and to her vows, simply because she had been on termsof intimacy with an old friend? Had he loved her, and yet turned herfrom 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 youcome 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 hertowards him, so that he might look her in the face. 

"Promise what?" she said, quickly glancing round at him, and drawingher 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 youhave done to me. "

"That is absurd. I have a right to demand from you such a pledge. Iam 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. "LouisTrevelyan, I have not disgraced you at all, --in thought, in word, indeed, 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 meof what is past, without acknowledging your error. " Her brow becameblacker and blacker as she continued to speak to him. "It would bebest that nothing should be said, --not a word. That it all should beregarded as an ugly dream. But, when you come to me and at once goback to it all, and ask me for a promise--"

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

"I will submit to no imputation on my honour, --even from you. Onewould have thought that it would have been for you to preserve ituntarnished. "

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

"None;--certainly none. If you want promises from me, there can be nohope for the future. What am I to promise? That I will not have--alover? What respect can I enjoy as your wife if such a promise beneeded? If you should choose to fancy that it had been broken youwould set your policeman to watch me again! Louis, we can never livetogether again ever with comfort, unless you acknowledge in your ownheart 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 any one?"

"And you will see him again?"

"When papa comes, 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 thesame to you as other men, it is quite hopeless. You must still bemad, --as you have been mad hitherto. "

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

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

"You are to exact promises from me, where my own rights areconcerned, while you refuse to give me any, though I am entitled todemand 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 me?"

He paused again, and then gave the promise. "Let him be brought tome. He shall not be removed now. I intend to have him. I tell youso fairly. He shall be taken from you unless you come back to mewith such assurances as to your future conduct as I have a right todemand. There is much that the law cannot give me. It cannot procurewife-like submission, love, gratitude, or even decent matronlyconduct. But that which it can give me, I will have. "

She walked off to the door, and then as she was quitting the room shespoke to him once again. "Alas, Louis, " she said, "neither can thelaw, nor medicine, nor religion, restore to you that fine intellectwhich foolish suspicions have destroyed. " Then she left him andreturned to the room in which her aunt, and Nora, and the childwere all clustered together, waiting to learn the effects of theinterview. 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 thesame accusations, repeated again and again, and make myself subjectto the old insults. " Then Mrs. Outhouse knew that she could interfereno further, and that in truth nothing could be done till the returnof Sir Marmaduke should relieve her and her husband from all furtheractive concern in the matter. 

But Trevelyan was still down-stairs waiting for the child. At last itwas arranged that Nora should take the boy into the drawing-room, andthat Mrs. Outhouse should fetch the father up from the parlour to theroom above it. Angry as was Mrs. Trevelyan with her husband, not theless was she anxious to make the boy good-looking and seemly in hisfather's eyes. She washed the child's face, put on him a clean frilland 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 unhappy, " shesaid, "and Louey must be very good to him. " The boy, child though hewas, understood much more of what was passing around him than hismother knew. How was he to love papa when mamma did not do so? Insome shape that idea had framed itself in his mind; and, as he wastaken down, he knew it was impossible that he should speak nicelyto his papa. Nora did as she was bidden, and went down to thefirst-floor. Mrs. Outhouse, promising that even if she were put outof the room by Mr. Trevelyan she would not stir from the landingoutside the door, descended to the parlour and quickly returned withthe unfortunate father. Mr. Outhouse, in the meantime, was stillsitting in his closet, tormented with curiosity, but yet determinednot to be seen till the intruder should have left his house. 

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

"Quite well, thank you, Louis. "

"I am sorry that our troubles should have deprived you of the homeyou had been taught to expect. " To this Nora made no reply, butescaped, and went up to her sister. "My poor little boy, " saidTrevelyan, taking the child and placing it on his knee. "I supposeyou 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. Louey, my boy, are you happy?" Thequestion was asked in a voice that was dismal beyond compare, and italso remained unanswered. He had been desired to speak nicely to hispapa, but how was it possible that a child should speak nicely undersuch 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 putoff his knee on to the floor, and began to whimper. "A few monthssince 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, " saidMrs. Outhouse. 

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

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

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

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

"I know nothing of that. Sir Marmaduke is nothing to me now. My childis my own, --and so is my wife. Sir Marmaduke has no authority overeither one or the other. I find my child here, and it is here thatI must look for him. I am sorry that you should be troubled, but thefault does not rest with me. Mr. Outhouse has refused to give me upmy own child, and I am driven to take such steps for his recovery asthe 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 shelterfor her. I gave her everything that she could want. You know whathappened. That man went down and was received there. I defy you, Mrs. Outhouse, to say that it was my fault. "

Mrs. Outhouse did attempt to show him that it was his fault; butwhile she was doing so he left the house. "I don't think she could goback to him, " said Mrs. Outhouse to her husband. "He is quite insaneupon this matter. "

"I shall be insane, I know, " said Mr. Outhouse, "if Sir Marmadukedoes not come home very quickly. " Nevertheless he quite ignored anylegal power that might be brought to bear against him as to therestitution of the child to its father. 

CHAPTER LXI. 

PARKER'S HOTEL, MOWBRAY STREET. 

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 reachedEngland. On the evening of that day they were to lodge at a smallfamily hotel in Baker Street, and both Mrs. Trevelyan and Nora wereto be with them. The leave-taking at the parsonage was painful, ason both sides there existed a feeling that affection and sympathywere wanting. The uncle and aunt had done their duty, and both Mrs. Trevelyan and Nora felt that they ought to have been demonstrativeand cordial in their gratitude;--but they found it impossible tobecome so. And the rector could not pretend but that he was glad tobe rid of his guests. There were, too, some last words about money tobe spoken, which were grievous thorns in the poor man's flesh. Twobank notes, however, were put upon his table, and he knew that unlesshe took them he could not pay for the provisions which his unwelcomevisitors had consumed. Surely there never was a man so cruellyill-used as had been Mr. Outhouse in all this matter. "Another suchwinter as that would put me in my grave, " he said, when his wifetried to comfort him after they were gone. "I know that they haveboth been very good to us, " said Mrs. Trevelyan, as she and hersister, together with the child and the nurse, hurried away towardsBaker Street in a cab, "but I have never for a moment felt thatthey were glad to have us. " "But how could they have been glad tohave us, " she added afterwards, "when we brought such trouble withus?" But they to whom they were going now would receive her withjoy;--would make her welcome with all her load of sorrows, would giveto her a sympathy which it was impossible that she should receivefrom others. Though she might not be happy now, --for in truth howcould she be ever really happy again, --there would be a joy to her inplacing her child in her mother's arms, and in receiving her father'swarm caresses. That her father would be very vehement in his angeragainst her husband she knew well, --for Sir Marmaduke was a vehementman. But there would be some support for her in the very violenceof his wrath, and at this moment it was such support that she mostneeded. As they journeyed together in the cab, the married sisterseemed to be in the higher spirits of the two. She was sure, at anyrate, that those to whom she was going would place themselves on herside. Nora had her own story to tell about Hugh Stanbury, and wasby no means so sure that her tale would be received with cordialagreement. "Let me tell them myself, " she whispered to her sister. "Not to-night, because they will have so much to say to you; but Ishall tell mamma to-morrow. "

The train by which the Rowleys were to reach London was due at thestation at 7. 30 p. M. , and the two sisters timed their despatch fromSt. Diddulph's so as to enable them to reach the hotel at eight. "Weshall be there now before mamma, " said Nora, "because they will haveso much luggage, and so many things, and the trains are always late. "When they started from the door of the parsonage, Mr. Outhouse gavethe direction to the cabman, "Gregg's Hotel, Baker Street. " Then atonce he began to console himself in that they were gone. 

It was a long drive from St. Diddulph's in the east, to Marylebone inthe west, of London. None of the party in the cab knew anything ofthe region through which they passed. The cabman took the line by theback of the Bank, and Finsbury Square and the City Road, thinking itbest, probably, to avoid the crush at Holborn Hill, though at theexpense of something of a circuit. But of this Mrs. Trevelyan andNora knew nothing. Had their way taken them along Piccadilly, orthrough Mayfair, or across Grosvenor Square, they would have knownwhere they were; but at present they were not thinking of those oncemuch-loved localities. The cab passed the Angel, and up and down thehill at Pentonville, and by the King's Cross stations, and throughEuston Square, --and then it turned up Gower Street. Surely the manshould have gone on along the New Road, now that he had come so farout of his way. But of this the two ladies knew nothing, --nor did thenurse. It was a dark, windy night, but the lamps in the streets hadgiven them light, so that they had not noticed the night. Nor didthey notice it now as the streets became narrower and darker. Theywere hardly thinking that their journey was yet at an end, and themother was in the act of covering her boy's face as he lay asleep onthe nurse's lap, when the cab was stopped. Nora looking out throughthe window, saw the word "Hotel" over a doorway, and was satisfied. "Shall I take the child, ma'am?" said a man in black, and the childwas handed out. Nora was the first to follow, and she then perceivedthat the door of the hotel was not open. Mrs. Trevelyan followed;and then they looked round them, --and the child was gone. They heardthe rattle of another cab as it was carried away at a gallop round adistant corner;--and then some inkling of what had happened came uponthem. The father had succeeded in getting possession of his child. 

It was a narrow, dark street, very quiet, having about it a certainair of poor respectability, --an obscure, noiseless street, withouteven a sign of life. Some unfortunate one had endeavoured here tokeep an hotel;--but there was no hotel kept there now. There hadbeen much craft in selecting the place in which the child had beentaken from them. As they looked around them, perceiving the terriblemisfortune which had befallen them, there was not a human being nearthem save the cabman, who was occupied in unchaining, or pretendingto unchain the heavy mass of luggage on the roof. The windows ofthe house before which they were stopping, were closed, and Noraperceived at once that the hotel was not inhabited. The cabman musthave perceived it also. As for the man who had taken the child, thenurse could only say that he was dressed in black, like a waiter, that he had a napkin under his arm, and no hat on his head. He hadtaken the boy tenderly in his arms, --and then she had seen nothingfurther. The first thing that Nora had seen, as she stood on thepavement, was the other cab moving off rapidly. 

Mrs. Trevelyan had staggered against the railings, and was soonscreaming in her wretchedness. Before long there was a small crowdaround them, comprising three or four women, a few boys, an old manor two, --and a policeman. To the policeman Nora had soon told thewhole story, and the cabman was of course attacked. But the cabmanplayed his part very well. He declared that he had done just whathe had been told to do. Nora was indeed sure that she had heard heruncle desire him to drive to Gregg's Hotel in Baker Street. Thecabman in answer to this, declared that he had not clearly heard theold gentleman's directions; but that a man whom he had conceived tobe a servant, had very plainly told him to drive to Parker's Hotel, Mowbray Street, Gower Street. "I comed ever so far out of my way, "said the cabman, "to avoid the rumpus with the homnibuses at thehill, --cause the ladies' things is so heavy we'd never got up if the'orse had once jibbed. " All which, though it had nothing to do withthe matter, seemed to impress the policeman with the idea that thecabman, if not a true man, was going to be too clever for them onthis occasion. And the crafty cabman went on to declare that hishorse was so tired with the load that he could not go on to BakerStreet. They must get another cab. Take his number! Of course theycould take his number. There was his number. His fare was four andsix, --that is if the ladies wouldn't pay him anything extra for theterrible load; and he meant to have it. It would be sixpence more ifthey kept him there many minutes longer. The number was taken, andanother cab was got, and the luggage was transferred, and the moneywas paid, while the unhappy mother was still screaming in hystericsagainst the railings. What had been done was soon clear enough to allthose around her. Nora had told the policeman, and had told one ofthe women, thinking to obtain their sympathy and assistance. "It'sthe kid's dada as has taken it, " said one man, "and there ain'tnothing to be done. " There was nothing to be done;--nothing at anyrate then and there. 

Nora had been very eager that the cabman should be arrested; but thepoliceman assured her that such an arrest was out of the question, and would have been useless had it been possible. The man would beforthcoming if his presence should be again desired, but he hadprobably, --so said the policeman, --really been desired to drive toMowbray Street. "They knows where to find me if they wants me, --onlyI must be paid my time, " said the cabman confidently. And thepoliceman was of opinion that as the boy had been kidnapped on behalfof the father, no legal steps could be taken either for the recoveryof the child or for the punishment of the perpetrators of the act. Hegot up, however, on the box of the cab, and accompanied the party tothe hotel in Baker Street. They reached it almost exactly at the sametime with Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley, and the reader must imaginethe confusion, the anguish, and the disappointment of that meeting. Mrs. Trevelyan was hardly in possession of her senses when shereached her mother, and could not be induced to be tranquil even whenshe was assured by her father that her son would suffer no immediateevil by being transferred to his father's hands. She in her frenzydeclared that she would never see her little one again, and seemed tothink that the father might not improbably destroy the child. "He ismad, papa, and does not know what he does. Do you mean to say that amadman may do as he pleases?--that he may rob my child from me in thestreets?--that he may take him out of my very arms in that way?" Andshe was almost angry with her father because no attempt was made thatnight to recover the boy. 

Sir Marmaduke, who was not himself a good lawyer, had been closetedwith the policeman for a quarter of an hour, and had learned thepoliceman's views. Of course, the father of the child was the personwho had done the deed. Whether the cabman had been in the plot ornot, was not matter of much consequence. There could be no doubt thatsome one had told the man to go to Parker's Hotel, as the cab wasstarting; and it would probably be impossible to punish him in theteeth of such instructions. Sir Marmaduke, however, could doubtlesshave the cabman summoned. And as for the absolute abduction of thechild, the policeman was of opinion that a father could not bepunished for obtaining possession of his son by such a stratagem, unless the custody of the child had been made over to the motherby some court of law. The policeman, indeed, seemed to think thatnothing could be done, and Sir Marmaduke was inclined to agree withhim. When this was explained to Mrs. Trevelyan by her mother, sheagain became hysterical in her agony, and could hardly be restrainedfrom going forth herself to look for her lost treasure. 

It need hardly be further explained that Trevelyan had planned thestratagem in concert with Mr. Bozzle. Bozzle, though stronglycautioned 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 atSt. Diddulph's; but when he learned, as he did learn, that Mrs. Trevelyan, with her sister and baby, were to be transferred from St. Diddulph's in a cab to Baker Street, and that the journey was luckilyto be made during the shades of evening, his active mind went towork, and he arranged the plan. There were many difficulties, andeven some pecuniary difficulty. He bargained that he should have hishundred pounds clear of all deduction for expenses, and then theattendant expenses were not insignificant. It was necessary thatthere should be four men in the service, all good and true; and menrequire to be well paid for such goodness and truth. There was theman, himself an ex-policeman, who gave the instructions to the firstcabman, as he was starting. The cabman would not undertake the job atall unless he were so instructed on the spot, asserting that in thisway he would be able to prove that the orders he obeyed came fromthe lady's husband. And there was the crafty pseudo-waiter, with thenapkin and no hat, who had carried the boy to the cab in which hisfather was sitting. And there were the two cabmen. Bozzle plannedit all, and with some difficulty arranged the preliminaries. Howsuccessful was the scheme, we have seen; and Bozzle, for a month, wasable to assume a superiority over his wife, which that honest womanfound to be very disagreeable. "There ain't no fraudulent abductionin it at all, " Bozzle exclaimed, "because a wife ain't got no rightsagain her husband, --not in such a matter as that. " Mrs. Bozzleimplied that if her husband were to take her child away from herwithout her leave, she'd let him know something about it. But asthe husband had in his possession the note for a hundred pounds, realized, Mrs. Bozzle had not much to say in support of her view ofthe case. 

On the morning after the occurrence, while Sir Marmaduke was waitingwith his solicitor upon a magistrate to find whether anything couldbe done, the following letter was brought to Mrs. Trevelyan atGregg's Hotel:--

 Our child is safe with me, and will remain so. If you care 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 withdrawing him from my charge. 

 A home for yourself with me is still open to you, --on condition that you will give me the promise 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. While 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 whom I have alluded. 

 Your affectionate and offended husband, LOUIS TREVELYAN. 

 A letter addressed to the Acrobats' Club will reach me. 

Sir Rowley came home dispirited and unhappy, and could not give muchcomfort to his daughter. The magistrate had told him that though thecabman might probably be punished for taking the ladies otherwisethan as directed, --if the direction to Baker Street could beproved, --nothing could be done to punish the father. The magistrateexplained that under a certain Act of Parliament the mother mightapply to the Court of Chancery for the custody of any children underseven years of age, and that the court would probably grant suchcustody, --unless it were shewn that the wife had left her husbandwithout sufficient cause. The magistrate could not undertake to saywhether or no sufficient cause had here been given;--or whether thehusband was in fault or the wife. It was, however, clear that nothingcould be done without application to the Court of Chancery. Itappeared, --so said the magistrate, --that the husband had offered ahome to his wife, and that in offering it he had attempted to imposeno conditions which could be shown to be cruel before a judge. Themagistrate thought that Mr. Trevelyan had done nothing illegal intaking the child from the cab. Sir Marmaduke, on hearing this, wasof opinion that nothing could be gained by legal interference. Hisprivate desire was to get hold of Trevelyan and pull him limb fromlimb. Lady Rowley thought that her daughter had better go back to herhusband, let the future consequences be what they might. And the poordesolate mother herself had almost brought herself to offer to do so, having in her brain some idea that she would after a while be able toescape with her boy. As for love for her husband, certainly there wasnone now left in her bosom. Nor could she teach herself to think itpossible that she should ever live with him again on friendly terms. But she would submit to anything with the object of getting back herboy. Three or four letters were written to Mr. Trevelyan in as manydays from his wife, from Lady Rowley, and from Nora; in which variousovertures were made. Trevelyan wrote once again to his wife. Sheknew, he said, already the terms on which she might come back. Theseterms were still open to her. As for the boy, he certainly should notleave his father. A meeting might be planned on condition that he, Trevelyan, were provided with a written assurance from his wife thatshe would not endeavour to remove the boy, and that he himself shouldbe present at the meeting. 

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

CHAPTER LXII. 

LADY ROWLEY MAKES AN ATTEMPT. 

 [Illustration]

Nothing could be more uncomfortable than the state of Sir MarmadukeRowley's family for the first ten days after the arrival in London ofthe Governor of the Mandarin Islands. Lady Rowley had brought withher two of her girls, --the third and fourth, --and, as we know, hadbeen joined by the two eldest, so that there was a large familyof ladies gathered together. A house had been taken in ManchesterStreet, to which they had intended to transfer themselves after asingle night passed at Gregg's Hotel. But the trouble and sorrowinflicted upon them by the abduction of Mrs. Trevelyan's child, andthe consequent labours thrust upon Sir Marmaduke's shoulders had beenso heavy, that they had slept six nights at the hotel, before theywere able to move themselves into the house prepared for them. Bythat time all idea had been abandoned of recovering the child by anylegal means to be taken as a consequence of the illegality of theabduction. The boy was with his father, and the lawyers seemed tothink that the father's rights were paramount, --as he had offered ahome to his wife without any conditions which a court of law wouldadjudge to be cruel. If she could shew that he had driven her to liveapart from him by his own bad conduct, then probably the custody ofher boy might be awarded to her, until the child should be sevenyears old. But when the circumstances of the case were explained toSir Marmaduke's lawyer by Lady Rowley, that gentleman shook his head. Mrs. Trevelyan had, he said, no case with which she could go intocourt. Then by degrees there were words whispered as to the husband'smadness. The lawyer said that that was a matter for the doctors. Ifa certain amount of medical evidence could be obtained to shew thatthe husband was in truth mad, the wife could, no doubt, obtain thecustody of the child. When this was reported to Mrs. Trevelyan, shedeclared that conduct such as her husband's must suffice to prove anyman to be mad; but at this Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and LadyRowley sat, sadly silent, with her daughter's hand within her own. They would not dare to tell her that she could regain her child bythat plea. 

During those ten days they did not learn whither the boy had beencarried, nor did they know even where the father might be found. SirMarmaduke followed up the address as given in the letter, and learnedfrom the porter at "The Acrobats" that the gentleman's letterswere sent to No. 55, Stony Walk, Union Street, Borough. To thisuncomfortable locality Sir Marmaduke travelled more than once. Thricehe went thither, intent on finding his son-in-law's residence. On thetwo first occasions he saw no one but Mrs. Bozzle; and the discretionof that lady in declining to give any information was most admirable. "Trewillian!" Yes, she had heard the name certainly. It might be thather husband had business engagements with a gent of that name. Shewould not say even that for certain, as it was not her custom everto make any inquiries as to her husband's business engagements. Herhusband's business engagements were, she said, much too importantfor the "likes of she" to know anything about them. When wasBozzle likely to be at home? Bozzle was never likely to be at home. According to her showing, Bozzle was of all husbands the mosterratic. He might perhaps come in for an hour or two in the middle ofthe day on a Wednesday, or perhaps would take a cup of tea at home onFriday evening. But anything so fitful and uncertain as were Bozzle'sappearances in the bosom of his family was not to be conceived in themind of woman. Sir Marmaduke then called in the middle of the day onWednesday, but Bozzle was reported to be away in the provinces. Hiswife had no idea in which of the provinces he was at that momentengaged. The persevering governor from the islands called again onthe Friday evening, and then, by chance, Bozzle was found at home. But Sir Marmaduke succeeded in gaining very little informationeven from Bozzle. The man acknowledged that he was employed by Mr. Trevelyan. Any letter or parcel left with him for Mr. Trevelyanshould be duly sent to that gentleman. If Sir Marmaduke wanted Mr. Trevelyan's address, he could write to Mr. Trevelyan and ask for it. If Mr. Trevelyan declined to give it, was it likely that he, Bozzle, should betray it? Sir Marmaduke explained who he was at some length. Bozzle with a smile assured the governor that he knew very wellwho he was. He let drop a few words to show that he was intimatelyacquainted with the whole course of Sir Marmaduke's family affairs. He knew all about the Mandarins, and Colonel Osborne, and Gregg'sHotel, --not that he said anything about Parker's Hotel, --and theColonial Office. He spoke of Miss Nora, and even knew the names ofthe other two young ladies, Miss Sophia and Miss Lucy. It was aweakness with Bozzle, --that of displaying his information. He wouldhave much liked to be able to startle Sir Marmaduke by describingthe Government House in the island, or by telling him something ofhis old carriage-horses. But of such information as Sir Marmadukedesired, Sir Marmaduke got none. 

And there were other troubles which fell very heavily upon the poorgovernor, who had come home as it were for a holiday, and who was aman hating work naturally, and who, from the circumstances of hislife, had never been called on to do much work. A man may govern theMandarins and yet live in comparative idleness. To do such governingwork well a man should have a good presence, a flow of words whichshould mean nothing, an excellent temper, and a love of hospitality. With these attributes Sir Rowley was endowed; for, though hisdisposition was by nature hot, for governing purposes it had beenbrought by practice under good control. He had now been summonedhome through the machinations of his dangerous old friend ColonelOsborne, in order that he might give the results of his experience ingoverning before a committee of the House of Commons. In coming toEngland on this business he had thought much more of his holiday, ofhis wife and children, of his daughters at home, of his allowance perday while he was to be away from his government, and of his salary tobe paid to him entire during his absence, instead of being halved asit would be if he were away on leave, --he had thought much more incoming home on these easy and pleasant matters, than he did on thework that was to be required from him when he arrived. And then itcame to pass that he felt himself almost injured when the ColonialOffice demanded his presence from day to day, and when clerksbothered him with questions as to which they expected ready replies, but in replying to which Sir Marmaduke was by no means ready. Theworking men at the Colonial Office had not quite thought that SirMarmaduke was the most fitting man for the job in hand. There was acertain Mr. Thomas Smith at another set of islands in quite anotherpart of the world, who was supposed by these working men at home tobe a very paragon of a governor. If he had been had home, --so saidthe working men, --no Committee of the House would have been able tomake anything of him. They might have asked him questions week afterweek, and he would have answered them all fluently and would havecommitted nobody. He knew all the ins and outs of governing, --didMr. Thomas Smith, --and was a match for the sharpest Committee thatever sat at Westminster. Poor Sir Marmaduke was a man of a verydifferent sort; all of which was known by the working men; butthe Parliamentary interest had been too strong, and here was SirMarmaduke at home. But the working men were not disposed to makematters so pleasant for Sir Marmaduke, as Sir Marmaduke had expected. The Committee would not examine Sir Marmaduke till after Easter, inthe middle of April; but it was expected of him that he should readblue-books without number, and he was so catechised by the workingmen that he almost began to wish himself back at the Mandarins. Inthis way the new establishment in Manchester Street was not at firstin a happy or even in a contented condition. 

At last, after about ten days, Lady Rowley did succeed in obtainingan 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'sAlley, for this meeting no fit reason can surely be given, unlessit was that he conceived himself bound to select the most drearylocality within his knowledge on so melancholy an occasion. Poulter'sAlley is a narrow dark passage somewhere behind the Mansion House;and the Bremen Coffee House, --why so called no one can now tell, --isone of those strange houses of public resort in the City at whichthe guests seem never to eat, never to drink, never to sleep, but tocome in and out after a mysterious and almost ghostly fashion, seeingtheir friends, --or perhaps their enemies, in nooks and corners, andcarrying on their conferences in low, melancholy whispers. There isan aged waiter at the Bremen Coffee House; and there is certainlyone private sitting-room up-stairs. It was a dingy, ill-furnishedroom, with an old large mahogany table, an old horse-hair sofa, sixhorse-hair chairs, two old round mirrors, and an old mahogany pressin a corner. It was a chamber so sad in its appearance that nowholesome useful work could have been done within it; nor could menhave eaten there with any appetite, or have drained the flowing bowlwith any touch of joviality. It was generally used for such purposesas that to which it was now appropriated, and no doubt had beentaken by Bozzle on more than one previous occasion. Here Lady Rowleyarrived precisely at the hour fixed, and was told that the gentlemanwas waiting up-stairs for her. 

There had, of course, been many family consultations as to the mannerin which this meeting should be arranged. Should Sir Marmadukeaccompany his wife;--or, perhaps, should Sir Marmaduke go alone? LadyRowley had been very much in favour of meeting Mr. Trevelyan withoutany one to assist her in the conference. As for Sir Marmaduke, nomeeting could be concluded between him and his son-in-law without apersonal, and probably a violent quarrel. Of that Lady Rowley hadbeen quite sure. Sir Marmaduke, since he had been home, had, in themidst of his various troubles, been driven into so vehement a stateof indignation against his son-in-law as to be unable to speak ofthe wretched man without strongest terms of opprobrium. Nothing wastoo bad to be said by him of one who had ill-treated his dearestdaughter. It must be admitted that Sir Marmaduke had heard onlyone side of the question. He had questioned his daughter, and hadconstantly seen his old friend Osborne. The Colonel's journey downto Devonshire had been made to appear the most natural proceedingin the world. The correspondence of which Trevelyan thought so muchhad been shown to consist of such notes as might pass between anyold gentleman and any young woman. The promise which Trevelyan hadendeavoured to exact, and which Mrs. Trevelyan had declined to give, appeared to the angry father to be a monstrous insult. He knew thatthe Colonel was an older man than himself, and his Emily was still tohim only a young girl. It was incredible to him that anybody shouldhave regarded his old comrade as his daughter's lover. He did notbelieve that anybody had, in truth, so regarded the man. The tale hadbeen a monstrous invention on the part of the husband, got up becausehe had become tired of his young wife. According to Sir Marmaduke'sway of thinking, Trevelyan should either be thrashed within an inchof his life, or else locked up in a mad-house. Colonel Osborne shookhis head, and expressed a conviction that the poor man was mad. 

But Lady Rowley was more hopeful. Though she was as confident abouther daughter as was the father, she was less confident about the oldfriend. She, probably, was alive to the fact that a man of fiftymight put on the airs and assume the character of a young lover;and acting on that suspicion, entertaining also some hope that badas matters now were they might be mended, she had taken care thatColonel Osborne and Mrs. Trevelyan should not be brought together. Sir Marmaduke had fumed, but Lady Rowley had been firm. "If you thinkso, mamma, " Mrs. Trevelyan had said, with something of scorn in hertone, --"of course let it be so. " Lady Rowley had said that it wouldbe better so; and the two had not seen each other since the memorablevisit to Nuncombe Putney. And now Lady Rowley was about to meet herson-in-law with some slight hope that she might arrange affairs. She was quite aware that present indignation, though certainly agratification, might be indulged in at much too great a cost. Itwould be better for all reasons that Emily should go back to herhusband and her home, and that Trevelyan should be forgiven for hisiniquities. 

Bozzle was at the tavern during the interview, but he was not seenby Lady Rowley. He remained seated down-stairs, in one of the dingycorners, ready to give assistance to his patron should assistance beneeded. When Lady Rowley was shown into the gloomy sitting-room bythe old waiter, she found Trevelyan alone, standing in the middle ofthe room, and waiting for her. "This is a sad occasion, " he said, ashe advanced to give her his hand. 

"A very sad occasion, Louis. "

"I do not know what you may have heard of what has occurred, LadyRowley. It is natural, however, to suppose that you must have heardme spoken of with censure. "

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

"Of course you do. I could not expect that it should be otherwise. When it was arranged that I should meet you here, I was quite awarethat you would have taken the side against me before you had heardmy story. It is I that have been ill used, --cruelly misused; but Ido 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 own wife from her child?"

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

"Where is the boy, Louis?"

"Ah;--that is just what I am not prepared to tell any one who hastaken my wife's side till I know that my wife has consented to pay tome that obedience which I, as her husband, have a right to demand. IfEmily will do as I request of her, as I command her, "--as Trevelyansaid this, he spoke in a tone which was intended to give the highestpossible idea of his own authority and dignity, --"then she may seeher child without delay. "

"What is it you request of my daughter?"

"Obedience;--simply that. Submission to my will, which is surely awife's duty. Let her beg my pardon for what has occurred, --"

"She cannot do that, Louis. "

"And solemnly promise me, " continued Trevelyan, not deigning tonotice Lady Rowley's interruption, "that she will hold no furtherintercourse with that snake in the grass who wormed his way into myhouse, --let her be humble, and penitent, and affectionate, and thenshe shall be restored to her husband and to her child. " He said thiswalking up and down the room, and waving his hand, as though he weremaking a speech that was intended to be eloquent, --as though he hadconceived that he was to overcome his mother-in-law by the weightof his words and the magnificence of his demeanour. And yet hisdemeanour was ridiculous, and his words would have had no weight hadthey not tended to show Lady Rowley how little prospect there wasthat she should be able to heal this breach. He himself, too, was soaltered in appearance since she had last seen him, bright with thehopes of his young married happiness, that she would hardly haverecognised him had she met him in the street. He was thin, and pale, and haggard, and mean. And as he stalked up and down the room, itseemed to her that the very character of the man was changed. Shehad not previously known him to be pompous, unreasonable, and absurd. She did not answer him at once, as she perceived that he had notfinished his address;--and, after a moment's pause, he continued. "Lady Rowley, there is nothing I would not have done for yourdaughter, --for my wife. All that I had was hers. I did not dictate toher any mode of life; I required from her no sacrifices; I subjectedher to no caprices; but I was determined to be master in my ownhouse. "

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

"To be master in my own house, and to be paramount in my influenceover 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 aman who has endeavoured to undermine me in her affection. In sayingthat I make my accusation as light against her as is possible. Imight make it much heavier, and yet not sin against the truth. "

"This is an illusion, Louis. "

"Ah;--well. No doubt it becomes you to defend your child. Was itan illusion when he went to Devonshire? Was it an illusion when hecorresponded with her, --contrary to my express orders, --both beforeand after that unhallowed journey? Lady Rowley, there must be no moresuch illusions. If my wife means to come back to me, and to have herchild in her own hands, she must be penitent as regards the past, andobedient as regards the future. "

There was a wicked bitterness in that word penitent which almostmaddened Lady Rowley. She had come to this meeting believing thatTrevelyan would be rejoiced to take back his wife, if details couldbe arranged for his doing so which should not subject him to thenecessity of crying, peccavi; but she found him speaking of his wifeas though he would be doing her the greatest possible favour inallowing her to come back to him dressed in sackcloth, and with asheson her head. She could understand from what she had heard that histone and manner were much changed since he obtained possession ofthe child, and that he now conceived that he had his wife within hispower. That he should become a tyrant because he had the power totyrannise was not in accordance with her former conception of theman's character;--but then he was so changed, that she felt thatshe knew nothing of the man who now stood before her. "I cannotacknowledge that my daughter has done anything that requirespenitence, " said Lady Rowley. 

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

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

"She must be crushed in spirit, Lady Rowley, before she can againbecome 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 awoman as you have ever known, or are likely to know. You, who shouldhave protected her against the world, will some day take blame toyourself as you remember that you have so cruelly maligned her. " Thenshe walked away to the door, and would not listen to the words whichhe was hurling after her. She went down the stairs, and out of thehouse, and at the end of Poulter's Alley found the cab which waswaiting for her. 

Trevelyan, as soon as he was alone, rang the bell, and sent forBozzle. And while the waiter was coming to him, and until hismyrmidon had appeared, he continued to stalk up and down the room, 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 havechanged my mind. "

"As how, Mr. Trewillian?"

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

"But the boy, Mr. T. ?"

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

"As for that, Mr. Trewillian, --why facts is to be come at by oneparty pretty well as much as by another. Now, suppose the thingswas changed, wicey warsey, --and as I was hacting for the Colonel'sparty. "

"D---- the Colonel!" exclaimed Trevelyan. 

"Just so, Mr. Trewillian; but if I was hacting for the other party, and they said to me, 'Bozzle, --where's the boy?' why, in three daysI'd be down on the facts. Facts is open, Mr. Trewillian, if you knowswhere 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 amother's 'art is softer and lovinger than anything. I'd think twiceof it, Mr. T. , before I kept 'em apart. " This was a line of thoughtwhich Mr. Bozzle's conscience had not forced him to entertain to theprejudice of his professional arrangements; but now, as he conversedwith his employer, and became by degrees aware of the failure ofTrevelyan's mind, some shade of remorse came upon him, and made himsay a word on behalf of the "other party. "

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

Lady Rowley, as she travelled back to her house in Manchester Street, almost made up her mind that the separation between her daughter andher son-in-law had better be continued. It was a very sad conclusionto which to come, but she could not believe that any high-spiritedwoman could long continue to submit herself to the caprices of aman so unreasonable and dictatorial as he to whom she had just beenlistening. Were it not for the boy, there would, she felt, be nodoubt upon the matter. And now, as matters stood, she thought thatit should be their great object to regain possession of the child. Then she endeavoured to calculate what would be the result to herdaughter, if in very truth it should be found that the wretchedman was mad. To hope for such a result seemed to her to be verywicked;--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 mostunreasonable man. "

"And he would tell you nothing of Louey?"

"No dear, --not a word. "

CHAPTER LXIII. 

SIR MARMADUKE AT HOME. 

Nora Rowley had told her lover that there was to be no furthercommunication between them till her father and mother should bein England; but in telling him so, had so frankly confessed herown affection for him and had so sturdily promised to be true tohim, that no lover could have been reasonably aggrieved by such aninterdiction. Nora was quite conscious of this, and was aware thatHugh Stanbury had received such encouragement as ought at any rate tobring him to the new Rowley establishment, as soon as he should learnwhere it had fixed itself. But when at the end of ten days he hadnot shown himself, she began to feel doubts. Could it be that he hadchanged his mind, that he was unwilling to encounter refusal from herfather, or that he had found, on looking into his own affairs moreclosely, that it would be absurd for him to propose to take a wife tohimself while his means were so poor and so precarious? Sir Marmadukeduring this time had been so unhappy, so fretful, so indignant, and so much worried, that Nora herself had become almost afraid ofhim; and, without much reasoning on the matter, had taught herselfto believe that Hugh might be actuated by similar fears. She hadintended to tell her mother of what had occurred between her andStanbury the first moment that she and Lady Rowley were together; butthen there had fallen upon them that terrible incident of the lossof the child, and the whole family had become at once so wrapped upin the agony of the bereaved mother, and so full of rage against theunreasonable father, that there seemed to Nora to be no possibleopportunity for the telling of her own love-story. Emily herselfappeared to have forgotten it in the midst of her own misery, and hadnot mentioned Hugh Stanbury's name since they had been in ManchesterStreet. We have all felt how on occasions our own hopes and fears, nay, almost our own individuality, become absorbed in and obliteratedby the more pressing cares and louder voices of those around us. Norahardly dared to allude to herself while her sister's grief was stillso prominent, and while her father was daily complaining of his ownpersonal annoyances at the Colonial Office. It seemed to her that atsuch a moment she could not introduce a new matter for dispute, andperhaps a new subject of dismay. 

Nevertheless, as the days passed by, and as she saw nothing of HughStanbury, her heart became sore and her spirit vexed. It seemed toher that if she were now deserted by him, all the world would beover for her. The Glascock episode in her life had passed by, --thatepisode which might have been her history, which might have been ahistory so prosperous, so magnificent, and probably so happy. As shethought of herself and of circumstances as they had happened to her, of the resolutions which she had made as to her own career when shefirst came to London, and of the way in which she had thrown allthose resolutions away in spite of the wonderful success which hadcome in her path, she could not refrain from thinking that she hadbrought herself to shipwreck by her own indecision. It must not beimagined that she regretted what she had done. She knew very wellthat to have acted otherwise than she did when Mr. Glascock cameto her at Nuncombe Putney would have proved her to be heartless, selfish, and unwomanly. Long before that time she had determined thatit was her duty to marry a rich man, --and, if possible, a man inhigh position. Such a one had come to her, --one endowed with all thegood things of the world beyond her most sanguine expectation, --andshe had rejected him! She knew that she had been right because shehad allowed herself to love the other man. She did not repent whatshe had done, the circumstances being as they were, but she almostregretted that she had been so soft in heart, so susceptible of theweakness 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 herstrength of affection when he never came to her, although the time atwhich he had been told that he might come was now ten days past?

She was sitting one afternoon in the drawing-room listlesslyreading, or pretending to read, a novel, when, on a sudden, HughStanbury was announced. The circumstances of the moment were mostunfortunate for such a visit. Sir Marmaduke, who had been down atWhitehall in the morning, and from thence had made a journey to St. Diddulph's-in-the-East and back, was exceedingly cross and out oftemper. They had told him at his office that they feared he would notsuffice to carry through the purpose for which he had been broughthome. And his brother-in-law, the parson, had expressed to him anopinion that he was in great part responsible for the misfortune ofhis daughter, by the encouragement which he had given to such a manas Colonel Osborne. Sir Marmaduke had in consequence quarrelled bothwith the chief clerk and with Mr. Outhouse, and had come home surlyand discontented. Lady Rowley and her eldest daughter were away, closeted at the moment with Lady Milborough, with whom they wereendeavouring to arrange some plan by which the boy might at anyrate be given back. Poor Emily Trevelyan was humble enough now toLady Milborough, --was prepared to be humble to any one, and in anycircumstances, so that she should not be required to acknowledge thatshe had entertained Colonel Osborne as her lover. The two youngergirls, Sophy and Lucy, were in the room when Stanbury was announced, as was also Sir Marmaduke, who at that very moment was uttering angrygrowls at the obstinacy and want of reason with which he had beentreated by Mr. Outhouse. Now Sir Marmaduke had not so much as heardthe name of Hugh Stanbury as yet; and Nora, though her listlessnesswas all at an end, at once felt how impossible it would be to explainany of the circumstances of her case in such an interview as this. While, however, Hugh's dear steps were heard upon the stairs, her feminine mind at once went to work to ascertain in what bestmode, with what most attractive reason for his presence, she mightintroduce the young man to her father. Had not the girls been thenpresent, she thought that it might have been expedient to leave Hughto tell his own story to Sir Marmaduke. But she had no opportunity ofsending her sisters away; and, unless chance should remove them, thiscould not be done. 

"He is son of the lady we were with at Nuncombe Putney, " shewhispered to her father as she got up to move across the room towelcome her lover. Now Sir Marmaduke had expressed great disapprovalof that retreat to Dartmoor, and had only understood respecting itthat it had been arranged between Trevelyan and the family in whosecustody his two daughters had been sent away into banishment. Hewas not therefore specially disposed to welcome Hugh Stanbury inconsequence of this mode of introduction. 

Hugh, who had asked for Lady Rowley and Mrs. Trevelyan and hadlearned that they were out before he had mentioned Miss Rowley'sname, was almost prepared to take his sweetheart into his arms. Inthat half-minute he had taught himself to expect that he would meether alone, and had altogether forgotten Sir Marmaduke. Young menwhen they call at four o'clock in the day never expect to find papasat home. And of Sophia and Lucy he had either heard nothing or hadforgotten what he had heard. He repressed himself however in time, and did not commit either Nora or himself by any very vehementdemonstration of affection. But he did hold her hand longer than heshould have done, and Sir Marmaduke saw that he did so. 

"This is papa, " said Nora. "Papa, this is our friend, Mr. HughStanbury. " The introduction was made in a manner almost absurdlyformal, but poor Nora's difficulties lay heavy upon her. SirMarmaduke muttered something;--but it was little more than a grunt. "Mamma and Emily are out, " continued Nora. "I dare say they will bein soon. " Sir Marmaduke looked round sharply at the man. Why was heto be encouraged to stay till Lady Rowley should return? Lady Rowleydid not want to see him. It seemed to Sir Marmaduke, in the midst ofhis troubles, that this was no time to be making new acquaintances. "These are my sisters, Mr. Stanbury, " continued Nora. "This isSophia, and this is Lucy. " Sophia and Lucy would have been thoroughlywilling to receive their sister's lover with genial kindness if theyhad been properly instructed, and if the time had been opportune;but, as it was, they had nothing to say. They, also, could onlymutter some little sound intended to be more courteous than theirfather'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 theneighbourhood. "

Hugh also felt that conversation was difficult. He had soon come toperceive, --before he had been in the room half a minute, --that theatmosphere was not favourable to his mission. There was to be noembracing or permission for embracing on the present occasion. Had hebeen left alone with Sir Marmaduke he would probably have told hisbusiness plainly, let Sir Marmaduke's manner to him have been whatit might; but it was impossible for him to do this with three youngladies in the room with him. Seeing that Nora was embarrassed byher difficulties, and that Nora's father was cross and silent, heendeavoured to talk to the other girls, and asked them concerningtheir journey and the ship in which they had come. But it was veryup-hill work. Lucy and Sophy could talk as glibly as any youngladies home from any colony, --and no higher degree of fluency canbe expressed;--but now they were cowed. Their elder sister wasshamefully and most undeservedly disgraced, and this man had hadsomething, --they knew not what, --to do with it. "Is Priscilla quitewell?" Nora asked at last. 

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

"I had not heard it. "

"Oh yes;--and they are living in a small cottage just outside thevillage. And what else do you think has happened?"

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

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

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

"Well, yes;--after a fashion there has, I suppose. But it is a longstory and would not interest Sir Marmaduke. The wonder is thatDorothy should have been able to stay so long with my aunt. I willtell it you all some day. " Sir Marmaduke could not understand whya long story about this man's aunt and sister should be told tohis daughter. He forgot, --as men always do in such circumstancesforget, --that, while he was living in the Mandarins, his daughter, living in England, would of course pick up new interest and becomeintimate with new histories. But he did not forget that pressureof the hand which he had seen, and he determined that his daughterNora could not have any worse lover than the friend of his elderdaughter's husband. 

Stanbury had just determined that he must go, that there was nopossibility for him either to say or do anything to promote his causeat the present moment, when the circumstances were all changed by thereturn home of Lady Rowley and Mrs. Trevelyan. Lady Rowley knew, andhad for some days known, much more of Stanbury than had come to theears of Sir Marmaduke. She understood in the first place that theStanburys had been very good to her daughter, and she was aware thatHugh Stanbury had thoroughly taken her daughter's part against hisold friend Trevelyan. She would therefore have been prepared toreceive him kindly had he not on this very morning been the subjectof special conversation between her and Emily. But, as it hadhappened, Mrs. Trevelyan had this very day told Lady Rowley thewhole story of Nora's love. The elder sister had not intended to betreacherous to the younger; but in the thorough confidence whichmutual grief and close conference had created between the motherand daughter, everything had at last come out, and Lady Rowley hadlearned the story, not only of Hugh Stanbury's courtship, but ofthose rich offers which had been made by the heir to the barony ofPeterborough. 

It must be acknowledged that Lady Rowley was greatly grieved andthoroughly dismayed. It was not only that Mr. Glascock was the eldestson of a peer, but that he was represented by the poor suffering wifeof the ill-tempered man to be a man blessed with a disposition sweetas an angel's. "And she would have liked him, " Emily had said, "ifit had not been for this unfortunate young man. " Lady Rowley was notworse than are other mothers, not more ambitious, or more heartless, or more worldly. She was a good mother, loving her children, andthoroughly anxious for their welfare. But she would have liked tobe the mother-in-law of Lord Peterborough, and she would have liked, dearly, to see her second daughter removed from the danger of thoserocks against which her eldest child had been shipwrecked. And whenshe asked after Hugh Stanbury, and his means of maintaining a wife, the statement which Mrs. Trevelyan made was not comforting. "Hewrites for a penny newspaper, --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 ofeducation do write for such things now. He says himself that it isvery 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 familytitle, and of Monkhams. And she thought of her present troubles, andof the Mandarins, and the state of Sir Marmaduke's balance at thebankers;--and of the other girls, and of all there was before her todo. Here had been a very Apollo among suitors kneeling at her child'sfeet, and the foolish girl had sent him away for the sake of a youngman who wrote for a penny newspaper! Was it worth the while ofany woman to bring up daughters with such results? Lady Rowley, therefore, when she was first introduced to Hugh Stanbury, was notprepared 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 Stanburywas her friend, and would sympathise with her respecting her child. "You have heard what has happened to me?" she said. Stanbury, however, had heard nothing of that kidnapping of the child. Thoughto the Rowleys it seemed that such a deed of iniquity, done in themiddle of London, must have been known to all the world, he had notas 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 freshgrief; but still she told it as to one whom she regarded as a surefriend, and from whom she knew that she would receive sympathy. SirMarmaduke sat by the while, still gloomy and out of humour. Why wastheir 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 herboy; but he now accompanies his offer with such conditions that it isimpossible to listen to him. "

"And where is he?"

"We do not know where he lives. We can reach him only through acertain 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 tellus, " continued Lady Rowley. "Can there be anything so horrible asthis, --that a wife should be bound to communicate with her ownhusband 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 donot know why he should keep the place a secret. I suppose he has aright to the boy until the mother shall have made good her claimbefore the court. " He promised, however, that he would do his best toascertain where the child was kept, and where Trevelyan resided, andthen, --having been nearly an hour at the house, --he was forced toget up and take his leave. He had said not a word to any one of thebusiness that had brought him there. He had not even whispered anassurance of his affection to Nora. Till the two elder ladies hadcome in, and the subject of the taking of the boy had been mooted, hehad sat there as a perfect stranger. He thought that it was manifestenough that Nora had told her secret to no one. It seemed to himthat Mrs. Trevelyan must have forgotten it;--that Nora herself musthave forgotten it, if such forgetting could be possible! He got up, however, and took his leave, and was comforted in some slight degreeby seeing that there was a tear in Nora's eye. 

"Who is he?" demanded Sir Marmaduke, as soon as the door was closed. 

"He is a young man who was an intimate friend of Louis's, " answeredMrs. Trevelyan; "but he is so no longer, because he sees howinfatuated Louis has been. "

"And why does he come here?"

 [Illustration: "And why does he come here?"]

"We know him very well, " continued Mrs. Trevelyan. "It was hethat arranged our journey down to Devonshire. He was very kindabout it, and so were his mother and sister. We have every reasonto be grateful to Mr. Stanbury. " This was all very well, butNora nevertheless felt that the interview had been anything butsuccessful. 

"Has he any profession?" asked Sir Marmaduke. 

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

"What 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. Norapaused a moment, striving to find words for some speech which mightbe true to her love and yet not unseemly, --but finding no such wordsready, she got up from her seat and walked out of the room. "What isthe meaning of it all?" asked Sir Marmaduke. There was a silence fora while, and then he repeated his question in another form. "Is thereany 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 speak aboutit 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 nameagain, " said Sir Marmaduke. Then there was nothing more said, and assoon as they could escape, both Lady Rowley and Mrs. Trevelyan leftthe room. 

"I should have told you everything, " said Nora to her mother thatnight. "I had no intention to keep anything a secret from you. But wehave all been so unhappy about Louey, that we have had no heart totalk of anything else. "

"I understand all that, my darling. "

"And I had meant that you should tell papa, for I supposed thathe would come. And I meant that he should go to papa himself. Heintended 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 incomewithout earning it. I suppose people in professions do marry withouthaving fortunes. "

"When they have settled professions, Nora. "

"And why is not his a settled profession? I believe he receives quiteas 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 besure. He goes on writing and writing every day, and it seems to methat of all professions in the world it is the finest. I'd muchsooner write for a newspaper than be one of those old musty, fustylawyers, who'll say anything that they're paid to say. "

"My dearest Nora, all that is nonsense. You know as well as I do thatyou should not marry a man when there is a doubt whether he can keepa 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, andI cannot go back from it. Dear, dear mamma, you won't quarrel withus, and oppose us, and make papa hard against us. You can do what youlike with papa. I know that. Look at poor Emily. Plenty of money hasnot made her happy. "

"If 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 outinto a full flood of tears--"such a man, so good, so gentle, and sotruly devoted to you. "

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

"Going down all the way to Devonshire after you!"

"So did Hugh, mamma. "

"A position that any girl in England would have envied you. I cannotbut feel it. And Emily says she is sure he would come back if he gotthe very slightest encouragement. "

"That is quite impossible, mamma. "

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

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

"What truth?"

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

"How could you be so infatuated? Why should you have cut the groundaway from your feet in that way?"

"Because I chose that there should be an end to it. Now there hasbeen an end to it; and it is much better, mamma, that we shouldnot think about Mr. Glascock any more. He will never come again tome, --and if he did, I could only say the same thing. "

"You mustn't be surprised, Nora, if I'm unhappy; that is all. Ofcourse I must feel it. Such a connection as it would have been foryour sisters! Such a home for poor Emily in her trouble! And as forthis 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 myhusband. Dear, dear mamma, you can't change me by anything you say. Perhaps I have been foolish; but it is settled now. Don't make mewretched by speaking against the man whom I mean to love all my lifebetter than all the world. "

"Think of Louis Trevelyan. "

"I will 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 Iloved Mr. Glascock. But he got the better of me, and conquered me, and I will never rebel against him. You may help me, mamma;--but youcan't change me. "

CHAPTER LXIV. 

SIR MARMADUKE AT HIS CLUB. 

Sir Marmaduke had come away from his brother-in-law the parson inmuch anger, for Mr. Outhouse, with that mixture of obstinacy andhonesty which formed his character, had spoken hard words of ColonelOsborne, and words which by implication had been hard also againstEmily Trevelyan. He had been very staunch to his niece when attackedby his niece's husband; but when his sympathies and assistance wereinvoked by Sir Marmaduke it seemed as though he had transferred hisallegiance to the other side. He pointed out to the unhappy fatherthat Colonel Osborne had behaved with great cruelty in going toDevonshire, that the Stanburys had been untrue to their trust inallowing him to enter the house, and that Emily had been "indiscreet"in receiving him. When a young woman is called indiscreet by herfriends it may be assumed that her character is very seriouslyassailed. Sir Marmaduke had understood this, and on hearing the wordhad become wroth with his brother-in-law. There had been hot wordsbetween them, and Mr. Outhouse would not yield an inch or retracta syllable. He conceived it to be his duty to advise the fatherto caution his daughter with severity, to quarrel absolutely withColonel Osborne, and to let Trevelyan know that this had been done. As to the child, Mr. Outhouse expressed a strong opinion that thefather was legally entitled to the custody of his boy, and thatnothing could be done to recover the child, except what might bedone with the father's consent. In fact, Mr. Outhouse made himselfexceedingly disagreeable, and sent away Sir Marmaduke with a veryheavy heart. Could it really be possible that his old friend FredOsborne, who seven or eight-and-twenty years ago had been potentamong young ladies, had really been making love to his old friend'smarried daughter? Sir Marmaduke looked into himself, and conceived itto 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 rubberof whist, --all these things, with no work to do, and men of his ownstanding around him were the pleasures of life which Sir Marmadukedesired. Now Fred Osborne was an older man than he, and though FredOsborne did keep up a foolish system of padded clothes and dyedwhiskers, still, --at fifty-two or fifty-three, --surely a man might bereckoned safe. And then, too, that ancient friendship! Sir Marmaduke, who had lived all his life in the comparative seclusion of a colony, thought perhaps more of that ancient friendship than did the Colonel, who had lived amidst the blaze of London life, and who had had manyopportunities of changing his friends. Some inkling of all thismade its way into Sir Marmaduke's bosom, as he thought of it withbitterness; and he determined that he would have it out with hisfriend. 

Hitherto he had enjoyed very few of those pleasant hours which he hadanticipated on his journey homewards. He had had no heart to go tohis club, and he had fancied that Colonel Osborne had been a littlebackward in looking him up, and providing him with amusement. He hadsuggested this to his wife, and she had told him that the Colonel hadbeen right not to come to Manchester Street. "I have told Emily, "said Lady Rowley, "that she must not meet him, and she is quite ofthe same opinion. " Nevertheless, there had been remissness. SirMarmaduke felt that it was so, in spite of his wife's excuses. Inthis way he was becoming sore with everybody, and very unhappy. Itdid not at all improve his temper when he was told that his seconddaughter had refused an offer from Lord Peterborough's eldest son. "Then she may go into the workhouse for me, " the angry father hadsaid, declaring at the same time that he would never give his consentto her marriage with the man who "did dirty work" for the DailyRecord, --as he, with his paternal wisdom, chose to express it. Butthis cruel phrase was not spoken in Nora's hearing, nor was itrepeated to her. Lady Rowley knew her husband, and was aware that hewould on occasions change his opinion. 

It was not till two or three days after his visit to St. Diddulph'sthat he met Colonel Osborne. The Easter recess was then over, and Colonel Osborne had just returned to London. They met on thedoor-steps of "The Acrobats, " and the Colonel immediately beganwith an apology. "I have been so sorry to be away just when you arehere;--upon my word I have. But I was obliged to go down to theduchess's. I had promised early in the winter; and those peopleare so angry if you put them off. By George, it's almost as bad asputting off royalty. "

"D----n the duchess, " said Sir Marmaduke. 

"With all my heart, " said the Colonel;--"only I thought it as wellthat I should tell you the truth. "

"What I mean is, that the duchess and her people make no differenceto me. I hope you had a pleasant time; that's all. "

"Well;--yes, we had. One must get away somewhere at Easter. There isno one left at the club, and there's no House, and no one asks one todinner in town. In fact, if one didn't go away one wouldn't know whatto do. There were ever so many people there that I liked to meet. Lady Glencora was there, and uncommon pleasant she made it. Thatwoman has more to say for herself than any half-dozen men that Iknow. And Lord Cantrip, your chief, was there. He said a word or twoto me about you. "

"What sort of a word?"

"He says he wishes you would read up some blue-books, or papers, orreports, or something of that kind, which he says that some of hisfellows have sent you. It seems that there are some new rules, ororders, or fashions, which he wants you to have at your fingers'ends. Nothing could be more civil than he was, --but he just wishedme to mention this, knowing that you and I are likely to see eachother. "

"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 coulddo 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 thatan old dog can't learn new tricks. They've got a young brisk fellowthere who seems to think that a man should be an encyclopedia ofknowledge 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, willyou? I want to speak to you. " Then Sir Marmaduke, with considerablesolemnity, led the way up to the most deserted room in the club, andColonel Osborne followed him, well knowing that something was to besaid about Emily Trevelyan. 

Sir Marmaduke seated himself on a sofa, and his friend sat closebeside him. The room was quite deserted. It was four o'clock inthe afternoon, and the club was full of men. There were men in themorning-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 fora conference intended to be silent and secret could have been madein all London than that which had induced Sir Marmaduke to take hisfriend into the library of "The Acrobats. " And yet a great deal ofmoney had been spent in providing this library for "The Acrobats. "Sir Marmaduke sat for awhile silent, and had he sat silent for anhour, Colonel Osborne would not have interrupted him. Then, at last, he began, with a voice that was intended to be serious, but whichstruck upon the ear of his companion as being affected and unlike theowner of it. "This is a very sad thing about my poor girl, " said SirMarmaduke. 

"Indeed it is. There is only one thing to be said about it, Rowley. "

"And what's that?"

"The man must be mad. "

"He is not so mad as to give us any relief by his madness, --poor assuch comfort would be. He has got Emily's child away from her, andI think it will about kill her. And what is to become of her? As totaking her back to the islands without her child, it is out of thequestion. I never knew anything so cruel in my life. "

"And so absurd, you know. "

"Ah, --that's just the question. If anybody had asked me, I shouldhave said that you were the man of all men whom I could have besttrusted. "

"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 anend of all things with me. I could never get over that. No; I don'tsuspect her!" Sir Marmaduke had now dropped his affected tone, andwas speaking with natural energy. 

"But you do me?"

"No;--if I did, I don't suppose I should be sitting with you here;but they tell me--"

"They tell you what?"

"They tell me that, --that you did not behave wisely about it. Whycould you not let her alone when you found out how matters weregoing?"

"Who has been telling you this, Rowley?"

Sir Marmaduke considered for awhile, and then remembering thatColonel Osborne could hardly quarrel with a clergyman, told him thetruth. "Outhouse says that you have done her an irretrievable injuryby 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 thatchooses to take vagaries into his head I am not to see my owngodchild!" Sir Marmaduke tried to remember whether the Colonel was infact the godfather of his eldest daughter, but he found that his mindwas quite a blank about his children's godfathers and godmothers. "And as for the letters;--I wish you could see them. The only letterswhich had in them a word of importance were those about your cominghome. I was anxious to get that arranged, not only for your sake, butbecause she was so eager about it. "

"God bless her, poor child, " said Sir Marmaduke, rubbing the tearsaway from his eyes with his red silk pocket-handkerchief. 

"I will acknowledge that those letters, --there may have been one ortwo, --were the beginning of the trouble. It was these that made thisman show himself to be a lunatic. I do admit that. I was bound not totalk about your coming, and I told her to keep the secret. He wentspying about, and found her letters, I suppose, --and then he tookfire because there was to be a secret from him. Dirty, mean dog! Andnow I'm to be told by such a fellow as Outhouse that it's my fault, that I have caused all the trouble, because, when I happened to be inDevonshire, I went to see your daughter!" We must do the Colonel thejustice of supposing that he had by this time quite taught himself tobelieve that the church porch at Cockchaffington had been the motivecause of his journey into Devonshire. "Upon my word it is too hard, "continued he indignantly. "As for Outhouse, --only for the gown uponhis back, I'd pull his nose. And I wish that you would tell him thatI say so. "

"There is trouble enough without that, " said Sir Marmaduke. 

"But it is hard. By G----, it is hard. There is this comfort;--ifit hadn't been me, it would have been some one else. Such a man asthat couldn't have gone two or three years, without being jealous ofsome one. And as for poor Emily, she is better off perhaps with anaccusation so absurd as this, than she might have been had her namebeen joined with a younger man, or with one whom you would have lessreason for trusting. "

There was so much that seemed to be sensible in this, and it wasspoken with so well assumed a tone of injured innocence, that SirMarmaduke felt that he had nothing more to say. He muttered somethingfurther about the cruelty of the case, and then slunk away out of theclub, and made his way home to the dull gloomy house in ManchesterStreet. There was no comfort for him there;--but neither was thereany comfort for him at the club. And why did that vexatious Secretaryof State send him messages about blue books? As he went, he expressedsundry wishes that he was back at the Mandarins, and told himselfthat it would be well that he should remain there till he died. 

CHAPTER LXV. 

MYSTERIOUS AGENCIES. 

 [Illustration]

When the thirty-first of March arrived, Exeter had not as yet beenmade gay with the marriage festivities of Mr. Gibson and CamillaFrench. And this delay had not been the fault of Camilla. Camilla hadbeen ready, and when, about the middle of the month, it was hintedto her that some postponement was necessary, she spoke her mind outplainly, and declared that she was not going to stand that kind ofthing. The communication had not been made to her by Mr. Gibson inperson. For some days previously he had not been seen at Heavitree, and Camilla had from day to day become more black, gloomy, and harshin her manners both to her mother and her sister. Little notes hadcome and little notes had gone, but no one in the house, exceptCamilla herself, knew what those notes contained. She would notcondescend to complain to Arabella; nor did she say much incondemnation of her lover to Mrs. French, till the blow came. Withunremitting attention she pursued the great business of her weddinggarments, and exacted from the unfortunate Arabella an amount of workequal to her own, --of thankless work, as is the custom of embryobrides with their unmarried sisters. And she drew with great audacityon the somewhat slender means of the family for the amount offeminine gear necessary to enable her to go into Mr. Gibson's housewith something of the éclat of a well-provided bride. When Mrs. French hesitated, and then expostulated, Camilla replied that she didnot expect to be married above once, and that in no cheaper or moreproductive way than this could her mother allow her to consume hershare of the family resources. "What matter, mamma, if you do have toborrow a little money? Mr. Burgess will let you have it when he knowswhy. And as I shan't be eating and drinking at home any more, nor yetgetting my things here, I have a right to expect it. " And she endedby expressing an opinion, in Arabella's hearing, that any daughterof a house who proves herself to be capable of getting a husband forherself, is entitled to expect that those left at home shall pinchthemselves for a time, in order that she may go forth to the world ina respectable way, and be a credit to the family. 

Then came the blow. Mr. Gibson had not been at the house for somedays, but the notes had been going and coming. At last Mr. Gibsoncame himself; but, as it happened, when he came, Camilla was outshopping. In these days she often did go out shopping between elevenand one, carrying her sister with her. It must have been but a poorpleasure for Arabella, this witnessing the purchases made, seeingthe pleasant draperies, and handling the real linens and admiringthe fine cambrics spread out before them on the shop counters byobsequious attendants. And the questions asked of her by her sister, whether this was good enough for so august an occasion, or thatsufficiently handsome, must have been harassing. She could not havefailed to remember that it ought all to have been done for her, --thathad she not been treated with monstrous injustice, with mostunsisterly cruelty, all these good things would have been spread onher behoof. But she went on and endured it, and worked diligentlywith her needle, and folded and unfolded as she was desired, andbecame as it were quite a younger sister in the house, --creeping outby herself now and again into the purlieus of the city, to find suchconsolation as she might receive from her solitary thoughts. 

But Arabella and Camilla were both away when Mr. Gibson called totell Mrs. French of his altered plans. And as he asked, not forhis lady-love, but for Mrs. French herself, it is probable that hewatched his opportunity and that he knew to what cares his Camillawas then devoting herself. "Perhaps it is quite as well that I shouldfind you alone, " he said, after sundry preludes, to his futuremother-in-law, "because you can make Camilla understand this betterthan I can. I must put off the day for about three weeks. "

"Three weeks, Mr. Gibson?"

"Or a month. Perhaps we had better say the 29th of April. " Mr. Gibsonhad by this time thrown off every fear that he might have entertainedof the mother, and could speak to her of such an unwarrantable changeof 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 course;--that is, inMay. "

"But why is this to be?"

"There are things about money, Mrs. French, which I cannot arrangesooner. And I find that unfortunately I must go up to London. " Thoughmany other questions were asked, nothing further was got out ofMr. Gibson on that occasion; and he left the house with a perfectunderstanding on his own part, --and on that of Mrs. French, --that themarriage was postponed till some day still to be fixed, but whichcould not and should not be before the 29th of April. Mrs. Frenchasked him why he did not come up and see Camilla. He replied, --falseman 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 tohis house at once, " she said, "and find out all about it. I don'tunderstand it. I don't understand it at all; and I won't put up withit. He shall know who he has to deal with, if he plays tricks uponme. Mamma, I wonder you let him out of the house, till you had madehim come back to his old day. "

"What could I do, my dear?"

"What could you do? Shake him out of it, --as I would have done. Buthe didn't dare to tell me, --because he is a coward. "

Camilla in all this showed her spirit; but she allowed her angerto hurry her away into an indiscretion. Arabella was present, andCamilla should have repressed her rage. 

"I don't think he's at all a coward, " said Arabella. 

"That's my business. I suppose I'm entitled to know what he is betterthan you. "

"All the same I don't think Mr. Gibson is at all a coward, " saidArabella, 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 myconcern, and I shall go to him. I'm not going to be stopped by anyshilly-shally nonsense, when my future respectability, perhaps, isat stake. All Exeter knows that the marriage is to take place on the31st of this month. "

On the next day Camilla absolutely did go to Mr. Gibson's house atan early hour, at nine, when, as she thought, he would surely be atbreakfast. But he had flown. He had left Exeter that morning by anearly train, and his servant thought that he had gone to London. Onthe next morning Camilla got a note from him, written in London. It affected to be very cheery and affectionate, beginning "DearestCammy, " and alluding to the postponement of his wedding as thoughit were a thing so fixed as to require no further question. Camillaanswered this letter, still in much wrath, complaining, protesting, expostulating;--throwing in his teeth the fact that the day had beenfixed by him, and not by her. And she added a postscript in thefollowing momentous words:--"If you have any respect for the name ofyour future wife, you will fall back upon your first arrangement. " Tothis she got simply a line of an answer, declaring that this fallingback was impossible, and then nothing was heard of him for ten days. He had gone from Tuesday to Saturday week;--and the first thatCamilla saw of him was his presence in the reading desk when hechaunted 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 overanxiety, --that she was nervous, weak, and liable to hysterics, --thather feelings were in fact too many for her, --and that her efforts toovercome them, and to face the realities of the world, had exhaustedher. This was, of course, not said openly, at the town-cross ofExeter; but such was the opinion which Mr. Martin gave in confidenceto the mother. "Fiddle-de-dee!" said Camilla, when she was told offeelings, susceptibilities, and hysterics. At the present moment shehad a claim to the undivided interest of the family, and she believedthat her sister's illness was feigned in order to defraud her of herrights. "My dear, she is ill, " said Mrs. French. "Then let her havea dose of salts, " said the stern Camilla. This was on the Sundayafternoon. Camilla had endeavoured to see Mr. Gibson as he came outof the cathedral, but had failed. Mr. Gibson had been detained withinthe building, --no doubt by duties connected with the choral services. On that evening he got a note from Camilla, and quite early on theMonday morning he came up to Heavitree. 

"You will find her in the drawing-room, " said Mrs. French, as sheopened the hall-door for him. There was a smile on her face as shespoke, but it was a forced smile. Mr. Gibson did not smile at all. 

"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 havetheir own way a little, just for the last time, you know. " He took nonotice of the joke, but went with slow steps up to the drawing-room. It would be inquiring too curiously to ask whether Camilla, whenshe embraced him, discerned that he had fortified his courage thatmorning with a glass of curacoa. 

"What does all this mean, Thomas?" was the first question thatCamilla asked when the embrace was over. 

"All what mean, dear?"

"This untoward delay. Thomas, you have almost broken my heart. Youhave 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 histongue. "I don't suppose you want to kill me. "

"God forbid, " said Thomas. 

"But you will. What must everybody think of me in the city whenthey find that it is put off? Poor mamma has been dreadful;--quitedreadful! And here is Arabella now laid up on a bed of sickness. "This, too, was indiscreet. Camilla should have said nothing about hersister'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 allfeel it. Of course we're upset. As for me, I bear up; because I'vethat spirit 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, he said, about money; and certainmoney matters made it incumbent on him not to marry before the 29thof April. When Camilla suggested to him that as she was to be hiswife, she ought to know all about his money matters, he told her thatshe should, --some day. When they were married, he would tell her all. Camilla talked a great deal, and said some things that were verysevere. Mr. Gibson did not enjoy his morning, but he endured theupbraidings of his fair one with more firmness than might perhapshave been expected from him. He left all the talking to Camilla; butwhen he got up to leave her, the 29th of April had been fixed, withsome sort of assent from her, as the day on which she was really tobecome Mrs. Gibson. 

When he left the room, he again met Mrs. French on the landing-place. She hesitated a moment, waiting to see whether the door would beshut; but the door could not be shut, as Camilla was standing inthe entrance. "Mr. Gibson, " said Mrs. French, in a voice that wasscarcely a whisper, "would you mind stepping in and seeing poor Bellafor a moment?"

"Why;--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 thinksit would comfort her to have a word or two with Mr. Gibson. " NowMr. Gibson was not only going to be Bella's brother-in-law, buthe was also a clergyman. Camilla in her heart believed that thehalf-clerical aspect which her mother had given to the request wasfalse and hypocritical. There were special reasons why Bella shouldnot have wished to see Mr. Gibson in her bedroom, at any rate tillMr. Gibson had become her brother-in-law. The expression of such awish at the present moment was almost indecent. 

"You'll be there with them?" said Camilla. Mr. Gibson blushed up tohis ears as he heard the suggestion. "Of course you'll be there withthem, mamma. "

"No, my dear, I think not. I fancy she wishes him to read to her, --orsomething of that sort. " Then Mr. Gibson, without speaking a word, but still blushing up to his ears, was taken to Arabella's room; andCamilla, flouncing into the drawing-room, banged the door behind her. She had hitherto fought her battle with considerable skill and withgreat courage;--but her very success had made her imprudent. Shehad become so imperious in the great position which she had reached, that she could not control her temper or wait till her power wasconfirmed. The banging of that door was heard through the wholehouse, and every one knew why it was banged. She threw herself on toa sofa, and then, instantly rising again, paced the room with quickstep. Could it be possible that there was treachery? Was it on thecards that that weak, poor creature, Bella, was intriguing once againto defraud her of her husband? There were different things that shenow remembered. Arabella, in that moment of bliss in which she hadconceived herself to be engaged to Mr. Gibson, had discarded herchignon. Then she had resumed it, --in all its monstrous proportions. Since that it had been lessened by degrees, and brought down, throughvarious interesting but abnormal shapes, to a size which would hardlyhave drawn forth any anathema from Miss Stanbury. And now, on thisvery morning, Arabella had put on a clean nightcap, with muslinfrills. It is perhaps not unnatural that a sick lady, preparingto receive a clergyman in her bedroom, should put on a cleannightcap, --but to suspicious eyes small causes suffice to createalarm. And if there were any such hideous wickedness in the wind, hadArabella any colleague in her villainy? Could it be that the motherwas plotting against her daughter's happiness and respectability?Camilla was well aware that her mamma would at first have preferredto give Arabella to Mr. Gibson, had the choice in the matter beenleft to her. But now, when the thing had been settled before allthe world, would not such treatment on a mother's part be equal toinfanticide? And then as to Mr. Gibson himself! Camilla was notprone to think little of her own charms, but she had been unablenot to perceive that her lover had become negligent in his personalattentions to her. An accepted lover, who deserves to have beenaccepted, should devote every hour at his command to his mistress. But Mr. Gibson had of late been so chary of his presence atHeavitree, that Camilla could not but have known that he took nodelight in coming thither. She had acknowledged this to herself; butshe had consoled herself with the reflection that marriage would makethis all right. Mr. Gibson was not the man to stray from his wife, and she could trust herself to obtain a sufficient hold upon herhusband hereafter, partly by the strength of her tongue, partly bythe ascendency of her spirit, and partly, also, by the comforts whichshe would provide for him. She had not doubted but that it would beall well when they should be married;--but how if, even now, thereshould be no marriage for her? Camilla French had never heard ofCreusa and of Jason, but as she paced her mother's drawing-room thatmorning she was a Medea in spirit. If any plot of that kind should bein the wind, she would do such things that all Devonshire should hearof her wrongs and of her revenge!

In the meantime Mr. Gibson was sitting by Arabella's bedside, whileMrs. French was trying to make herself busy in her own chamber, nextdoor. There had been a reading of some chapter of the Bible, --or ofsome portion of a chapter. And Mr. Gibson, as he read, and Arabella, as she listened, had endeavoured to take to their hearts and to makeuse of the word which they heard. The poor young woman, when shebegged her mother to send to her the man who was so dear to her, didso with some half-formed condition that it would be good for her tohear a clergyman read to her. But now the chapter had been read, andthe book was back in Mr. Gibson's pocket, and he was sitting withhis hand on the bed. "She is so very arrogant, " said Bella, --"andso domineering. " To this Mr. Gibson made no reply. "I'm sure I haveendeavoured to bear it well, though you must have known what I havesuffered, 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 now. I am not saying what thatshould 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 doanything just because it is the easiest. I don't suppose I shouldlive 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 terribleposition 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 somemysterious agency interferes with the affairs of a man, and driveshim on, --and on, --and on, --almost, --till he doesn't know where itdrives him. " As he said this in a voice that was quite sepulchralin its tone, he felt some consolation in the conviction that thismysterious agency could not affect a man without embuing him witha certain amount of grandeur, --very uncomfortable, indeed, in itsnature, but still having considerable value as a counterpoise. Pridemust bear pain;--but pain is recompensed by pride. 

"She is so strong, Thomas, that she can put up with anything, " saidArabella, 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'ttalk about it. You will drive me frantic. "

"You know what my feelings are, Thomas; you have always known them. There has been no change since I was the young thing you first knewme. " As she spoke, she just touched his hand with hers; but he didnot seem to notice this, sitting with his elbow on the arm of hischair 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 doubtof the truth of her assertion. "You have now to make up your mind andto be bold, Thomas, " continued Arabella. "She says that you are acoward; but I know that you are no coward. I told her so, and shesaid that I was interfering. Oh, --that she should be able to tell methat 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 willpray that I may decide aright. God bless you!" Then he kissed herbrow as she lay in bed, and hurried out of the room. 

He had hoped to go from the house without further converse with anyof its inmates; for his mind was disturbed, and he longed to be atrest. But he was not allowed to escape so easily. Camilla met him atthe dining-room door, and accosted him with a smile. There had beentime for much meditation during the last half hour, and Camilla hadmeditated. "How do you find her, Thomas?" she asked. 

"She seems weak, but I believe she is better. I have been reading toher. "

"Come in, Thomas;--will you not? It is bad for us to stand talking onthe stairs. Dear Thomas, don't let us be so cold to each other. " Hehad 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 putby a lady to a gentleman whose affections towards her are not strong, and it requires a very good actor to produce an efficient answer. 

"I hope you do, Thomas. It would be sad, indeed, if you did not. Youare not weary of your Camilla, --are you?"

For a moment there came upon him an idea that he would confess thathe was weary of her, but he found at once that such an effort wasbeyond his powers. "How can you ask such a question?" he said. 

"Because you do not--come to me. " Camilla, as she spoke, laid herhead upon his shoulder, and wept. "And now you have been five minuteswith me and nearly an hour with Bella. "

"She wanted me to read to her, " said Mr. Gibson;--and he hatedhimself 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 quitetrue, and yet he hated himself again for saying it. As Camilla knewthe truth of the last plea, she was obliged to let him go; but shemade him swear before he went that he loved her dearly. "I think it'sall right, " she said to herself as he went down the stairs. "I don'tthink he'd dare make it wrong. If he does;--o-oh!"

Mr. Gibson, as he walked into Exeter, endeavoured to justify hisown conduct to himself. There was no moment, he declared to himself, in which he had not endeavoured to do right. Seeing the manner inwhich he had been placed among these two young women, both of whomhad fallen in love with him, how could he have saved himself fromvacillation? And by what untoward chance had it come to pass that hehad now learned to dislike so vigorously, almost to hate, the onewith whom he had been for a moment sufficiently infatuated to thinkthat he loved?

But with all his arguments he did not succeed in justifying tohimself his own conduct, and he hated himself. 

CHAPTER LXVI. 

OF A QUARTER OF LAMB. 

Miss Stanbury, looking out of her parlour window, saw Mr. Gibsonhurrying towards the cathedral, down the passage which leads fromSouthernhay into the Close. "He's just come from Heavitree, I'll bebound, " 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 sickof 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 whyit was put off. It's my belief he'll never marry her. And she'll beserved right;--quite right. "

"He must marry her now, ma'am. She's been buying things all overExeter, as though there was no end of their money. "

"They haven't more than enough to keep body and soul together, " saidMiss Stanbury. "I don't see why I mightn't have gone to service thismorning, Martha. It's quite warm now out in the Close. "

"You'd better wait, ma'am, till the east winds is over. She was atPuddock's only the day before yesterday, buying bed-linen, --thefinest they had, and that wasn't good enough. "

"Psha!" said Miss Stanbury. 

"As though Mr. Gibson hadn't things of that kind good enough forher, " said Martha. 

Then there was silence in the room for awhile. Miss Stanbury wasstanding at one window, and Martha at the other, watching the peopleas they passed backwards and forwards, in and out of the Close. Dorothy had now been away at Nuncombe Putney for some weeks, and heraunt felt her loneliness with a heavy sense of weakness. Never hadshe entertained a companion in the house who had suited her as wellas her niece, Dorothy. Dorothy would always listen to her, wouldalways talk to her, would always bear with her. Since Dorothy hadgone, various letters had been interchanged between them. Thoughthere had been anger about Brooke Burgess, there had been no absoluterupture; but Miss Stanbury had felt that she could not write and begher niece to come back to her. She had not sent Dorothy away. Dorothyhad chosen to go, because her aunt had had an opinion of her own asto what was fitting for her heir; and as Miss Stanbury would not giveup her opinion, she could not ask her niece to return to her. Suchhad been her resolution, sternly expressed to herself a dozen timesduring these solitary weeks; but time and solitude had acted uponher, 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 NuncombePutney. "

"Again, ma'am?"

"Why not again? It's not so far, I suppose, that the journey willhurt 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 afool 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 sendGiles to Winslow's, and tell them to send in early to-morrow a nicefore-quarter of lamb. Or it wouldn't hurt you if you went and choseit yourself. "

"It wouldn't hurt me at all, ma'am. "

"You get it nice;--not too small, because meat is meat at the pricethings are now; and how they ever see butcher's meat at all is morethan I can understand. "

"People as has to be careful, ma'am, makes a little go a long way. "

"You get it a good size, and take it over in a basket. It won't hurtyou, 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 'emthink I sent it to my sister-in-law. "

"And is that to be all, ma'am?"

"How do you mean all?"

"Because, ma'am, the railway and the carrier would take it quiteready, and there would be a matter of ten or twelve shillings savedin the journey. "

"Whose affair is that?"

"Not mine, ma'am, of course. "

"I believe you are afraid of the trouble, Martha. Or else you don'tlike going because they're poor. "

"It ain't fair, ma'am, of you to say so;--that it ain't. All I askis, --is that to be all? When I've giv'em the lamb, am I just to comeaway straight, or am I to say anything? It will look so odd if I'mjust 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'tit;--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 shouldsay anything about returning--"

"Yes, ma'am. "

"You can say that you know her old aunt wouldn't, --wouldn't refuseto have her back again. You can put it your own way, you know. Youneedn'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 servantdidn't reply for awhile, but stood looking out of the window. "Youmight 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 youwant 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, Martha. "

"I'll do my best, ma'am, and I can't say no more. And if you scoldsme 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 quiteclean in a napkin, and fitted it into the basket, and arranged withGiles Hickbody to carry it down for her early in the morning to thestation, so that she might take the first train to Lessborough. Itwas understood that she was to hire a fly at Lessborough to take herto Nuncombe Putney. Now that she understood the importance of hermission and was aware that the present she took with her was onlythe customary accompaniment of an ambassadress entrusted with agreat mission, Martha said nothing even about the expense. The trainstarted for Lessborough at seven, and as she was descending from herroom at six, Miss Stanbury, in her flannel dressing-gown, steppedout of the door of her own room. "Just put this in the basket, " saidshe, handing a note to her servant. "I thought last night I'd write aword. Just put it in the basket and say nothing about it. " The notewhich she sent was as follows:--

 The Close, 8th April, 186--. 

 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 who don't get married are intended to be desolate; and perhaps it is better for them, if they bestow their time and thoughts properly, --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 as 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, be not such a one. For myself, I acknowledge bitterly the 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 Heavitree 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 STANBURY. 

 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 herniece back again, and yet she told herself that she was bound notto send a regular invitation, or to suggest an unconditional return. Dorothy had herself decided to take her departure, and if she choseto remain away, --so it must be. She, Miss Stanbury, could not demeanherself by renewing her invitation. She read her letter before sheadded to it the postscript, and felt that it was too solemn in itstone to suggest to Dorothy that which she wished to suggest. She hadbeen thinking much of her own past life when she wrote those wordsabout the state of an unmarried woman, and was vacillating betweentwo minds, --whether it were better for a young woman to look forwardto the cares and affections, and perhaps hard usage, of a marriedlife; or to devote herself to the easier and safer course of anold maid's career. But an old maid is nothing if she be not kindand good. She acknowledged that, and, acknowledging it, added thepostscript to her letter. What though there was a certain blowto her pride in the writing of it! She did tell herself that inthus referring her niece to Martha for an expression of her ownmind, --after that conversation which she and Martha had had in theparlour, --she was in truth eating her own words. But the postscriptwas written, and though she took the letter up with her to her ownroom in order that she might alter the words if she repented of themin the night, the letter was sent as it was written, --postscript andall. 

She spent the next day with very sober thoughts. When Mrs. MacHughcalled upon her and told her that there were rumours afloat inExeter that the marriage between Camilla French and Mr. Gibson wouldcertainly be broken off, in spite of all purchases that had beenmade, she merely remarked that they were two poor, feckless things, who didn't know their own minds. "Camilla knows hers plain enough, "said Mrs. MacHugh sharply; but even this did not give Miss Stanburyany spirit. She waited, and waited patiently, till Martha shouldreturn, thinking of the sweet pink colour which used to come andgo in Dorothy's cheeks, --which she had been wont to observe sofrequently, not knowing that she had observed it and loved it. 

CHAPTER LXVII. 

RIVER'S COTTAGE. 

Three days after Hugh Stanbury's visit to Manchester Street, he wrotea note to Lady Rowley, telling her of the address at which might befound both Trevelyan and his son. As Bozzle had acknowledged, factsare things which may be found out. Hugh had gone to work somewhatafter the Bozzlian fashion, and had found out this fact. "He lives ata place called River's Cottage, at Willesden, " wrote Stanbury. "Ifyou turn off the Harrow Road to the right, about a mile beyond thecemetery, you will find the cottage on the left hand side of the laneabout a quarter of a mile from the Harrow Road. I believe you can goto Willesden by railway, but you had better take a cab from London. "There was much consultation respecting this letter between LadyRowley and Mrs. Trevelyan, and it was decided that it should notbe shown to Sir Marmaduke. To see her child was at the presentmoment the most urgent necessity of the poor mother, and both theladies felt that Sir Marmaduke in his wrath might probably impederather than assist her in this desire. If told where he might findTrevelyan, he would probably insist on starting in quest of hisson-in-law himself, and the distance between the mother and her childmight become greater in consequence, instead of less. There were manyconsultations; and the upshot of these was, that Lady Rowley and herdaughter determined to start for Willesden without saying anything toSir Marmaduke of the purpose they had in hand. When Emily expressedher conviction that if Trevelyan should be away from home they wouldprobably be able to make their way into the house, --so as to see thechild, Lady Rowley with some hesitation acknowledged that such mightbe the case. But the child's mother said nothing to her own mother ofa scheme which she had half formed of so clinging to her boy that nohuman power should separate them. 

They started in a cab, as advised by Stanbury, and were driven to apoint on the road from which a lane led down to Willesden, passing byRiver's Cottage. They asked as they came along, and met no difficultyin finding their way. At the point on the road indicated, there wasa country inn for hay-waggoners, and here Lady Rowley proposed thatthey should leave their cab, urging that it might be best to call atthe cottage in the quietest manner possible; but Mrs. Trevelyan, withher scheme in her head for the recapture of their child, begged thatthe 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 windowon each side. Over the door was a stone tablet, bearing thename, --River's Cottage. There was a little garden between theroad and the house, across which there was a straight path to thedoor. In front of one window was a small shrub, generally calleda puzzle-monkey, and in front of the other was a variegated laurel. There were two small morsels of green turf, and a distant view roundthe corner of the house of a row of cabbage stumps. If Trevelyan wereliving there, he had certainly come down in the world since the daysin which he had occupied the house in Curzon Street. The two ladiesgot out of the cab, and slowly walked across the little garden. Mrs. Trevelyan was dressed in black, and she wore a thick veil. She hadaltogether been unable to make up her mind as to what should be herconduct to her husband should she see him. That must be governed bycircumstances as they might occur. Her visit was made not to him, butto her boy. 

The door was opened before they knocked, and Trevelyan himself wasstanding 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 thepassage. 

"Of course a mother would find out where was her child, " said LadyRowley. 

"You should not have come here without notice, " he said. "I wascareful to let you know the conditions on which you 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 firmly inthe doorway. By this time an old woman, decently dressed and ofcomfortable appearance, had taken her place behind him, and behindher was a slip of a girl about fifteen years of age. This was theowner of River's Cottage and her daughter, and all the inhabitantsof the cottage were now there, standing in the passage. "I ought notto let you see him, " said Trevelyan; "you have intruded upon me incoming here! I had not wished to see you here, --till you had compliedwith the order I had given you. " What a meeting between a husband anda wife who had not seen each other now for many months, --between ahusband and a wife who were still young enough not to have outlivedthe first impulses of their early love! He still stood there guardingthe way, and had not even put out his hand to greet her. He wasguarding the way lest she should, without his permission, obtainaccess to her own child! She had not removed her veil, and now shehardly dared to step over the threshold of her husband's house. Atthis moment, she perceived that the woman behind was pointing tothe room on the left, as the cottage was entered, and Emily at onceunderstood that her boy was there. Then at that moment she heard herson's voice, as, in his solitude, the child began to cry. "I must goin, " she said; "I will go in;" and rushing on she tried to push asideher husband. Her mother aided her, nor did Trevelyan attempt to stopher with violence, and in a moment she was kneeling at the foot of asmall sofa, with her child in her arms. "I had not intended to hinderyou, " said Trevelyan, "but I require from you a promise that you willnot attempt to remove him. "

"Why should she not take him home with her?" said Lady Rowley. 

"Because I will not have it so, " replied Trevelyan. "Because I choosethat it should be understood that I am to be the master of my ownaffairs. "

Mrs. Trevelyan had now thrown aside her bonnet and her veil, and wascovering her child with caresses. The poor little fellow, whose mindhad been utterly dismayed by the events which had occurred to himsince his capture, though he returned her kisses, did so in fearand trembling. And he was still sobbing, rubbing his eyes with hisknuckles, and by no means yielding himself with his whole heart tohis mother's tenderness, --as she would have had him do. "Louey, "she said, whispering to him, "you know mamma; you haven't forgottenmamma?" He half murmured some little infantine word through his sobs, and then put his cheek up to be pressed against his mother's face. "Louey will never, never forget his own mamma; will he, Louey?" Thepoor boy had no assurances to give, and could only raise his cheekagain to be kissed. In the meantime Lady Rowley and Trevelyan werestanding by, not speaking to each other, regarding the scene insilence. 

 [Illustration: "You haven't forgotten Mamma?"]

She, --Lady Rowley, --could see that he was frightfully altered inappearance, even since the day on which she had so lately met himin the City. His cheeks were thin and haggard, and his eyes weredeep and very bright, --and he moved them quickly from side to side, as though ever suspecting something. He seemed to be smaller instature, --withered, as it were, as though he had melted away. Andthough he stood looking upon his wife and child, he was not for amoment still. He would change the posture of his hands and arms, moving them quickly with little surreptitious jerks, and wouldshuffle his feet upon the floor, almost without altering hisposition. His clothes hung about him, and his linen was soiled andworn. Lady Rowley noticed this especially, as he had been a manpeculiarly given to neatness of apparel. He was the first to speak. "You have come down 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 noaccommodation. It is a wretched place, but it suits the boy. As forme, 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 will let me takehim with 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. Whatmust 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 thather face was almost close to his. "Louis, come back; come back, andlet it all be forgotten. It shall be a dream, a horrid dream, andnobody shall speak of it. " He left his hand within hers and stoodlooking into her face. He was well aware that his life since he hadleft her had been one long hour of misery. There had been to him noalleviation, no comfort, no consolation. He had not a friend left tohim. Even his satellite, the policeman, was becoming weary of him andmanifestly suspicious. The woman with whom he was now lodging, andwhose resources were infinitely benefited by his payments to her, hadalready thrown out hints that she was afraid of him. And as he lookedat his wife, he knew that he loved her. Everything for him now washot and dry and poor and bitter. How sweet would it be again to sitwith her soft hand in his, to feel her cool brow against his own, tohave 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 theworld; but now, for many months past, he had known no companion. Shebade him come to her, and look upon all this trouble as a dream notto be mentioned. Could it be possible that it should be so, and thatthey might yet be happy together, --perhaps in some distant country, where the story of all their misery might not be known? He felt allthis truly and with a keen accuracy. If he were mad, he was not allmad. "I will tell you of nothing that is past, " said she, hanging tohim, and coming still nearer to him, and embracing his arm. 

Could she have condescended to ask him not to tell her of thepast;--had it occurred to her so to word her request, --she mightperhaps have prevailed. But who can say how long the tenderness ofhis heart would have saved him from further outbreak;--and whethersuch prevailing on her part would have been of permanent service? Asit was, her words wounded him in that spot of his inner self whichwas most sensitive, --on that spot from whence had come all his fury. A black cloud came upon his brow, and he made an effort to withdrawhimself from her grasp. It was necessary to him that she should insome fashion own that he had been right, and now she was promisinghim that she would not tell him of his fault! He could not thusswallow down all the convictions by which he had fortified himself tobear the misfortunes which he had endured. Had he not quarrelled withevery friend he possessed on this score; and should he now stultifyhimself in all those quarrels by admitting that he had been cruel, unjust, and needlessly jealous? And did not truth demand of him thathe should cling to his old assurances? Had she not been disobedient, ill-conditioned, and rebellious? Had she not received the man, bothhim personally and his letters, after he had explained to her thathis honour demanded that it should not be so? How could he come intosuch terms as those now proposed to him, simply because he longedto enjoy the rich sweetness of her soft hand, to feel the fragranceof her breath, and to quench the heat of his forehead in the coolatmosphere of her beauty? "Why have you driven me to this by yourintercourse with that man?" he said. "Why, why, why did you do it?"

She was still clinging to him. "Louis, " she said, "I am your wife. "

"Yes; you are my wife. "

"And will you still believe such evil of me without any cause?"

"There has been cause, --horrible cause. You mustrepent, --repent, --repent. "

"Heaven help me, " said the woman, falling back from him, andreturning to the boy who was now seated in Lady Rowley's lap. "Mamma, do you speak to him. What can I say? Would he think better of me wereI to own myself to have been guilty, when there has been no guilt, noslightest fault? Does he wish me to purchase my child by saying thatI am not fit to be his mother?"

"Louis, " said Lady Rowley, "if any man was ever wrong, mad, madlymistaken, you are so now. "

"Have you come out here to accuse me again, as you did before inLondon?" he asked. "Is that the way in which you and she intend tolet the past be, as she says, like a dream? She tells me that I amill. It is true. I am ill, --and she is killing me, killing me, by herobstinacy. "

"What would you have me do?" said the wife, again rising from herchild. 

"Acknowledge your transgressions, and say that you will amend yourconduct 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 Rowley, but that I know howto 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 nowreturn to your mother's house; and if you wish again to have a houseof your own, and your husband, and your boy, you know by what meansyou may acquire them. For another week I shall remain here;--afterthat 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. Itmatters 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 hemay be a happier man than his father is all that there is now leftfor me in life. " Mrs. Trevelyan had now got the boy in her arms, andher mother was seated by her on the sofa. Trevelyan was standing awayfrom them, but so near the door that no sudden motion on their partwould enable them to escape with the boy without his interposition. It now again occurred to the mother to carry off her prize inopposition to her husband;--but she had no scheme to that effect laidwith her mother, and she could not reconcile herself to the idea ofa contest with him in which personal violence would be necessary. 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 astranger. "I do not wish to be uncourteous, " said Trevelyan, "but ifyou have no assurance to give me, you had better--leave me. "

Then there came to be a bargaining about time, and the poor womanbegged almost on her knees that she might be allowed to take herchild up-stairs and be with him alone for a few minutes. It seemedto 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 handupon his smooth back, and seen that he was white and clean and brightas he had ever been. And the bargain was made. She was asked topledge her word that she would not take him out of the house, --andshe pledged her word, feeling that there was no strength in her forthat action which she had meditated. He, knowing that he might stillguard the passage at the bottom of the stairs, allowed her to go withthe boy to his bedroom, while he remained below with Lady Rowley. Aquarter of an hour was allowed to her, and she humbly promised thatshe would return when that time was expired. 

Trevelyan held the door open for her as she went, and kept it openduring her absence. There was hardly a word said between him and LadyRowley, but he paced from the passage into the room and from the roominto the passage with his hands behind his back. "It is cruel, " hesaid once. "It is very cruel. "

"It is you that are cruel, " said Lady Rowley. 

"Of course;--of course. That is natural from you. I expect that fromyou. " To this she made no answer, and he did not open his lips again. 

After a while Mrs. Trevelyan called to her mother, and Lady Rowleywas allowed to go up-stairs. The quarter of an hour was of coursegreatly stretched, and all the time Trevelyan continued to pace inand out of the room. He was patient, for he did not summon them; butwent on pacing backwards and forwards, looking now and again to seethat the cab was at its place, --that no deceit was being attempted, no second act of kidnapping being perpetrated. At last the two ladiescame down the stairs, and the boy was with them, --and the woman ofthe house. 

"Louis, " said the wife, going quickly up to her husband, "I will doanything, if you will give me my child. "

"What will you do?"

"Anything;--say what you want. He is all the world to me, and Icannot live if he be 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 haveme say that?"

"He cannot think that it is so, " said Lady Rowley. 

But Trevelyan had not understood her. "Lady Rowley, I should havefancied that my thoughts at any rate were my own. But this is uselessnow. The child cannot go with you to-day, nor can you remain here. Gohome and think of what I have said. If then you will do as I wouldhave you, you shall return. "

With many embraces, with promises of motherly love, and with prayersfor love in return, the poor woman did at last leave the house, andreturn to the cab. As she went there was a doubt on her own mindwhether she should ask to kiss her husband; but he made no sign, andshe at last passed out without any mark of tenderness. He stood bythe cab as they entered it, and closed the door upon them, and thenwent 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 goesbecause her spirit is obstinate, and she will not bend. She isstiff-necked, and will not submit herself. But Louey must love mammaalways;--and mamma some day will come back to him, and be good tohim. "

"Mamma is good, --always, " said the child. Trevelyan had intended onthis very afternoon to have gone up to town, --to transact businesswith Bozzle; for he still believed, though the aspect of the man wasbitter to him as wormwood, that Bozzle was necessary to him in allhis business. And he still made appointments with the man, sometimesat Stony Walk, in the Borough, and sometimes at the tavern inPoulter's Court, even though Bozzle not unfrequently neglected toattend the summons of his employer. And he would go to his banker'sand draw out money, and then walk about the crowded lanes of theCity, and afterwards return to his desolate lodgings at Willesden, thinking that he had been transacting business, --and that thisbusiness was exacted from him by the unfortunate position of hisaffairs. But now he gave up his journey. His retreat had beendiscovered; and there came upon him at once a fear that if he leftthe house his child would be taken. His landlady told him on thisvery day that the boy ought to be sent to his mother, and had madehim understand that it would not suit her to find a home any longerfor one who was so singular in his proceedings. He believed that hischild 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. Hehad told his wife that he should go either to Italy or to America atonce; but in doing so he had had no formed plan in his head. He hadsimply imagined at the moment that such a threat would bring her tosubmission. But now it became a question whether he would do betterthan go to America. He suggested to himself that he should go toCanada, and fix himself with his boy on some remote farm, --far awayfrom any city; and would then invite his wife to join him if shewould. She was too obstinate, as he told himself, ever to yield, unless she should be absolutely softened and brought down to theground by the loss of her child. What would do this so effectuallyas the interposition of the broad ocean between him and her? He satthinking of this for the rest of the day, and Louey was left to thecharge of the mistress of River's Cottage. 

"Do you think he believes it, mamma?" Mrs. Trevelyan said to hermother when they had already made nearly half their journey home inthe cab. There had been nothing spoken hitherto between them, exceptsome half-formed words of affection intended for consolation to theyoung mother in her great affliction. 

"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 issin--to him. "

"But I asked him, mamma. Did you not hear me? I could not saythe word plainer, --but I asked him whether he meant that sin. He must have known, and he would not answer me. And he spoke ofmy--transgression. Mamma, if he believed that, he would not let mecome back at all. "

"He did not believe it, Emily. "

"Could he possibly then so accuse me, --the mother of his child! Ifhis heart be utterly hard and false towards me, if it is possiblethat he should be cruel to me with such cruelty as that, --still hemust love his boy. Why did he not answer me, and say that he did notthink 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 observehow thin he is, --and his back, how bent? And his clothes, --how theywere torn and soiled. It cannot be right that he should be left likethat. "

"We will tell papa when we get home, " said Lady Rowley, who washerself beginning to be somewhat frightened by what she had seen. It is all very well to declare that a friend is mad when one simplydesires to justify one's self in opposition to that friend;--butthe matter becomes much more serious when evidence of the friend'sinsanity becomes true and circumstantial. "I certainly think that aphysician should see him, " continued Lady Rowley. On their returnhome Sir Marmaduke was told of what had occurred, and there was along family discussion in which it was decided that Lady Milboroughshould be consulted, as being the oldest friend of Louis Trevelyanhimself with whom they were acquainted. Trevelyan had relatives ofhis own name living in Cornwall; but Mrs. Trevelyan herself had nevereven met one of that branch of the family. 

Sir Marmaduke, however, resolved that he himself would go out andsee his son-in-law. He too had called Trevelyan mad, but he did notbelieve that the madness was of such a nature as to interfere withhis own duties in punishing the man who had ill used his daughter. Hewould at any rate see Trevelyan himself;--but of this he said nothingeither to his wife or to his child. 

CHAPTER LXVIII. 

MAJOR MAGRUDER'S COMMITTEE. 

 [Illustration]

Sir Marmaduke could not go out to Willesden on the morning after LadyRowley's return from River's Cottage, because on that day he wassummoned to attend at twelve o'clock before a Committee of the Houseof Commons, to give his evidence and the fruit of his experience asto the government of British colonies generally; and as he went downto the House in a cab from Manchester Street he thoroughly wishedthat his friend Colonel Osborne had not been so efficacious inbringing him home. The task before him was one which he thoroughlydisliked, and of which he was afraid. He dreaded the inquisitorsbefore whom he was to appear, and felt that though he was calledthere to speak as a master of his art of governing, he would in truthbe examined as a servant, --and probably as a servant who did notknow his business. Had his sojourn at home been in other respectshappy, he might have been able to balance the advantage against theinquiry;--but there was no such balancing for him now. And, moreover, the expense of his own house in Manchester Street was so large thatthis journey, in a pecuniary point of view, would be of but littleservice to him. So he went down to the House in an unhappy mood; andwhen he shook hands in one of the passages with his friend Osbornewho was on the Committee, there was very little cordiality in hismanner. "This is the most ungrateful thing I ever knew, " said theColonel to himself; "I have almost disgraced myself by having thisfellow brought home; and now he quarrels with me because that idiot, his son-in-law, has quarrelled with his wife. " And Colonel Osbornereally did feel that he was a martyr to the ingratitude of hisfriend. 

The Committee had been convoked by the House in compliance with theeager desires of a certain ancient pundit of the constitution, whohad been for many years a member, and who had been known as a sterncritic of our colonial modes of government. To him it certainlyseemed that everything that was, was bad, --as regarded our nationaldependencies. But this is so usually the state of mind of allparliamentary critics, it is so much a matter of course that themembers who take up the army or the navy, guns, India, our relationswith Spain, or workhouse management, should find everything tobe bad, rotten, and dishonest, that the wrath of the member forKillicrankie against colonial peculation and idleness, was notthought 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 likedhim. He had made himself free of the office, and the clerks werealways glad to see him. It was understood that he said bitter thingsin the House, --that was Major Magruder's line of business; but hecould be quite pleasant when he was asking questions of a privatesecretary, or telling the news of the day to a senior clerk. As hewas now between seventy and eighty, and had been at the work for atleast twenty years, most of those concerned had allowed themselvesto think that he would ride his hobby harmlessly to the day of hisparliamentary death. But the drop from a house corner will hollowa stone by its constancy, and Major Magruder at last persuaded theHouse to grant him a Committee of Inquiry. Then there came to beserious faces at the Colonial Office, and all the little pleasantriesof a friendly opposition were at an end. It was felt that the battlemust now become a real fight, and Secretary and Under-Secretarygirded up their loins. 

Major Magruder was chairman of his own committee, and being a manof a laborious turn of mind, much given to blue-books, very patient, thoroughly conversant with the House, and imbued with a strong beliefin the efficacy of parliamentary questionings to carry a point, ifnot to elicit a fact, had a happy time of it during this session. He was a man who always attended the House from 4 p. M. To the timeof its breaking up, and who never missed a division. The slightadditional task of sitting four hours in a committee-room three daysa week, was only a delight the more, --especially as during those fourhours he could occupy the post of chairman. Those who knew MajorMagruder well did not doubt but that the Committee would sit for manyweeks, and that the whole theory of colonial government, or rather ofimperial control supervising such government, would be tested to thevery utmost. Men who had heard the old Major maunder on for yearspast on his pet subject, hardly knew how much vitality would be foundin him when his maundering had succeeded in giving him a committee. 

A Governor from one of the greater colonies had already been underquestion for nearly a week, and was generally thought to have comeout 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 thatthe control of Downing Street was never more harsh and seldom lessrefreshing and beautifying than a spring shower in April. No otherlands under the sun were so blest, in the way of government, as werethe colonies with which he had been acquainted; and, as a naturalconsequence, their devotion and loyalty to the mother country werequite a passion with them. Now the Major had been long of a mind thatone or two colonies had better simply be given up to other nations, which were more fully able to look after them than was England, andthat three or four more should be allowed to go clear, --costingEngland nothing, and owing England nothing. But the well-chosenGovernor who had now been before the Committee, had rather staggeredthe Major, --and things altogether were supposed to be looking up forthe Colonial Office. 

And now had come the day of Sir Marmaduke's martyrdom. He was firstrequested, with most urbane politeness, to explain the exact natureof the government which he exercised in the Mandarins. Now itcertainly was the case that the manner in which the legislative andexecutive authorities were intermingled in the affairs of theseislands, did create a complication which it was difficult for any manto understand, and very difficult indeed for any man to explain toothers. There was a Court of Chancery, so called, which Sir Marmadukedescribed as a little parliament. When he was asked whether the courtexercised legislative or executive functions, he said at first thatit exercised both, and then that it exercised neither. He knew thatit consisted of nine men, of whom five were appointed by the colonyand four by the Crown. Yet he declared that the Crown had the controlof the court;--which, in fact, was true enough no doubt, as the fiveopen members were not perhaps, all of them, immaculate patriots; buton this matter poor Sir Marmaduke was very obscure. When asked whoexercised the patronage of the Crown in nominating the four members, he declared that the four members exercised it themselves. Did heappoint them? No; he never appointed anybody himself. He consultedthe Court of Chancery for everything. At last it came out that thechief justice of the islands, and three other officers, always sat inthe court;--but whether it was required by the constitution of theislands that this should be so, Sir Marmaduke did not know. It hadworked well; that was to say, everybody had complained of it, buthe, Sir Marmaduke, would not recommend any change. What he thoughtbest was that the Colonial Secretary should send out his orders, andthat the people in the colonies should mind their business and growcoffee. When asked what would be the effect upon the islands, underhis scheme of government, if an incoming Colonial Secretary shouldchange the policy of his predecessor, he said that he didn't think itwould much matter if the people did not know anything about it. 

In this way the Major had a field day, and poor Sir Marmadukewas much discomfited. There was present on the Committee a youngParliamentary Under-Secretary, who with much attention had studiedthe subject of the Court of Chancery in the Mandarins, and who hadacknowledged to his superiors in the office that it certainly was ofall legislative assemblies the most awkward and complicated. He didwhat he could, by questions judiciously put, to pull Sir Marmadukethrough his difficulties; but the unfortunate Governor had more thanonce lost his temper in answering the chairman; and in his heavyconfusion was past the power of any Under-Secretary, let him be everso clever, to pull him through. Colonel Osborne sat by the while andasked no questions. He had been put on the Committee as a respectabledummy; but there was not a member sitting there who did not know thatSir Marmaduke had been brought home as his friend;--and some of them, no doubt, had whispered that this bringing home of Sir Marmadukewas part of the payment made by the Colonel for the smiles of theGovernor's daughter. But no one alluded openly to the inefficiency ofthe evidence given. No one asked why a Governor so incompetent hadbeen sent to them. No one suggested that a job had been done. Thereare certain things of which opposition members of Parliament complainloudly;--and there are certain other things as to which they aresilent. The line between these things is well known; and should anill-conditioned, a pig-headed, an underbred, or an ignorant membernot understand this line and transgress it, by asking questions whichshould not be asked, he is soon put down from the Treasury bench, tothe great delight of the whole House. 

Sir Marmaduke, after having been questioned for an entire afternoon, left the House with extreme disgust. He was so convinced of his ownfailure, that he felt that his career as a Colonial Governor must beover. Surely they would never let him go back to his islands aftersuch an exposition as he had made of his own ignorance. He hurriedoff into a cab, and was ashamed to be seen of men. But the membersof the Committee thought little or nothing about it. The Major, andthose who sided with him, had been anxious to entrap their witnessinto contradictions and absurdities, for the furtherance of their ownobject; and for the furtherance of theirs, the Under-Secretary fromthe Office and the supporters of Government had endeavoured to defendtheir man. But, when the affair was over, if no special admirationhad been elicited for Sir Marmaduke, neither was there expressedany special reprobation. The Major carried on his Committee oversix weeks, and succeeded in having his blue-book printed; but, asa matter of course, nothing further came of it; and the Court ofChancery in the Mandarin Islands still continues to hold its own, and to do its work, in spite of the absurdities displayed in itsconstruction. Major Magruder has had his day of success, and nowfeels that Othello's occupation is gone. He goes no more to theColonial Office, lives among his friends on the memories of hisCommittee, --not always to their gratification, --and is beginning tothink that as his work is done he may as well resign Killicrankie tosome younger politician. Poor Sir Marmaduke remembered his defeatwith soreness long after it had been forgotten by all others who hadbeen present, and was astonished when he found that the journals ofthe day, though they did in some curt fashion report the proceedingsof the Committee, never uttered a word of censure against him, asthey had not before uttered a word of praise for that pearl of aGovernor who had been examined before him. 

On the following morning he went to the Colonial Office byappointment, and then he saw the young Irish Under-Secretary whom hehad so much dreaded. Nothing could be more civil than was the youngIrish Under-Secretary, who told him that he had better of course stayin town till the Committee was over, though it was not probable thathe would be wanted again. When the Committee had done its work hewould be allowed to remain six weeks on service to prepare for hisjourney back. If he wanted more time after that he could ask forleave of absence. So Sir Marmaduke left the Colonial Office with agreat weight off his mind, and blessed that young Irish Secretary ashe went. 

CHAPTER LXIX. 

SIR MARMADUKE AT WILLESDEN. 

On the next day Sir Marmaduke purposed going to Willesden. He was ingreat doubt whether or no he would first consult that very eminentman Dr. Trite Turbury, as to the possibility, and, --if possible, --asto the expediency, of placing Mr. Trevelyan under some control. ButSir Marmaduke, though he would repeatedly declare that his son-in-lawwas mad, did not really believe in this madness. He did not, thatis, believe that Trevelyan was so mad as to be fairly exempt fromthe penalties of responsibility; and he was therefore desirous ofspeaking his own mind out fully to the man, and, as it were, ofhaving his own personal revenge, before he might be deterred by theinterposition of medical advice. He resolved therefore that he wouldnot see Sir Trite Turbury, at any rate till he had come back fromWillesden. He also went down in a cab, but he left the cab at thepublic-house at the corner of the road, and walked to the cottage. 

When he asked whether Mr. Trevelyan was at home, the woman ofthe house hesitated and then said that her lodger was out. "Iparticularly wish to see him, " said Sir Marmaduke, feeling that thewoman was lying to him. "But he ain't to be seen, sir, " said thewoman. "I know he is at home, " said Sir Marmaduke. But the argumentwas soon cut short by the appearance of Trevelyan behind the woman'sshoulder. 

"I am here, Sir Marmaduke Rowley, " said Trevelyan. "If you wish tosee me you may come in. I will not say that you are welcome, but youcan come in. " Then the woman retired, and Sir Marmaduke followedTrevelyan into the room in which Lady Rowley and Emily had beenreceived; but the child was not now in the chamber. 

"What are these charges that I hear against my daughter?" said SirMarmaduke, 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 nohouse of your own for her. Is not that so? And when I came home shewas staying with her uncle, because you had put her away. And whatwas the meaning of her being sent down into Devonshire? What has shedone? I am her father, and I expect to have an answer. "

"You shall have an answer, certainly. "

"And a true one. I will have no hocus-pocus, no humbug, no Jesuitry. "

"Have you come here to insult me, Sir Marmaduke? Because, if so, there shall be an end to this interview at once. "

"There shall not be an end;--by G----, no, not till I have heard whatis the meaning of all this. Do you know what people are saying ofyou;--that you are mad, and that you must be locked up, and yourchild taken away from you, and your property?"

"Who are the people that say so? Yourself;--and, perhaps, LadyRowley? Does my wife say so? Does she think that I am mad? She didnot think so on Thursday, when she prayed that she might be allowedto come back and live with me. "

"And you would not let her come?"

"Pardon me, " said Trevelyan. "I would wish that she should come, --butit must be on certain conditions. "

"What I want to know is why she was turned out of your house?"

"She was not turned out. "

"What has she done that she should be punished?" urged Sir Marmaduke, who was unable to arrange his questions with the happiness which haddistinguished Major Magruder. "I insist upon knowing what it is thatyou 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 willknow. "

"You have come here to bully me, Sir Marmaduke Rowley. "

"I have come here, sir, to do the duty of a parent to his child;to protect my poor girl against the cruelty of a husband who inan unfortunate hour was allowed to take her from her home. I willknow the reason why my daughter has been treated as though, --asthough, --as though--"

"Listen to me for a minute, " said Trevelyan. 

"I am listening. "

"I will tell you nothing; I will answer you not a word. "

"You will not answer me?"

"Not when you come to me in this fashion. My wife is my wife, andmy claim to her is nearer and closer than is yours, who are herfather. She is the mother of my child, and the only being in theworld, --except that child, --whom I love. Do you think that withsuch motives on my part for tenderness towards her, for loving care, for the most anxious solicitude, that I can be made more anxious, more tender, more loving by coarse epithets from you? I am themost miserable being under the sun because our happiness has beeninterrupted, and is it likely that such misery should be cured byviolent words and gestures? If your heart is wrung for her, so ismine. If she be much to you, she is more to me. She came here theother day, almost as a stranger, and I thought that my heart wouldhave burst beneath its weight of woe. What can you do that can addan ounce to the burden that I bear? You may as well leave me, --or atleast be quiet. "

Sir Marmaduke had stood and listened to him, and he, too, was sostruck by the altered appearance of the man that the violence of hisindignation was lessened by the pity which he could not suppress. When Trevelyan spoke of his wretchedness, it was impossible not tobelieve him. He was as wretched a being to look at as it might havebeen possible to find. His contracted cheeks, and lips always open, and eyes glowing in their sunken caverns, told a tale which evenSir Marmaduke, who was not of nature quick in deciphering suchstories, could not fail to read. And then the twitching motion ofthe man's hands, and the restless shuffling of his feet, produced anervous feeling that if some remedy were not applied quickly, somealleviation given to the misery of the suffering wretch, human powerwould be strained too far, and the man would break to pieces, --orelse the mind of the man. Sir Marmaduke, during his journey in thecab, had resolved that, old as he was, he would take this sinnerby the throat, this brute who had striven to stain his daughter'sname, --and would make him there and then acknowledge his ownbrutality. But it was now very manifest to Sir Marmaduke that therecould be no taking by the throat in this case. He could not havebrought himself to touch the poor, weak, passionate creature beforehim. Indeed, even the fury of his words was stayed, and after thatlast appeal he stormed no more. "But what is to be the end of it?" hesaid. 

"Who can tell? Who can say? She can tell. She can put an end to itall. She has but to say a word, and I will devote my life to her. Butthat word must be spoken. " As he said this, he dashed his hand uponthe-table, and looked up with an air that would have been comic withits assumed magnificence had it not been for the true tragedy of theoccasion. 

"You had better, at any rate, let her have her child for thepresent. "

"No;--my boy shall go with me. She may go, too, if she pleases, butmy boy shall certainly go with me. If I had put her from me, as yousaid just now, it might have been otherwise. But she shall be aswelcome to me as flowers in May, --as flowers in May! She shall be aswelcome to me as the music of heaven. "

Sir Marmaduke felt that he had nothing more to urge. He hadaltogether abandoned that idea of having his revenge at the cost ofthe man's throat, and was quite convinced that reason could haveno power with him. He was already thinking that he would go away, straight to his lawyer, so that some step might be taken at once tostop, if possible, the taking away of the boy to America, when thelock of the door was gently turned, and the landlady entered theroom. 

"You will excuse me, sir, " said the woman, "but if you be anything tothis gentleman--"

"Mrs. Fuller, leave the room, " said Trevelyan. "I and the gentlemanare engaged. "

"I see you be engaged, and I do beg pardon. I ain't one as wouldintrude wilful, and, as for listening, or the likes of that, I scornit. But if this gentleman be anything to you, Mr. Trevelyan--"

"I am his wife's father, " said Sir Marmaduke. 

"Like enough. I was thinking perhaps so. His lady was down here onThursday, --as sweet a lady as any gentleman need wish to stretch byhis side. "

"Mrs. Fuller, " said Trevelyan, marching up towards her, "I will nothave this, and I desire that you will retire from my room. "

But Mrs. Fuller escaped round the table, and would not be banished. She got round the table, and came closely opposite to Sir Marmaduke. "I don't want to say nothing out of my place, sir, " said she, "butsomething ought to be done. He ain't fit to be left to hisself, --notalone, --not as he is at present. He ain't, indeed, and I wouldn't bedoing my duty if I didn't say so. He has them sweats at night as'd beenough 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, ifit wasn't that I and my Bessy is fond of children, I don't know whatwould become of that boy. "

Trevelyan, finding it impossible to get rid of her, had stoodquietly, while he listened to her. "She has been good to my child, "he said. "I acknowledge it. As for myself, I have not been well. Itis true. But I am told that travel will set me on my feet again. Change of air will do it. " Not long since he had been urging thewretchedness of his own bodily health as a reason why his wifeshould yield to him; but now, when his sickness was brought as acharge against him, --was adduced as a reason why his friends shouldinterfere, and look after him, and concern themselves in his affairs, he saw at once that it was necessary that he should make little ofhis ailments. 

"Would it not be best, Trevelyan, that you should come with me to adoctor?" said Sir Marmaduke. 

"No;--no. I have my own doctor. That is, I know the course whichI should follow. This place, though it is good for the boy, hasdisagreed with me, and my life has not been altogether pleasant;--Imay say, by no means pleasant. Troubles have told upon me, but changeof air will mend it all. "

"I wish you would come with me, at once, to London. You shall comeback, you know. I will not detain you. "

"Thank you, --no. I will not trouble you. That will do, Mrs. Fuller. You have intended to do your duty, no doubt, and now you can go. "Whereupon Mrs. Fuller did go. "I am obliged for your care, SirMarmaduke, but I can really do very well without troubling you. "

"You cannot suppose, Trevelyan, that we can allow things to go onlike this. "

"And what do you mean to do?"

"Well;--I shall take advice. I shall go to a lawyer, --and to adoctor, and perhaps to the Lord Chancellor, and all that kind ofthing. We can't let things go on like this. "

"You can do as you please, " said Trevelyan, "but as you havethreatened me, I must ask you to leave me. "

Sir Marmaduke could do no more, and could say no more, and he tookhis leave, shaking hands with the man, and speaking to him with acourtesy which astonished himself. It was impossible to maintainthe strength of his indignation against a poor creature who was somanifestly unable to guide himself. But when he was in London hedrove at once to the house of Dr. Trite Turbury, and remained theretill the doctor returned from his round of visits. According tothe great authority, there was much still to be done before eventhe child could be rescued out of the father's hands. "I can't actwithout the lawyers, " said Dr. Turbury. But he explained to SirMarmaduke what steps should be taken in such a matter. 

Trevelyan, in the mean time, clearly understanding that hostilemeasures would now be taken against him, set his mind to work tothink how best he might escape at once to America with his boy. 

CHAPTER LXX. 

SHEWING WHAT NORA ROWLEY THOUGHT ABOUT CARRIAGES. 

Sir Marmaduke, on his return home from Dr. Turbury's house, foundthat he had other domestic troubles on hand over and above thosearising from his elder daughter's position. Mr. Hugh Stanbury hadbeen in Manchester Street during his absence, and had asked for him, and, finding that he was away from home, had told his story to LadyRowley. When he had been shown up-stairs all the four daughters hadbeen with their mother; but he had said a word or two signifying hisdesire to speak to Lady Rowley, and the three girls had left theroom. In this way it came to pass that he had to plead his causebefore Nora's mother and her elder sister. He had pleaded it well, and Lady Rowley's heart had been well disposed towards him; but whenshe asked of his house and his home, his answer had been hardly moresatisfactory than that of Alan-a-Dale. There was little that hecould call his own beyond "The blue vault of heaven. " Had he savedany money? No, --not a shilling;--that was to say, --as he himselfexpressed it, --nothing that could be called money. He had a fewpounds by him, just to go on with. What was his income? Well--lastyear he had made four hundred pounds, and this year he hoped to makesomething more. He thought he could see his way plainly to fivehundred 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 whenceit was drawn at the present moment, it might be brought to an abruptend any day by a disagreement between himself and the editor of theD. R. Did he think that this was a fixed income? He did think that ifhe and the editor of the D. R. Were to fall out, he could come acrossother editors who would gladly employ him. Would he himself feel safein giving his own sister to a man with such an income? In answer tothis question, he started some rather bold doctrines on the subjectof matrimony in general, asserting that safety was not desirable, that energy, patience, and mutual confidence would be increased bythe excitement of risk, and that in his opinion it behoved young menand young women to come together and get themselves married, eventhough there might be some not remote danger of distress before them. He admitted that starvation would be disagreeable, --especially forchildren, in the eyes of their parents, --but alleged that childrenas a rule were not starved, and quoted the Scripture to prove thathonest laborious men were not to be seen begging their bread inthe streets. He was very eloquent, but his eloquence itself wasagainst him. Both Lady Rowley and Mrs. Trevelyan were afraid of suchadvanced opinions; and, although everything was of course to be left, nominally, to the decision of Sir Marmaduke, they both declared thatthey could not recommend Sir Marmaduke to consent. Lady Rowley saida word as to the expediency of taking Nora back with her to theMandarins, pointing out what appeared to her then to be the necessityof taking Mrs. Trevelyan with them also; and in saying this shehinted that if Nora were disposed to stand by her engagement, andMr. Stanbury equally so disposed, there might be some possibilityof a marriage at a future period. Only in such case, there must beno correspondence. In answer to this Hugh declared that he regardedsuch a scheme as being altogether bad. The Mandarins were so very fardistant that he might as well be engaged to an angel in heaven. Nora, if she were to go away now, would perhaps never come back again; andif she did come back, would be an old woman, with hollow cheeks. Inreplying to this proposition, he let fall an opinion that Nora wasold enough to judge for herself. He said nothing about her actualage, and did not venture to plead that the young lady had a legalright to do as she liked with herself; but he made it manifest thatsuch an idea was in his mind. In answer to this, Lady Rowley assertedthat Nora was a good girl, and would do as her father told her; butshe did not venture to assert that Nora would give up her engagement. Lady Rowley at last undertook to speak to Sir Rowley, and to speakalso to her daughter. Hugh was asked for his address, and gave thatof the office of the D. R. He was always to be found there betweenthree and five; and after that, four times a week, in the reporters'gallery of the House of Commons. Then he was at some pains to explainto Lady Rowley that though he attended the reporters' gallery, hedid not report himself. It was his duty to write leading politicalarticles, and, to enable him to do so, he attended the debates. 

Before he went Mrs. Trevelyan thanked him most cordially for thetrouble he had taken in procuring for her the address at Willesden, and gave him some account of the journey which she and her motherhad made to River's Cottage. He argued with both of them that theunfortunate man must now be regarded as being altogether out of hismind, and something was said as to the great wisdom and experience ofDr. Trite Turbury. Then Hugh Stanbury took his leave; and even LadyRowley bade him adieu with kind cordiality. "I don't wonder, mamma, that Nora should like him, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"That is all very well, my dear, and no doubt he is pleasant, andmanly, and all that;--but really it would be almost like marrying abeggar. "

"For myself, " said Mrs. Trevelyan, "if I could begin life again, I donot think that any temptation would induce me to place myself in aman's power. "

Sir Marmaduke was told of all this on his return home, and he askedmany questions as to the nature of Stanbury's work. When it wasexplained to him, --Lady Rowley repeating as nearly as she could allthat Hugh had himself said about it, he expressed his opinion thatwriting for a penny newspaper was hardly more safe as a source ofincome than betting on horse races. "I don't see that it is wrong, "said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"I say nothing about wrong. I simply assert that it is uncertain. Thevery existence of such a periodical must in itself be most insecure. "Sir Marmaduke, amidst the cares of his government at the Mandarins, had, perhaps, had no better opportunity of watching what was going onin the world of letters than had fallen to the lot of Miss Stanburyat Exeter. 

"I think your papa is right, " said Lady Rowley. 

"Of course I am right. It is out of the question; and so Nora mustbe told. " He had as yet heard nothing about Mr. Glascock. Had thatmisfortune been communicated to him his cup would indeed have beenfilled with sorrow to overflowing. 

In the evening Nora was closeted with her father. "Nora, my dear, you must understand, once and for all, that this cannot be, " saidSir Marmaduke. The Governor, when he was not disturbed by outwardcircumstances, could assume a good deal of personal dignity, andcould speak, especially to his children, with an air of indisputableauthority. 

"What can't be, papa?" said Nora. 

Sir Marmaduke perceived at once that there was no indication ofobedience in his daughter's voice, and he prepared himself forbattle. He conceived himself to be very strong, and thought that hisobjections were so well founded that no one would deny their truthand that his daughter had not a leg to stand on. "This, that yourmamma tells me of about Mr. Stanbury. Do you know, my dear, that hehas not a shilling in the world?"

"I know that he has no fortune, papa, --if you mean that. "

"And no profession either;--nothing that can be called a profession. I do not wish to argue it, my dear, because there is no room forargument. The whole thing is preposterous. I cannot but think illof him for having proposed it to you; for he must have known, --musthave known, that a young man without an income cannot be accepted asa fitting suitor for a gentleman's daughter. As for yourself, I canonly hope that you will get the little idea out of your head veryquickly;--but mamma will speak to you about that. What I want you tounderstand from me is this, --that there must be an end to it. "

Nora listened to this speech in perfect silence, standing before herfather, and waiting patiently till the last word of it should bepronounced. Even when he had finished she still paused before sheanswered him. "Papa, " she said at last, and hesitated again beforeshe went on. 

"Well, my dear. "

"I can not give it up. "

"But you must give it up. "

 [Illustration: "But you must give it up, " said Sir Marmaduke. ]

"No, papa. I would do anything I could for you and mamma, but that isimpossible. "

"Why is it impossible?"

"Because I love him so dearly. "

"That is nonsense. That is what all girls say when they choose torun against their parents. I tell you that it shall be given up. Iwill not have him here. I forbid you to see him. It is quite out ofthe question that you should marry such a man. I do hope, Nora, thatyou are not going to add to mamma's difficulties and mine by beingobstinate and disobedient. " He paused a moment, and then added, "I donot think that there is anything more to be said. "

"Papa. "

"My dear, I think you had better say nothing further about it. If youcannot bring yourself at the present moment to promise that thereshall be an end of it, you had better hold your tongue. You haveheard what I say, and you have heard what mamma says. I do not fora moment suppose that you dream of carrying on a communication withthis gentleman in opposition to our wishes. "

"But I do. "

"Do what?"

"Papa, you had better listen to me. " Sir Marmaduke, when he heardthis, assumed an air of increased authority, in which he intendedthat paternal anger should be visible; but he seated himself, andprepared to receive, at any rate, some of the arguments with whichNora intended to bolster up her bad cause. "I have promised Mr. Stanbury that I will be his wife. "

"That is all nonsense. "

"Do listen to me, papa. I have listened to you and you ought tolisten to me. I have promised him, and I must keep my promise. Ishall keep my promise if he wishes it. There is a time when a girlmust be supposed to know what is best for herself, --just as there isfor a man. "

"I never heard such stuff in all my life. Do you mean that you'll goout and marry him like a beggar, with nothing but what you stand upin, with no friend to be with you, an outcast, thrown off by yourmother, --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 sayto-day or to-morrow; but it must be the intention and purpose ofmy life, and I must declare that it is, everywhere. I have madeup my mind about it. I am engaged to him, and I shall always sayso, --unless he breaks it. I don't care a bit about fortune. I thoughtI did once, but I have changed all that. "

"Because this scoundrel has talked sedition to you. "

"He is not a scoundrel, papa, and he has not talked sedition. I don'tknow what sedition is. I thought it meant treason, and I'm sure he isnot a traitor. He has made me love him, and I shall be true to him. "

Hereupon Sir Marmaduke began almost to weep. There came first ahalf-smothered oath and then a sob, and he walked about the room, andstruck the table with his fist, and rubbed his bald head impatientlywith his hand. "Nora, " he said, "I thought you were so different fromthis! If I had believed this of you, you never should have come toEngland with Emily. "

"It is too late for that now, papa. "

"Your mamma always told me that you had such excellent ideas aboutmarriage. "

"So I have, --I think, " said she, smiling. 

"She always believed that you would make a match that would be acredit to the family. "

"I tried it, papa;--the sort of match that you mean. Indeed I wasmercenary enough in what I believed to be my views of life. I meantto marry a rich man, --if I could, and did not think much whether Ishould love him or not. But when the rich man came--"

"What rich man?"

"I suppose mamma has told you 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 itwith all its aggravating details. By degrees Sir Marmaduke learnedthat this Mr. Glascock, who had desired to be his son-in-law, was invery truth the heir to the Peterborough title and estates, --wouldhave been such a son-in-law as almost to compensate, by thebrilliance of the connection, for that other unfortunate alliance. Hecould hardly control his agony when he was made to understand thatthis embryo peer had in truth been in earnest. "Do you mean that hewent down after you into Devonshire?"

"Yes, papa. "

"And you refused him then, --a second time?"

"Yes, papa. "

"Why;--why;--why? You say yourself that you liked him;--that youthought that you would accept him. "

"When it came to speaking the word, papa, I found that I could notpretend to love him when I did not love him. I did not care forhim, --and I liked somebody else so much better! I just told him theplain truth, --and so he went away. "

The thought of all that he had lost, of all that might so easily havebeen his, for a time overwhelmed Sir Marmaduke, and drove the verymemory of Hugh Stanbury almost out of his head. He could understandthat a girl should not marry a man whom she did not like; but hecould not understand how any girl should not love such a suitoras was Mr. Glascock. And had she accepted this pearl of men, withher position, with her manners and beauty and appearance, such aconnection would have been as good as an assured marriage for everyone of Sir Marmaduke's numerous daughters. Nora was just the woman tolook like a great lady, a lady of high rank, --such a lady as couldalmost command men to come and throw themselves at her unmarriedsisters' feet. Sir Marmaduke had believed in his daughter Nora, hadlooked forward to see her do much for the family; and, when the crashhad come upon the Trevelyan household, had thought almost as muchof her injured prospects as he had of the misfortune of her sister. But now it seemed that more than all the good things of what he haddreamed had been proposed to this unruly girl, in spite of that greatcrash, --and had been rejected! And he saw more than this, --as hethought. These good things would have been accepted had it not beenfor this rascal of a penny-a-liner, this friend of that other rascalTrevelyan, who had come in the way of their family to destroy thehappiness of them all! Sir Marmaduke, in speaking of Stanbury afterthis, would constantly call him a penny-a-liner, thinking that thecontamination of the penny communicated itself to all transactions ofthe Daily Record. 

"You have made your bed for yourself, Nora, and you must lie uponit. "

"Just so, papa. "

"I mean that, as you have refused Mr. Glascock's offer, you can neveragain hope for such an opening in life. "

"Of course I cannot. I am not such a child as to suppose that thereare many Mr. Glascocks to come and run after me. And if there wereever so many, papa, it would be no good. As you say, I have chosenfor myself, and I must put up with it. When I see the carriages goingabout in the streets, and remember how often I shall have to go homein 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; andpretty dresses, and brooches, and men and women who have nothing todo, and balls, and the opera; but--I love this man, and that is moreto me than all the rest. I cannot help myself, if it were ever so. Papa, you mustn't be angry with me. Pray, pray, pray do not say thathorrid word again. "

This was the end of the interview. Sir Marmaduke found that he hadnothing further to say. Nora, when she reached her last prayer to herfather, referring to that curse with which he had threatened her, washerself in tears, and was leaning on him with her head against hisshoulder. Of course he did not say a word which could be understoodas sanctioning her engagement with Stanbury. He was as stronglydetermined as ever that it was his duty to save her from the perilsof such a marriage as that. But, nevertheless, he was so far overcomeby her as to be softened in his manners towards her. He kissed her ashe left her, and told her to go to her mother. Then he went out andthought of it all, and felt as though Paradise had been opened to hischild and she had refused to enter the gate. 

CHAPTER LXXI. 

SHEWING WHAT HUGH STANBURY THOUGHT ABOUT THE DUTY OF MAN. 

In the conference which took place between Sir Marmaduke and hiswife after the interview between him and Nora, it was his idea thatnothing further should be done at all. "I don't suppose the man willcome here if he be told not, " said Sir Marmaduke, "and if he does, Nora of course will not see him. " He then suggested that Nora wouldof course go back with them to the Mandarins, and that when oncethere she would not be able to see Stanbury any more. "There must beno correspondence or anything of that sort, and so the thing will dieaway. " But Lady Rowley declared that this would not quite suffice. Mr. Stanbury had made his offer in due form, and must be held to beentitled to an answer. Sir Marmaduke, therefore, wrote the followingletter to the "penny-a-liner, " mitigating the asperity of hislanguage 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 circumstances in life. I need hardly point out to you that no father would be justified in giving his daughter to a gentleman upon so small an income, and upon an income so very insecure. 

 I am obliged to refuse my consent, and I must therefore ask you to abstain from visiting and from communicating with my daughter. 

 Yours faithfully, MARMADUKE ROWLEY. 

 Hugh Stanbury, Esq. 

This letter was directed to Stanbury at the office of the D. R. , and Sir Marmaduke, as he wrote the pernicious address, felt himselfinjured in that he was compelled to write about his daughter to a manso circumstanced. Stanbury, when he got the letter, read it hastilyand then threw it aside. He knew what it would contain before heopened it. He had heard enough from Lady Rowley to be aware that SirMarmaduke would not welcome him as a son-in-law. Indeed, he had neverexpected such welcome. He was half-ashamed of his own suit because ofthe lowliness of his position, --half-regretful that he should haveinduced such a girl as Nora Rowley to give up for his sake her hopesof magnificence and splendour. But Sir Marmaduke's letter did not addanything to this feeling. He read it again, and smiled as he toldhimself that the father would certainly be very weak in the handsof his daughter. Then he went to work again at his article with apersistent resolve that so small a trifle as such a note should haveno effect upon his daily work. Of course Sir Marmaduke would refusehis consent. Of course it would be for him, Stanbury, to marry thegirl he loved in opposition to her father. Her father indeed! If Norachose to take him, --and as to that he was very doubtful as to Nora'swisdom, --but if Nora would take him, what was any father's oppositionto him? He wanted nothing from Nora's father. He was not lookingfor money with his wife;--nor for fashion, nor countenance. Such aBohemian was he that he would be quite satisfied if his girl wouldwalk out to him, and become his wife, with any morning-gown on andwith any old hat that might come readiest to hand. He wanted neithercards, nor breakfast, nor carriages, nor fine clothes. If his Norashould choose to come to him as she was, he having had all previousnecessary arrangements duly made, --such as calling of banns orprocuring of licence if possible, --he thought that a father'sopposition would almost add something to the pleasure of theoccasion. So he pitched the letter on one side, and went on with hisarticle. And he finished his article; but it may be doubted whetherit was completed with the full strength and pith needed for movingthe pulses of the national mind, --as they should be moved by leadingarticles in the D. R. As he was writing he was thinking of Nora, --andthinking of the letter which Nora's father had sent to him. Trivialas was the letter, he could not keep himself from repeating the wordsof it to himself. "'Need hardly point out, '--oh; needn't he. Thenwhy does he? Refusing his consent! I wonder what the old buffersthink is the meaning of their consent, when they are speaking ofdaughters old enough to manage for themselves? Abstain from visitingor communicating with her! But if she visits and communicates withme;--what then? I can't force my way into the house, but she canforce her way out. Does he imagine that she can be locked up in thenursery or put into the corner?" So he argued with himself, and bysuch arguments he brought himself to the conviction that it wouldbe well for him to answer Sir Marmaduke's letter. This he did atonce, --before leaving the office of the D. R. 

 250, Fleet Street, 20th April. 

 MY DEAR SIR MARMADUKE ROWLEY, --

 I have just received your letter, and am indeed sorry that its contents should be so little favourable to my hopes. I understand that your objection to me is simply in regard to the smallness and insecurity of my income. On the first point I may say that I have fair hopes that it may be at once increased. As to the second, I believe I may assert that it is as sure at least as the income of other professional men, such as barristers, merchants, and doctors. I cannot promise to say that I will not see your daughter. If she desires me to do so, of course I shall be guided by her views. I wish that I might be allowed an opportunity of seeing you, as I think I could reverse or at least mitigate some of the objections which you feel to our marriage. 

 Yours most faithfully, HUGH STANBURY. 

On the next day but one Sir Marmaduke came to him. He was sittingat the office of the D. R. , in a very small and dirty room at theback of the house, and Sir Marmaduke found his way thither througha confused crowd of compositors, pressmen, and printers' boys. Hethought that he had never before been in a place so foul, so dark, so crowded, and so comfortless. He himself was accustomed to do hiswork, out in the Islands, with many of the appanages of vice-royaltyaround him. He had his secretary, and his private secretary, and hisinner-room, and his waiting-room; and not unfrequently he had thehonour of a dusky sentinel walking before the door through which hewas to be approached. He had an idea that all gentlemen at theirwork had comfortable appurtenances around them, --such as carpets, dispatch-boxes, unlimited stationery, easy chairs for temporaryleisure, big table-space, and a small world of books around themto give at least a look of erudition to their pursuits. There wasnothing of the kind in the miserably dark room occupied by Stanbury. He was sitting at a wretched little table on which there was nothingbut a morsel of blotting paper, a small ink-bottle, and the paperon which he was scribbling. There was no carpet there, and nodispatch-box, and the only book in the room was a little dog's-eareddictionary. "Sir Marmaduke, I am so much obliged to you for coming, "said Hugh. "I fear you will find this place a little rough, but weshall be all alone. "

"The place, Mr. Stanbury, will not signify, I think. "

"Not in the least, --if you don't mind it. I got your letter, youknow, Sir Marmaduke. "

"And I have had your reply. I have come to you because you haveexpressed a wish for an interview;--but I do not see that it will doany good. "

"You are very kind for coming, indeed, Sir Marmaduke;--very kind. Ithought 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 notfeel the slightest respect for an income that was paid monthly. According to his ideas, a gentleman's income should be paidquarterly, or perhaps half-yearly. According to his view, a monthlysalary was only one degree better than weekly wages;--"and I supposethat is permanence, " said Hugh Stanbury. 

"I cannot say that I so regard it. "

"A barrister gets his, you know, very irregularly. There is no sayingwhen he may have it. "

"But a barrister's profession is recognised as a profession amonggentlemen, Mr. Stanbury. "

"And is not ours recognised? Which of us, barristers or men ofliterature, have the most effect on the world at large? Who is mostthought of in London, Sir Marmaduke, --the Lord Chancellor or theEditor of the 'Jupiter?'"

"The Lord Chancellor a great deal, " said Sir Marmaduke, quitedismayed by the audacity of the question. 

"By no means, Sir Marmaduke, " said Stanbury, throwing out his handbefore him so as to give the energy of action to his words. "He hasthe higher rank. I will admit that. "

"I should think so, " said Sir Marmaduke. 

"And the larger income. "

"Very much larger, I should say, " said Sir Marmaduke, with a smile. 

"And he wears a wig. "

"Yes;--he wears a wig, " said Sir Marmaduke, hardly knowing in whatspirit to accept this assertion. 

"And nobody cares one brass button for him or his opinions, " saidStanbury, bringing down his hand heavily on the little table for thesake of emphasis. 

"What, sir?"

"If you'll think of it, it is so. "

"Nobody cares for the Lord Chancellor!" It certainly is the fact thatgentlemen living in the Mandarin Islands do think more of the LordChancellor, and the Lord Mayor, and the Lord-Lieutenant, and the LordChamberlain, than they whose spheres of life bring them into closercontact with those august functionaries. "I presume, Mr. Stanbury, that a connection with a penny newspaper makes such opinions as thesealmost a necessity. "

"Quite a necessity, Sir Marmaduke. No man can hold his own in print, now-a-days, unless he can see the difference between tinsel andgold. "

"And the Lord Chancellor, of course, is tinsel. "

"I do not say so. He may be a great lawyer, --and very useful. But hislordship, and his wig, and his woolsack, are tinsel in comparisonwith the real power possessed by the editor of a leading newspaper. If the Lord Chancellor were to go to bed for a month, would he bemuch missed?"

"I don't know, sir. I'm not in the secrets of the Cabinet. I shouldthink 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 Ishould be glad, --on public grounds, --because I don't like his mode ofbusiness. 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 ourcalling is recognised, and must be recognised as a profession. Talkof permanence, Sir Marmaduke, are not the newspapers permanent? Donot they come out regularly every day, --and more of them, and stillmore of them, are always coming out? You do not expect a collapseamong them. "

"There will be plenty of newspapers, I do not doubt;--more thanplenty, perhaps. "

"Somebody must write them, --and the writers will be paid. "

"Anybody could write the most of them, I should say. "

"I wish you would try, Sir Marmaduke. Just try your hand at a leadingarticle 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 affairs of your Government to lookto. We are all so apt to ignore the work of our neighbours! It seemsto me that I could go over and govern the Mandarins without theslightest trouble in the world. But no doubt I am mistaken;--just asyou are about writing for the newspapers. "

"I do not know, " said Sir Marmaduke, rising from his chair withdignity, "that I called here to discuss such matters as these. As ithappens, you, Mr. Stanbury, are not the Governor of the Mandarins, and I have not the honour to write for the columns of the pennynewspaper with which you are associated. It is therefore uselessto discuss what either of us might do in the position held by theother. "

"Altogether useless, Sir Marmaduke, --except just for the fun of thething. "

"I do not see the fun, Mr. Stanbury. I came here, at your request, to hear what you might have to urge against the decision which Iexpressed to you in reference to my daughter. As it seems that youhave nothing to urge, I will not take up your time further. "

"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 shewn thatit is so permanent that there is no possibility of its coming to anend. There must be newspapers, and the people trained to write themmust be employed. I have been at it now about two years. You knowwhat I earn. Could I have got so far in so short a time as a lawyer, a doctor, a clergyman, a soldier, a sailor, a Government clerk, orin any of those employments which you choose to call professions? Ithink that is urging a great deal. I think it is urging everything. "

"Very well, Mr. Stanbury. I have listened to you, and in a certaindegree I admire your, --your, --your zeal and ingenuity, shall I say. "

"I didn't mean to call for admiration, Sir Marmaduke; but suppose yousay, --good sense and discrimination. "

"Let that pass. You must permit me to remark that your position isnot such as to justify me in trusting my daughter to your care. As mymind on that matter is quite made up, as is that also of Lady Rowley, I must ask you to give me your promise that your suit to my daughtershall be discontinued. "

"What does she say about it, Sir Marmaduke?"

"What she has said to me has been for my ears, and not for yours. "

"What I say is for her ears and for yours, and for her mother's ears, and for the ears of any who may choose to hear it. I will never giveup my suit to your daughter till I am forced to do so by a fullconviction that she has given me up. It is best to be plain, SirMarmaduke, of course. "

"I do not understand this, Mr. Stanbury. "

"I mean to be quite clear. "

"I have always thought that when a gentleman was told by the head ofa family that he could not be made welcome in that family, it wasconsidered to be the duty of that gentleman, --as a gentleman, --toabandon his vain pursuit. I have been brought up with that idea. "

"And I, Sir Marmaduke, have been brought up in the idea that whena man has won the affections of a woman, it is the duty of thatman, --as a man, --to stick to her through thick and thin; and I meanto do my duty, according to my idea. "

"Then, sir, I have nothing further to say, but to take my leave. Imust only caution you not to enter my doors. " As the passages weredark and intricate, it was necessary that Stanbury should shew SirMarmaduke out, and this he did in silence. When they parted each ofthem lifted his hat, and not a word more was said. 

That same night there was a note put into Nora's hands, as she wasfollowing her mother out of one of the theatres. In the confusion shedid not even see the messenger who had handed it to her. Her sisterLucy saw that she had taken the note, and questioned her about itafterwards, --with discretion, however, and in privacy. This was thenote:--

 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 arrangements 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 you. 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 DELIVERY OF THE LAMB. 

 [Illustration]

It is hoped that a certain quarter of lamb will not have beenforgotten, --a quarter of lamb that was sent as a peace-offering fromExeter to Nuncombe Putney by the hands of Miss Stanbury's Martha, notwith purposes of corruption, not intended to buy back the allegianceof Dorothy, --folded delicately and temptingly in one of the besttable napkins, with no idea of bribery, but sent as presents usedto be sent of old in the trains of great ambassadors as signs offriendship and marks of true respect. Miss Stanbury 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 lambcould be efficacious in procuring such return. If it might be thatDorothy's heart could be touched by mention of the weariness of heraunt's solitary life; and if, therefore, she would return, it wouldbe very well; but it could not be well so, unless the offer shouldcome from Dorothy herself. All of which Martha had been made tounderstand by her mistress, considerable ingenuity having beenexercised in the matter on each side. 

On her arrival at Lessboro', Martha had hired a fly, and been drivenout to Nuncombe Putney; but she felt, she knew not why, a disliketo be taken in her carriage to the door of the cottage; and was putdown 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 halfmile, and the lamb was heavy, for Miss Stanbury had suggested that abottle of sherry should be put in under the napkin, --and Martha wasbecoming tired of her burden, when, --whom should she see on the roadbefore her but Brooke Burgess! As she said herself afterwards, itimmediately occurred to her, "that all the fat was in the fire. " Herehad this young man come down, passing through Exeter without even avisit to Miss Stanbury, and had clandestinely sought out the youngwoman whom he wasn't to marry; and here was the young woman herselfflying in her aunt's face, when one scratch of a pen might ruin themboth! Martha entertained a sacred, awful, overcoming feeling abouther mistress's will. That she was to have something herself shesupposed, and her anxiety was not on that score; but she had heardso much about it, had realised so fully the great power which MissStanbury possessed, and had had her own feelings so rudely invaded byalterations in Miss Stanbury's plans, that she had come to entertainan idea that all persons around her should continually bear that willin their memory. Hugh had undoubtedly been her favourite, and, couldMartha have dictated the will herself, she would still have made Hughthe heir; but she had realised the resolution of her mistress sofar as to confess that the bulk of the property was to go back to aBurgess. But there were very many Burgesses; and here was the onewho had been selected flying in the very face of the testatrix! Whatwas to be done? Were she to go back and not tell her mistress thatshe had seen Brooke Burgess at Nuncombe then, --should the fact befound out, --would the devoted anger of Miss Stanbury fall uponher own head? It would be absolutely necessary that she shouldtell the story, let the consequences be what they might;--but theconsequences, probably, would be very dreadful. "Mr. Brooke, that isnot you?" she said, as she came up to him, putting her basket down inthe middle of the dusty road. 

"Then who can it be?" said Brooke, giving her his hand to shake. 

"But what do bring you here, Mr. Brooke? Goodness me, what willmissus 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 sojourningat 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!" andthen she asked him whether it was "all along of Miss Dorothy" that hehad come. Of course, it was all along of Miss Dorothy. Brooke made nosecret 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 seethe beauties of the country. When he talked about the beauties of thecountry, Martha looked at him as the people of Lessboro' and NuncombePutney should have looked at Colonel Osborne, when he talked ofthe church porch at Cockchaffington. "Beauties of the country, Mr. Brooke;--you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" said Martha. 

"But I ain't, --the least in the world, " said Brooke. 

Then Martha took up her basket, and went on to the cottage, which hadbeen close in sight during their conversation in the road. She feltangry with Dorothy. In such matters a woman is always angry with thewoman, --who has probably been quite passive, and rarely with the man, who is ever the real transgressor. Having a man down after her atNuncombe Putney! It had never struck Martha as very horrible thatBrooke Burgess should fall in love with Dorothy in the city;--butthis meeting, in the remoteness of the country, out of sight even ofthe village, was almost indecent; and all, too, with Miss Stanbury'swill just, as one might say, on the balance! Dorothy ought to haveburied herself rather than have allowed Brooke to see her at NuncombePutney; and Dorothy's mother and Priscilla must be worse. She trudgedon, however, with her lamb, and soon found herself in the presence ofthe three ladies. 

"What, --Martha!" said Dorothy. 

"Yes, miss, --here I am. I'd have been here half-an-hour ago amost, ifI hadn't been stopped on the road. "

"And who stopped you?" asked Priscilla. 

"Why, --Mr. Brooke, of course. "

"And what did Mr. Brooke say to you?" asked Dorothy. 

Martha perceived at once that Dorothy was quite radiant. She told hermistress that she had never seen Miss Dorothy look half so comelybefore. "Laws, ma'am, she brightened up and speckled about, till itdid your heart good to see her in spite of all. " But this was sometime afterwards. 

"He didn't say very much, " replied Martha, gravely. 

"But I've got very much to tell you, " continued Dorothy. "I'm engagedto be married to Mr. Brooke, and you must congratulate me. It issettled now, and mamma and my sister know all about it. "

Martha, when she was thus asked directly for congratulation, hardlyknew at once how to express herself. Being fully aware of MissStanbury's objection to the marriage, she could not venture toexpress her approbation of it. It was very improper, in Martha'smind, that any young woman should have a follower, when the "missus"didn't approve of it. She understood well enough that, in that matterof followers, privileges are allowed to young ladies which are notaccorded to maid servants. A young lady may do things, --have youngmen 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 womanwould be turned into the streets without a character. Martha knewall this, and knew also that Miss Dorothy, though her mother livedin a very little cottage, was not altogether debarred, in the matterof followers, from the privileges of a lady. But yet Miss Dorothy'sposition was so very peculiar! Look at that will, --or, rather, atthat embryo will, which might be made any day, which now probablywould be made, and which might affect them both so terribly! Peoplewho 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 shecongratulate Miss Dorothy under the existing circumstances? "I dohope you will be happy, miss;--that you knows, " said Martha, in herdifficulty. "And now, ma'am;--miss, I mean, " she added, correctingherself, in obedience to Miss Stanbury's direct orders about thepresent, --"missus has just sent me over with a bit of lamb, and aletter as is here in the basket, and to ask how you is, --and theother ladies. "

"We are very much obliged, " said Mrs. Stanbury, who had notunderstood 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 wasreading it very carefully. It touched her nearly, and there had cometears into both her eyes, as she dwelt upon it. There was somethingin her aunt's allusion to the condition of unmarried women which camehome to her especially. She knew her aunt's past history, and now sheknew, or hoped that she knew, something of her own future destiny. Her aunt was desolate, whereas upon her the world smiled mostbenignly. Brooke had just informed her that he intended to makeher his wife as speedily as possible, --with her aunt's consent ifpossible, but if not, then without it. He had ridiculed the idea ofhis being stopped by Miss Stanbury's threats, and had said all thisin such fashion that even Priscilla herself had only listened andobeyed. He had spoken not a word of his own income, and none of themhad dreamed even of asking him a question. He had been as a god inthe little cottage, and all of them had been ready to fall downand worship him. Mrs. Stanbury had not known how to treat himwith sufficient deference, and, at the same time, with sufficientaffection. He had kissed them all round, and Priscilla had felt anelation which was hardly intelligible to herself. Dorothy, who was somuch honoured, had come to enjoy a status in her mother's estimationvery different from that which she had previously possessed, and hadgrown to be quite beautiful in her mother's eyes. 

There was once a family of three ancient maiden ladies, muchrespected and loved in the town in which they lived. Their mannersof life were well known among their friends, and excited no surprise;but a stranger to the locality once asked of the elder why MissMatilda, the younger, always went first out of the room? "Matildaonce had an offer of marriage, " said the dear simple old lady, whohad never been so graced, and who felt that such an episode in lifewas quite sufficient to bestow brevet rank. It was believed by Mrs. Stanbury that Dorothy's honours would be carried further than thoseof Miss Matilda, but there was much of the same feeling in the bosomof the mother towards the fortunate daughter, who, in the eyes of aman, had seemed goodly enough to be his wife. 

With this swelling happiness round her heart, Dorothy read her aunt'sletter, and was infinitely softened. "I had gotten somehow to loveto see your pretty face. " Dorothy had thought little enough of herown beauty, but she liked being told by her aunt that her face hadbeen found to be pretty. "I am very desolate and solitary here, " heraunt said; and then had come those words about the state of maidenwomen;--and then those other words, about women's duties, and heraunt'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 hardlycontinue its perusal because of her tears. Such prayers from the agedaddressed to the young are generally held in light esteem, but thisadjuration was valued by the girl to whom it was addressed. She puttogether the invitation, --or rather the permission accorded to her, to make a visit to Exeter, --and the intimation in the postscriptthat Martha knew her mistress's mind; and then she returned to thesitting-room, in which Martha was still seated with her mother, andtook the old servant apart. "Martha, " she said, "is my aunt happynow?"

"Well, --miss. "

"She is strong again; is she not?"

"Sir Peter says she is getting well; and Mr. Martin--; but Mr. Martinisn't much account. "

"She eats and drinks again?"

"Pretty well;--not as it used to be, you know, miss. I tell her sheought to go somewheres, --but she don't like moving nohow. She neverdid. I tell her if she'd go to Dawlish, --just for a week. But shedon't think there's a bed fit to sleep on, nowhere, except just herown. "

"She would go if Sir Peter told her. "

"She says that these movings are newfangled fashions, and that theair didn't use to want changing for folk when she was young. I heardher 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'tcareful to live. "

"Tell me something, Martha; will you?"

"What is it, Miss Dorothy?"

"Be a dear good woman now, and tell me true. Would she be better if Iwere 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 firstmoment I saw him. "

"Dear, dear, dear!"

"I couldn't help it, Martha;--but it's no good talking about it, forof course I shan't try to help it now. Only this, --that I would doanything in the world for my aunt, --except that. "

"But she don't like it, Miss Dorothy. That is the truth, you know. "

"It can't be helped now, Martha; and of course she'll be told atonce. Shall I go and tell her? I'd go to-day if you think she wouldlike it. "

"And Mr. Brooke?"

"He is to go to-morrow. "

"And will you leave him here?"

"Why not? Nobody will hurt him. I don't mind a bit about having himwith me now. But I can tell you this. When he went away from us onceit made me very unhappy. Would Aunt Stanbury be glad to see me, Martha?"

Martha's reserve was at last broken down, and she expressed herselfin strong language. There was nothing on earth her mistress wanted somuch as to have her favourite niece back again. Martha acknowledgedthat there were great difficulties about Brooke Burgess, and she didnot see her way clearly through them. Dorothy declared her purpose oftelling her aunt boldly, --at once. Martha shook her head, admiringthe honesty and courage, but doubting the result. She understoodbetter than did any one else the peculiarity of mind which made hermistress specially anxious that none of the Stanbury family shouldenjoy any portion of the Burgess money, beyond that which she herselfhad saved out of the income. There had been moments in which Marthahad hoped that this prejudice might be overcome in favour of Hugh;but it had become stronger as the old woman grew to be older andmore feeble, --and it was believed now to be settled as Fate. "She'dsooner 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 humancreature, she do hate Barty Burgess. " She assented, however, toDorothy's proposal; and, though Mrs. Stanbury and Priscilla wereastounded by the precipitancy of the measure they did not attempt tooppose it. 

"And what am I to do?" said Brooke, when he was told. 

"You'll come to-morrow, of course, " said Dorothy. 

"But it may be that the two of us together will be too many for thedear old lunatic. "

"You shan't call her a lunatic, Brooke. She isn't so much a lunaticas you are, to run counter to her, and disobey her, and all that kindof 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 reasonablebecause an old woman has a bee on her bonnet. I don't believe inpeople'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 itnever pays to do this or that because somebody may alter his will, ormay 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 atyou out of his grave. All the same she'll kick up a row, I fancy, andyou'll have to bear the worst of it. "

"I'll tell her the truth; and if she be very angry, I'll just comehome again. But I think I'll come home to-morrow any way, so thatI'll pass you on the road. That will be best. She won't want us bothtogether. Only then, Brooke, I shan't see you again. "

"Not till June. "

"And is it to be really in June?"

"You say you don't like May. "

"You are such a goose, Brooke. It will be May almost to-morrow. Ishall be such a poor wife for you, Brooke. As for getting my thingsready, I shall not bring hardly any things at all. Have you thoughtwhat it is to take a body so very poor?"

"I own I haven't thought as much about it, Dolly, --as I ought to havedone, perhaps. "

"It is too late now, Brooke. "

"I suppose it is. "

"Quite too late. A week ago I could have borne it. I had almost gotmyself to think that it would be better that I should bear it. Butyou have come, and banished all the virtue out of my head. I amashamed of myself, because I am so unworthy; but I would put up withthat shame rather than lose you now. Brooke, Brooke, I will so try tobe good to you!"

In the afternoon Martha and Dorothy started together for Exeter, Brooke and Priscilla accompanying them as far as Mrs. Crocket's, where the Lessboro' fly was awaiting them. Dorothy said little ornothing during the walk, nor, indeed, was she very communicativeduring the journey into Exeter. She was going to her aunt, instigatedsimply by the affection of her full heart; but she was going with atale in her mouth which she knew would be very unwelcome. She couldnot save herself from feeling that, in having accepted Brooke, and inhaving 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'skindness and hospitality, she would never have seen Brooke Burgess. And as she had been under her aunt's care at Exeter, she doubtedwhether she had not been guilty of some great fault in falling inlove with this man, in opposition as it were to express orders. Should her aunt still declare that she would in no way countenancethe marriage, that she would still oppose it and use her influencewith Brooke to break it off, then would Dorothy return on the morrowto her mother's cottage at Nuncombe Putney, so that her lover mightbe free to act with her aunt as he might think fit. And should heyield, she would endeavour, --she would struggle hard, to think thathe 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 LXXIII. 

DOROTHY RETURNS TO EXETER. 

Miss Stanbury perfectly understood that Martha was to come back bythe train reaching Exeter at 7 p. M. , and that she might be expectedin the Close about a quarter-of-an-hour after that time. She had beennervous and anxious all day, --so much so that Mr. Martin had toldher that she must be very careful. "That's all very well, " the oldwoman had said, "but you haven't got any medicine for my complaint, Mr. Martin. " The apothecary had assured her that the worst of hercomplaint was in the east wind, and had gone away begging her to bevery careful. "It is not God's breezes that are hard to any one, " theold lady had said to herself, --"but our own hearts. " After her lonelydinner she had fidgeted about the room, and had rung twice for thegirl, 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 toher till after Martha should have arrived. She was half-minded toorder that a second cup and saucer should be placed there, but shehad not the courage to face the disappointment which would fall uponher, 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 oldaunt had been ready for her. Thrice she went to the window after thecathedral clock had struck seven, to see whether her ambassador wasreturning. From her window there was only one very short space ofpathway on which she could have seen her, --and, as it happened, therecame the ring at the door, and no ambassador had as yet been viewed. Miss Stanbury was immediately off her seat, and out upon the landing. "Here we are again, Miss Dorothy, " said Martha. Then Miss Stanburycould not restrain herself, --but descended the stairs, moving as shehad 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 notordered it before! "And get a hot cake, Jane. You will be ever sohungry, 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 downthe girl's cheeks, and kissed her, and patted Martha on the back, andscolded her at the same time for not bringing Miss Dorothy from thestation in a cab. "And what is the meaning of that little bag?" shesaid. "You shall go back for the rest yourself, Martha, because it isyour own fault. " Martha knew that all this was pleasant enough;--butthen her mistress's moods would sometimes be changed so suddenly! Howwould it be when Miss Stanbury knew that Brooke Burgess had been leftbehind at Nuncombe Putney?

"You see I didn't stay to eat any of the lamb, " said Dorothy, smiling. 

"You shall have a calf instead, my dear, " said Miss Stanbury, "because you are a returned prodigal. "

All this was very pleasant, and Miss Stanbury was so happy dispensingher tea, and the hot cake, and the clotted cream, and was so intentupon her little methods of caressing and petting her niece, thatDorothy had no heart to tell her story while the plates and cups werestill upon the table. She had not, perhaps, cared much for the hotcake, having such a weight upon her mind, but she had seemed to care, understanding well that she might so best conduce to her aunt'scomfort. Miss Stanbury was a woman who could not bear that the goodthings which she had provided for a guest should not be enjoyed. Shecould taste with a friend's palate, and drink with a friend's throat. But when debarred these vicarious pleasures by what seemed to her tobe the caprice of her guests, she would be offended. It had been oneof the original sins of Camilla and Arabella French that they woulddeclare at her tea-table that they had dined late and could not eattea-cake. Dorothy knew all this, --and did her duty;--but with aheavy heart. There was the story to be told, and she had promisedMartha that it should be told to-night. She was quite aware, too, independently of her promise, that it was necessary that it shouldbe told to-night. It was very sad, --very grievous that the dear oldlady's happiness should be disturbed so soon; but it must be done. When the tea-things were being taken away her aunt was still purringround her, and saying gentle, loving words. Dorothy bore it as wellas she could, --bore it well, smiling and kissing her aunt's hand, anduttering now and then some word of affection. But the thing had to bedone; and as soon as the room was quiet for a moment, she jumped upfrom her chair and began. "Aunt Stanbury, I must tell you somethingat 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 you to-morrow. "

The whole colour and character of Miss Stanbury's face was changed ina moment. She had been still purring up to the moment in which thiscommunication had been made to her. Her gratification had come to herfrom the idea that her pet had come back to her from love of her, --asin very truth had been the case; but now it seemed that Dorothy hadreturned to ask for a great favour for herself. And she reflected atonce that Brooke had passed through Exeter without seeing her. Ifhe was determined to marry without reference to her, he might atany rate have had the grace to come to her and say so. She, in thefulness of her heart, had written words of affection to Dorothy;--andboth Dorothy and Brooke had at once taken advantage of herexpressions for their own purposes. Such was her reading of the storyof 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 saidthat I should be glad to see you, I did not intend that you shouldmeet Mr. Burgess under my roof. I did not wish to have you bothtogether. "

"How could I help coming, when you wrote to me like that?"

"It is very well, --but he need not come. He knows the way fromNuncombe 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 hewished. "

"He is his own master, my dear;--and you are your own mistress. "

"If you speak to me like that you will kill me, Aunt Stanbury. I didnot think of coming; only when Martha brought your dear letter Icould 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 withhim. "

"He need not defend himself at all. "

"I told them, and I told him, that I would only stay one night, --ifyou did not wish that we should be here together. You must see him, Aunt Stanbury. You would not refuse to see him. "

"If you please, my dear, you must allow me to judge whom I will see. "

After that the discussion ceased between them for awhile, and MissStanbury left the room that she might hold a consultation withMartha. Dorothy went up to her chamber, and saw that everything hadbeen prepared for her with most scrupulous care. Nothing could bewhiter, neater, cleaner, nicer than was everything that surroundedher. She had perceived while living under her aunt's roof, how, gradually, small, delicate feminine comforts had been increased forher. Martha had been told that Miss Dorothy ought to have this, andthat Miss Dorothy ought to have that; till at last she, who hadhitherto known nothing of the small luxuries that come from an easyincome, had felt ashamed of the prettinesses that had been added toher. Now she could see at once that infinite care had been used tomake her room bright and smiling, --only in the hope that she wouldreturn. As soon as she saw it all, she sat down on her bed and burstout into tears. Was it not hard upon her that she should be forcedinto such ingratitude! Every comfort prepared for her was a coal ofhot fire upon her head. And yet what had she done that she ought notto have done? Was it unreasonable that she should have loved thisman, when they two were brought together? And had she even dared tothink of him otherwise than as an acquaintance till he had compelledher to confess her love? And after that had she not tried to separateherself from him, so that they two, --her aunt and her lover, --mightbe divided by no quarrel? Had not Priscilla told her that she wasright in all that she was doing? Nevertheless, in spite of all this, she could not refrain from accusing herself of ingratitude towardsher aunt. And she began to think it would have been better for hernow to have remained at home, and have allowed Brooke to come aloneto Exeter than to have obeyed the impulse which had arisen from thereceipt of her aunt's letter. When she went down again she foundherself alone in the room, and she was beginning to think that it wasintended that she should go to bed without again seeing her aunt;but at last Miss Stanbury came to her, with a sad countenance, butwithout that look of wrath which Dorothy knew so well. "My dear, "she said, "it will be better that Mr. Burgess should go up to Londonto-morrow. I will see him, of course, if he chooses to come, andMartha shall meet him at the station and explain it. If you do notmind, 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 partwith him. You are dearer to me than he is. Dorothy, you do not knowhow dear to me you are. "

Dorothy immediately fell on her knees at her aunt's feet, and hid herface in her aunt's lap. Miss Stanbury twined round her fingers thesoft hair which she loved so well, --because it was a grace given byGod and not bought out of a shop, --and caressed the girl's head, andmuttered something that was intended for a prayer. "If he will letme, aunt, I will give him up, " said Dorothy, looking up into heraunt's face. "If he will say that I may, though I shall love himalways, he may go. "

"He is his own master, " said Miss Stanbury. "Of course he is his ownmaster. "

"Will you let me return to-morrow, --just for a few days, --and thenyou can talk to him as you please. I did not mean to come to stay. Iwished him good-bye because I knew that I should not meet him here. "

"You always talk of going away, Dorothy, as soon as ever you are inthe house. You are always threatening me. "

"I will come again, the moment you tell me. If he goes in themorning, I will be here the same evening. And I will write to him, Aunt Stanbury, and tell him, --that he is--quite free, --quitefree, --quite free. "

Miss Stanbury made no reply to this, but sat, still playing with herniece's hair. "I think I will go to bed, " she said at last. "It ispast ten. You need not go to Nuncombe, Dorothy. Martha shall meethim, and he can see me here. But I do not wish him to stay in thehouse. You can go over and call on Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh willtake it well of you that you should call on her. " Dorothy made nofurther opposition to this arrangement, but kissed her aunt, and wentto her chamber. 

How was it all to be for her? For the last two days she had beenradiant with new happiness. Everything had seemed to be settled. Herlover, in his high-handed way, had declared that in no importantcrisis of life would he allow himself to be driven out of his wayby the fear of what an old woman might do in her will. When Dorothyassured him that not for worlds would she, though she loved himdearly, injure his material prospects, he had thrown it all aside, after a grand fashion, that had really made the girl think thatall Miss Stanbury's money was as nothing to his love for her. Sheand Priscilla and her mother had been carried away so entirely byBrooke's oratory as to feel for the time that the difficulties wereentirely conquered. But now the aspect of things was so different!Whatever Brooke might owe to Miss Stanbury, she, Dorothy, owed heraunt everything. She would immolate herself, --if Brooke would onlylet her. She did not quite understand her aunt's stubborn opposition;but she knew that there was some great cause for her aunt's feelingon the matter. There had been a promise made, or an oath sworn, thatthe property of the Burgess family should not go into the hands ofany Stanbury. Dorothy told herself that, were she married, she wouldbe a Stanbury no longer;--that her aunt would still comply with theobligation she had fixed for herself; but, nevertheless, she wasready to believe that her aunt might be right. Her aunt had alwaysdeclared that it should be so; and Dorothy, knowing this, confessedto herself that she should have kept her heart under better control. Thinking of these things, she went to the table, where paper and inkand pens had all been prepared for her so prettily, and began herletter to Brooke. "Dearest, dearest Brooke. " But then she thoughtthat this was not a fair keeping of her promise, and she began again. "My dear Brooke. " The letter, however, did not get itself writtenthat night. It was almost impossible for her to write it. "I think itwill be better for you, " she had tried to say, "to be guided by myaunt. " But how could she say this when she did not believe it? It washer wish to make him understand that she would never think ill ofhim, for a moment, if he would make up his mind to abandon her;--butshe could not find the words to express herself, --and she went, atlast, to bed, leaving the half-covered paper upon the table. 

She went to bed, and cried herself to sleep. It had been so sweetto have a lover, --a man of her own, to whom she could say what shepleased, from whom she had a right to ask for counsel and protection, a man who delighted to be near her, and to make much of her. Incomparison with her old mode of living, her old ideas of life, herlife with such a lover was passed in an elysium. She had entered frombarren lands into so rich a paradise! But there is no paradise, asshe now found, without apples which must be eaten, and which leadto sorrow. She regretted in this hour that she had ever seen BrookeBurgess. After all, with her aunt's love and care for her, withher mother and sister near her, with the respect of those who knewher, why should the lands have been barren, even had there been noentrance for her into that elysium? And did it not all result inthis, --that the elysium to be desired should not be here; that theparadise, without the apples, must be waited for till beyond thegrave? It is when things go badly with us here, and for most of usonly then, that we think that we can see through the dark clouds intothe joys of heaven. But at last she slept, and in her dreams Brookewas sitting with her in Niddon Park with his arm tight clasped roundher 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 stepnor the light awakened her. She was lying with her head back upon thepillow, and her arm hung by the bedside, and her lips were open, andher loose hair was spread upon the pillow. The person who stood therewith the light thought that there never had been a fairer sight. Everything there was so pure, so sweet, so good! She was one whoseonly selfish happiness could come to her from the belief that othersloved her. The step had been very soft, and even the breath of theintruder was not allowed to pass heavily into the air, but the lightof the candle shone upon the eyelids of the sleeper, and she movedher head restlessly on the pillow. "Dorothy, are you awake? Can youspeak to me?"

Then the disturbed girl gradually opened her eyes and gazed upwards, and raised herself in her bed, and sat wondering. "Is anything thematter, aunt?" she said. 

"Only the vagaries of an old woman, my pet, --of an old woman whocannot sleep in her bed. "

 [Illustration: "Only the vagaries of an old woman. "]

"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'sshoulder and embraced her. "And now for my news, " said Miss Stanbury. 

"What news, aunt? It isn't morning yet; is it?"

"No;--it is not morning. You shall sleep again presently. I havethought of it, and you shall be Brooke's wife, and I will have ithere, and we will all be friends. "

"What!"

"You will like that;--will you not?"

"And you will not quarrel with him? What am I to say? What am I todo?" She was, in truth, awake now, and, not knowing what she did, shejumped out of bed, and stood holding her aunt by the arm. 

"It is not a dream, " said Miss Stanbury. 

"Are you sure that it is not a dream? And may he come hereto-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! AuntStanbury, I do not think that I believe it yet. "

"You will catch cold, my dear, if you stay there trying to believeit. You have nothing on. Get into bed and believe it there. You willhave time to think of it before the morning. " Then Miss Stanbury wentback to her own chamber, and Dorothy was left alone to realise herbliss. 

She thought of all her life for the last twelve months, --of thefirst invitation to Exeter, and the doubts of the family as toits acceptance, of her arrival and of her own doubts as to thepossibility of her remaining, of Mr. Gibson's courtship and heraunt's disappointment, of Brooke's coming, of her love and ofhis, --and then of her departure back to Nuncombe. After that had comethe triumph of Brooke's visit, and then the terrible sadness of heraunt's displeasure. But now everything was good and glorious. Shedid not care for money herself. She thought that she never couldcare much for being rich. But had she made Brooke poor by marryinghim, that must always have been to her matter of regret, if not ofremorse. But now it was all to be smooth and sweet. Now a paradisewas to be opened to her, with no apples which she might not eat;--noapples which might not, but still must, be eaten. She thought that itwould be impossible that she should sleep again that night; but shedid sleep, and dreamed that Brooke was holding her in Niddon Park, tighter than ever. 

When the morning came she trembled as she walked down into theparlour. Might it not still be possible that it was all a dream? Orwhat if her aunt should again have changed her purpose? But the firstmoment of her aunt's presence told her that there was nothing tofear. "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 heis not good to my girl, and does not love her always, and cling toher, and keep her from harm, and be in truth her loving husband, Iwill hold him to be the most ungrateful of human beings. " And beforeBrooke came, she spoke again. "I wonder whether he thinks you aspretty as I do, Dolly?"

"He never said that he thought me pretty at all. "

"Did he not? Then he shall say so, or he shall not have you. It wasyour looks won me first, Dolly, --like an old fool as I am. It is sopleasant to have a little nature after such a deal of artifice. " Inwhich latter remarks it was quite understood that Miss Stanbury wasalluding to her enemies at Heavitree. 

CHAPTER LXXIV. 

THE LIONESS AROUSED. 

Brooke Burgess had been to Exeter and had gone, --for he only remainedthere one night, --and everything was apparently settled. It was notexactly told through Exeter that Miss Stanbury's heir was to beallowed to marry Miss Stanbury's niece; but Martha knew it, and GilesHickbody guessed it, and Dorothy was allowed to tell her mother andsister, and Brooke himself, in his own careless way, had mentionedthe matter to his uncle Barty. As Miss Stanbury had also told thesecret in confidence to Mrs. MacHugh, it cannot be said that it wasaltogether well kept. Four days after Brooke's departure the newsreached the Frenches at Heavitree. It was whispered to Camilla byone of the shopmen with whom she was still arranging her marriagetrousseau, and was repeated by her to her mother and sister with someadditions which were not intended to be good-natured. "He gets herand the money together as a bargain--of course, " said Camilla. "Ionly hope the money won't be found too dear. "

"Perhaps he won't get it after all, " said Arabella. 

"That would be cruel, " replied Camilla. "I don't think that even MissStanbury is so false as that. "

Things were going very badly at Heavitree. There was war there, almost everlastingly, though such little playful conversations as theabove shewed that there might be an occasional lull in the battle. Mr. Gibson was not doing his duty. That was clear enough. Even Mrs. French, when she was appealed to with almost frantic energy by heryounger daughter, could not but acknowledge that he was very remissas a lover. And Camilla, in her fury, was very imprudent. That veryfrantic energy which induced her to appeal to her mother was, initself, proof of her imprudence. She knew that she was foolish, butshe could not control her passion. Twice had she detected Arabella inreceiving notes from Mr. Gibson, which she did not see, and of whichit had been intended that she should know nothing. And once, whenshe spent a night away at Ottery St. Mary with a friend, --a visitwhich was specially prefatory to marriage, and made in reference tobridesmaids' dresses, --Arabella had had, --so at least Camilla wasmade to believe, --a secret meeting with Mr. Gibson in some of thelanes which lead down from Heavitree to the Topsham road. 

"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 gamegoing on that I don't understand, all Exeter shall be on fire beforeyou shall carry it out. "

Bella made no answer to this, but shrugged her shoulders. Camillawas almost at a loss to guess what might be the truth. Would not anysister, so accused on such an occasion, rebut the accusation withawful wrath? But Arabella simply shrugged her shoulders, and went herway. It was now the 15th of April, and there wanted but one shortfortnight to their marriage. The man had not the courage to jilther! She felt sure that he had not heart enough to do a deed of suchaudacity. And her sister, too, was weak and a coward, and wouldlack the power to stand on her legs and declare herself to be theperpetrator of such villany. Her mother, as she knew well, wouldalways have preferred that her elder daughter should be the bride;but her mother was not the woman to have the hardihood, now, inthe eleventh hour, to favour such an intrigue. Let her wish bewhat it might, she would not be strong enough to carry through theaccomplishment of it. They would all know that that threat of hersof setting Exeter on fire would be carried out after some fashionthat would not be inadequate to the occasion. A sister, a mother, apromised lover, all false, --all so damnably, cruelly false! It wasimpossible. No history, no novel of most sensational interest, nowonderful villany that had ever been wrought into prose or poetry, would have been equal to this. It was impossible. She told herself soa score of times a day. And yet the circumstances were so terriblysuspicious! Mr. Gibson's conduct as a lover was simply disgracefulto him as a man and a clergyman. He was full of excuses, which sheknew 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 wordand in action. Nothing would tempt him to any outward manifestationof affection. He would talk of nothing but the poor women of St. Peter-cum-Pumpkin in the city, and the fraudulent idleness of acertain colleague in the cathedral services, who was always shirkinghis work. He made her no presents. He never walked with her. He wasalways gloomy, --and he had indeed so behaved himself in public thatpeople were beginning to talk of "poor Mr. Gibson. " And yet he couldmeet Arabella on the sly in the lanes, and send notes to her by thegreen-grocer's boy! Poor Mr. Gibson indeed! Let her once get himwell over the 29th of April, and the people of Exeter might talkabout poor Mr. Gibson if they pleased. And Bella's conduct was morewonderful almost than that of Mr. Gibson. With all her cowardice, shestill held up her head, --held it perhaps a little higher than wasusual with her. And when that grievous accusation was made againsther, --made and repeated, --an accusation the very thought and soundof which would almost have annihilated her had there been a decentfeeling in her bosom, she would simply shrug her shoulders and walkaway. "Camilla, " she had once said, "you will drive that man madbefore you have done. " "What is it to you how I drive him?" Camillahad answered in her fury. Then Arabella had again shrugged hershoulders and walked away. Between Camilla and her mother, too, therehad come to be an almost internecine quarrel on a collateral point. Camilla was still carrying on a vast arrangement which she called thepreparation of her trousseau, but which both Mrs. French and Bellaregarded as a spoliation of the domestic nest, for the proud purposesof one of the younger birds. And this had grown so fearfully thatin two different places Mrs. French had found herself compelled torequest that no further articles might be supplied to Miss Camilla. The bride elect had rebelled, alleging that as no fortune was to beprovided for her, she had a right to take with her such things as shecould carry away in her trunks and boxes. Money could be had at thebank, she said; and, after all, what were fifty pounds more or lesson such an occasion as this? And then she went into a calculation toprove that her mother and sister would be made so much richer by herabsence, and that she was doing so much for them by her marriage, that nothing could be more mean in them than that they shouldhesitate to supply her with such things as she desired to make herentrance into Mr. Gibson's house respectable. But Mrs. French wasobdurate, and Mr. Gibson was desired to speak to her. Mr. Gibson, infear and trembling, told her that she ought to repress her spirit ofextravagance, and Camilla at once foresaw that he would avail himselfof this plea against her should he find it possible at any time toavail himself of any plea. She became ferocious, and, turning uponhim, told him to mind his own business. Was it not all for him thatshe was doing it? "She was not, " she said, "disposed to submit to anycontrol in such matters from him till he had assumed his legal rightto it by standing with her before the altar. " It came, however, tobe known all over Exeter that Miss Camilla's expenditure had beenchecked, and that, in spite of the joys naturally incidental to awedding, things were not going well with the ladies at Heavitree. 

At last the blow came. Camilla was aware that on a certain morningher mother had been to Mr. Gibson's house, and had held a longconference with him. She could learn nothing of what took placethere, for at that moment she had taken upon herself to place herselfon non-speaking terms with her mother in consequence of thosedisgraceful orders which had been given to the tradesmen. But Bellahad not been at Mr. Gibson's house at the time, and Camilla, thoughshe presumed that her own conduct had been discussed in a manner veryinjurious to herself, did not believe that any step was being thenarranged which would be positively antagonistic to her own views. Theday fixed was now so very near, that there could, she felt, be noescape for the victim. But she was wrong. 

Mr. Gibson had been found by Mrs. French in a very excited state onthat occasion. He had wept, and pulled his hair, and torn open hiswaistcoat, had spoken of himself as a wretch, --pleading, however, at the same time, that he was more sinned against than sinning, hadpaced about the room with his hands dashing against his brows, andat last had flung himself prostrate on the ground. The meaning of itall was, that he had tried very hard, and had found at last that "hecouldn't do it. " "I am ready to submit, " said he, "to any verdictthat you may pronounce against me, but I should deceive you anddeceive her if I didn't say at once that I can't do it. " He went onto explain that since he had unfortunately entered into his presentengagement with Camilla, --of whose position he spoke in quite atouching manner, --and since he had found what was the condition ofhis own heart and feelings he had consulted a friend, --who, if anymerely human being was capable of advising, might be implicitlytrusted for advice in such a matter, --and that his friend had toldhim that he was bound to give up the marriage let the consequencesto himself or to others be what they might. "Although the skiesshould fall on me, I cannot stand at the hymeneal altar with a liein my mouth, " said Mr. Gibson immediately upon his rising from hisprostrate condition on the floor. In such a position as this amother's fury would surely be very great! But Mrs. French was hardlyfurious. She cried, and begged him to think better of it, and assuredhim that Camilla, when she should be calmed down by matrimony, wouldnot be so bad as she seemed;--but she was not furious. "The truthis, Mr. Gibson, " she said through her tears, "that, after all, youlike Bella best. " Mr. Gibson owned that he did like Bella best, and although no bargain was made between them then and there, --andsuch making of a bargain then and there would hardly have beenpracticable, --it was understood that Mrs. French would not proceed toextremities if Mr. Gibson would still make himself forthcoming as ahusband for the advantage of one of the daughters of the family. 

So far Mr. Gibson had progressed towards a partial liberation fromhis thraldom with a considerable amount of courage; but he was wellaware that the great act of daring still remained to be done. Hehad suggested to Mrs. French that she should settle the matter withCamilla, --but this Mrs. French had altogether declined to do. Itmust, she said, come from himself. If she were to do it, she mustsympathise with her child; and such sympathy would be obstructiveof the future arrangements which were still to be made. "She alwaysknew that I liked Bella best, " said Mr. Gibson, --still sobbing, stilltearing his hair, still pacing the room with his waistcoat torn open. "I would not advise you to tell her that, " said Mrs. French. ThenMrs. French went home, and early on the following morning it wasthought good by Arabella that she also should pay a visit at OtterySt. Mary's. "Good-bye, Cammy, " said Arabella as she went. "Bella, "said Camilla, "I wonder whether you are a serpent. I do not thinkyou can be so base a serpent as that. " "I declare, Cammy, you do saysuch odd things that no one can understand what you mean. " And so shewent. 

On that morning Mr. Gibson was walking at an early hour along theroad from Exeter to Cowley, contemplating his position and strivingto arrange his plans. What was he to do, and how was he to do it? Hewas prepared to throw up his living, to abandon the cathedral, toleave the diocese, --to make any sacrifice rather than take Camillato his bosom. Within the last six weeks he had learned to regard herwith almost a holy horror. He could not understand by what miracleof self-neglect he had fallen into so perilous an abyss. He had longknown Camilla's temper. But in those days in which he had been beatenlike a shuttlecock between the Stanburys and the Frenches, he hadlost his head and had done, --he knew not what. "Those whom the Godchooses to destroy, he first maddens, " said Mr. Gibson to himselfof himself, throwing himself back upon early erudition and paganphilosophy. Then he looked across to the river Exe, and thought thatthere was hardly water enough there to cover the multiplicity of hissorrows. 

But something must be done. He had proceeded so far in forming aresolution, as he reached St. David's Church on his return homewards. His sagacious friend had told him that as soon as he had alteredhis mind, he was bound to let the lady know of it without delay. "You must remember, " said the sagacious friend, "that you will oweher much, --very much. " Mr. Gibson was perplexed in his mind when hereflected how much he might possibly be made to owe her if she shoulddecide on appealing to a jury of her countrymen for justice. Butanything would be better than his home at St. Peter's-cum-Pumpkinwith Camilla sitting opposite to him as his wife. Were there notdistant lands in which a clergyman, unfortunate but still energetic, might find work to do? Was there not all America?--and were therenot Australia, New Zealand, Natal, all open to him? Would not amissionary career among the Chinese be better for him than St. Peter's-cum-Pumpkin with Camilla French for his wife? By the time hehad reached home his mind was made up. He would write a letter toCamilla at once; and he would marry Arabella at once, --on any daythat might be fixed, --on condition that Camilla would submit to herdefeat without legal redress. If legal redress should be demanded, hewould put in evidence the fact that her own mother had been compelledto caution the tradesmen of the city in regard to her extravagance. 

He did write his letter, --in an agony of spirit. "I sit down, Camilla, with a sad heart and a reluctant hand, " he said, to communicate to you a fatal truth. But truth should be made to prevail, and there is nothing in man so cowardly, so detrimental, and so unmanly as its concealment. I have looked into myself, and have inquired of myself, and have assured myself, that were I to become your husband, I should not make you happy. It would be of no use for me now to dilate on the reasons which have convinced me;--but I am convinced, and I consider it my duty to inform you so at once. I have been closeted with your mother, and have made her understand that it is so. 

 I have not a word to say in my own justification but this, --that I am sure I am acting honestly in telling you the truth. I would not wish to say a word 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 world 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 will be regarded most unfavourably. But will not anything be better than the binding of a matrimonial knot which cannot be again unloosed, and which we should both regret?

 I do not know that I need add anything further. What can I add further? Only this;--that I am inflexible. Having resolved to take this step, --and to bear the evil things that may be said of me, --for your happiness and for my own tranquility, --I shall not now relinquish my resolution. I do not ask you to forgive me. I doubt much whether I shall ever be quite able to forgive myself. The mistake which I have made is one which should not have been committed. I do not ask you to forgive me; but I do ask you to pray that I may be forgiven. 

 Yours, with feelings of the truest friendship, THOMAS GIBSON. 

The letter had been very difficult, but he was rather proud of itthan otherwise when it was completed. He had felt that he was writinga letter which not improbably might become public property. It wasnecessary that he should be firm, that he should accuse himself alittle in order that he might excuse himself much, and that he shouldhint at causes which might justify the rupture, though he shouldso veil them as not to appear to defend his own delinquency byungenerous counter-accusation. When he had completed the letter, he thought that he had done all this rather well, and he sent thedespatch off to Heavitree by the clerk of St. Peter's Church, withsomething of that feeling of expressible relief which attends thefinal conquest over some fatal and all but insuperable misfortune. Hethought that he was sure now that he would not have to marry Camillaon the 29th of the month, --and there would probably be a period ofsome hours before he would be called upon to hear or read Camilla'sreply. 

Camilla was alone when she received the letter, but she rushed atonce to her mother. "There, " said she; "there--I knew that it wascoming!" Mrs. French took the paper into her hands, and gasped, andgazed at her daughter without speaking. "You knew of it, mother. "

"Yesterday, --when he told me, I knew of it. "

"And Bella knows it. "

"Not a word of it. "

"She does. I am sure she does. But it is all nothing. I will notaccept it. He cannot treat me so. I will drag him there;--but heshall come. "

"You can't make him, my dear. "

"I will make him. And you would help me, mamma, if you had anyspirit. What, --a fortnight before the time, when the things are allbought! Look at the presents that have been sent! Mamma, he doesn'tknow me. And he never would have done it, if it had not been forBella, --never. She had better take care, or there shall be such atragedy that nobody ever heard the like. If she thinks that she isgoing to be that man's wife, --she is--mistaken. " Then there was apause 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 tohim, --at once. " Mrs. French felt that at this moment it was best thatshe should be silent. 

CHAPTER LXXV. 

THE ROWLEYS GO OVER THE ALPS. 

 [Illustration]

By the thirteenth of May the Rowley family had established itself inFlorence, purposing to remain either there or at the baths of Luccatill the end of June, at which time it was thought that Sir Marmadukeshould begin to make preparations for his journey back to theIslands. Their future prospects were not altogether settled. It wasnot decided whether Lady Rowley should at once return with him, whether Mrs. Trevelyan should return with him, --nor was it settledamong them what should be the fate of Nora Rowley. Nora Rowley wasquite resolved herself that she would not go back to the Islands, andhad said as much to her mother. Lady Rowley had not repeated thisto Sir Marmaduke, and was herself in doubt as to what might best bedone. Girls are understood by their mothers better than they are bytheir fathers. Lady Rowley was beginning to be aware that Nora'sobstinacy was too strong to be overcome by mere words, and that othersteps must be taken if she were to be weaned from her perniciouspassion for Hugh Stanbury. Mr. Glascock was still in Florence. Mightshe not be cured by further overtures from Mr. Glascock? The chanceof securing such a son-in-law was so important, so valuable, that notrouble was too great to be incurred, even though the probability ofsuccess might not be great. 

It must not, however, be supposed that Lady Rowley carried off allthe family to Italy, including Sir Marmaduke, simply in chase ofMr. Glascock. Anxious as she was on the subject, she was too proud, and also too well-conditioned, to have suggested to herself such ajourney with such an object. Trevelyan had escaped from Willesdenwith the child, and they had heard, --again through Stanbury, --thathe had returned to Italy. They had all agreed that it would be wellthat they should leave London for awhile, and see something ofthe Continent; and when it was told to them that little Louis wasprobably in Florence, that alone was reason enough for them to gothither. They would go to the city till the heat was too great andthe mosquitoes too powerful, and then they would visit the bathsof Lucca for a month. This was their plan of action, and the causefor their plan; but Lady Rowley found herself able to weave into itanother little plan of her own of which she said nothing to anybody. She was not running after Mr. Glascock; but if Mr. Glascock shouldchoose to run after them, --or her, who could say that any harm hadbeen done?

Nora had answered that proposition of her lover's to walk out of thehouse in Manchester Street, and get married at the next church, in amost discreet manner. She had declared that she would be true andfirm, but that she did not wish to draw upon herself the displeasureof her father and mother. She did not, she said, look upon aclandestine marriage as a happy resource. But, --this she added at theend of a long and very sensible letter, --she intended to abide by herengagement, and she did not intend to go back to the Mandarins. Shedid not say what alternative she would choose in the event of herbeing unable to obtain her father's consent before his return. Shedid not suggest what was to become of her when Sir Marmaduke's leaveof absence should be expired. But her statement that she would not goback to the islands was certainly made with more substantial vigour, though, perhaps, with less of reasoning, than any other of thepropositions made in her letter. Then, in her postscript, she toldhim that they were all going to Italy. "Papa and mamma think that weought to follow poor Mr. Trevelyan. The lawyer says that nothing canbe done while he is away with the boy. We are therefore all going tostart to Florence. The journey is delightful. I will not say whosepresence will be wanting to make it perfect. "

Before they started there came a letter to Nora from Dorothy, whichshall be given entire, because it will tell the reader more ofDorothy's happiness than would be learned from any other mode ofnarrative. 

 The Close, Thursday. 

 DEAREST NORA, I have just had a letter from Hugh, and that makes me feel that I should like to write to you. Dear Hugh has told me all about it, and I do so hope that things may come right and that we may be sisters. He is so good that I do not wonder that you should love him. He has been the best son and the best brother in the world, and everybody speaks well of him, --except my dear aunt, who is prejudiced 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 cannot 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 affectionate. He growls at me, and I understand him, and I like to be 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 Burgess, 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 kinder 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 he was the ugliest boy in the country. I don't suppose it makes very much difference. Brooke is handsome, but I don't think 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; but has changed his mind and wants to take the elder. I think he was in love with her first. 

Dorothy did not say a word about the little intermediate stage ofattachment to herself. 

 All this 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 Stanbury, because she is so good. Perhaps you wear a chignon. I think Priscilla said that you did. It must not be large, if you come to see Aunt Stanbury. 

 Pray write to me, --and believe that I hope to be your most affectionate sister, DOROTHY 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 forItaly, and was answered by a short note promising that Nora wouldwrite 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 hisaffairs which was about to be made at Sir Marmaduke's instance. Hehad written a few words to his wife, neither commencing nor endinghis note after any usual fashion, telling her that he thought itexpedient to travel, that he had secured the services of a nurse forthe little boy, and that during his absence a certain income would, as heretofore, be paid to her. He said nothing as to his probablereturn, or as to her future life; nor was there anything to indicatewhither he was going. Stanbury, however, had learned from thefaithless and frightened Bozzle that Trevelyan's letters were to besent after him to Florence. Mr. Bozzle, in giving this information, had acknowledged that his employer was "becoming no longer quitehimself under his troubles, " and had expressed his opinion that heought to be "looked after. " Bozzle had made 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'senemies. What would a counsel be able to say about his conductin a court of law? That was the question which Bozzle was alwaysasking himself as to his own business. That he should be abusedby 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 hisprofession. But it was expedient for him in all cases to secure someloop-hole of apparent duty by which he might in part escape from suchcensures. He was untrue to his employer now, because he thought thathis employer ought to be "looked after. " He did, no doubt, take afive-pound note from Hugh Stanbury; but then it was necessary thathe should live. He must be paid for his time. In this way Trevelyanstarted for Florence, and within a week afterwards the Rowleys wereupon his track. 

Nothing had been said by Sir Marmaduke to Nora as to her lover sincethat stormy interview in which both father and daughter had expressedtheir opinions very strongly, and very little had been said by LadyRowley. Lady Rowley had spoken more than once of Nora's return tothe Mandarins, and had once alluded to it as a certainty. "But I donot know that I shall go back, " Nora had said. "My dear, " the motherhad replied, "unless you are married, I suppose your home must bewith your parents. " Nora, having made her protest, did not think itnecessary to persevere, and so the matter was dropped. It was known, however, that they must all come back to London before they startedfor their seat of government, and therefore the subject did not atpresent assume its difficult aspect. There was a tacit understandingamong them that everything should be done to make the journeypleasant to the young mother who was in search of her son; and, inaddition to this, Lady Rowley had her own little understanding, whichwas very tacit indeed, that in Mr. Glascock might be found an escapefrom one of their great family difficulties. 

"You had better take this, papa, " Mrs. Trevelyan had said, when shereceived from the office of Mr. Bideawhile a cheque payable to herorder 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 rightthat he should bear the expense for his own wife. And, papa, you mustremember always that though his mind is distracted on this horriblebusiness, he is not a bad man. No one is more liberal or more justabout money. " Sir Marmaduke's feelings on the matter were verymuch the same as those which had troubled Mr. Outhouse, and he, personally, refused to touch the money; but his daughter paid her ownshare of the expenses of the journey. 

They travelled at their ease, stopping at Paris, and at Geneva, andat Milan. Lady Rowley thought that she was taken very fast, becauseshe was allowed to sleep only two nights at each of these places, and Sir Rowley himself thought that he had achieved something of aHannibalian enterprise in taking five ladies and two maids over theSimplon and down into the plains of Lombardy, with nobody to protecthim but a single courier. He had been a little nervous about it, being unaccustomed to European travelling, and had not at firstrealised the fact that the journey is to be made with less troublethan one from the Marble Arch to Mile End. "My dears, " he said to hisyounger daughters, as they were rattling round the steep downwardtwists and turns of the great road, "you must sit quite still onthese descents, or you do not know where you may go. The least thingwould overset us. " But Lucy and Sophy soon knew better, and becameso intimate with the mountain, under the friendly guidance of theircourier, that before the plains were reached, they were in and out, and here and there, and up and down, as though they had been bredamong the valleys of the pass. There would come a ringing laugh fromsome rock above their head, and Lady Rowley looking up would seetheir dresses fluttering on a pinnacle which appeared to her to befit only for a bird; and there would be the courier behind them, withtwo parasols, and a shawl, and a cloak, and an eye-glass, and a finepair of 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 which she would write toher lover, --only that she had determined that she would not write tohim at all without telling her mother, --and Mrs. Trevelyan would formoments almost forget that she had been robbed of her child. 

From Milan they went on to Florence, and though they were by thattime quite at home in Italy, and had become critical judges ofItalian inns and Italian railways, they did not find that journeyto be quite so pleasant. There is a romance to us still in the nameof Italy which a near view of many details in the country fails torealise. Shall we say that a journey through Lombardy is about asinteresting as one through the flats of Cambridgeshire and the fensof Norfolk? And the station of Bologna is not an interesting spotin which to spend an hour or two, although it may be conceded thatprovisions may be had there much better than any that can be procuredat 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 theywould see the castles of which they had read in novels; but the dayhad been very hot, and Sir Marmaduke had been cross, and Lady Rowleyhad been weary, and so not a castle was seen. "Pistoia, me 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 theyall went to sleep again, and were very tired when they reached thebeautiful city. 

During the next day they rested at their inn, and sauntered throughthe Duomo, and broke their necks looking up at the inimitable gloriesof the campanile. Such a one as Sir Marmaduke had of course not cometo Florence without introductions. The Foreign Office is always verycivil to its next-door neighbour of the colonies, --civil and cordial, though perhaps a little patronising. A minister is a bigger man thana governor; and the smallest of the diplomatic fry are greater swellsthan even secretaries in quite important dependencies. The attaché, though he be unpaid, dwells in a capital, and flirts with a countess. The governor's right-hand man is confined to an island, and danceswith a planter's daughter. The distinction is quite understood, butis not incompatible with much excellent good feeling on the part ofthe superior department. Sir Marmaduke had come to Florence fairlyprovided with passports to Florentine society, and had been mentionedin more than one letter as the distinguished Governor of theMandarins, who had been called home from his seat of government on aspecial mission of great importance. On the second day he went outto call at the embassy and to leave his cards. "Have you been ableto learn whether he is here?" asked Lady Rowley of her husband in awhisper, as soon as they were alone. 

"Who;--Trevelyan?"

"I did not suppose you could learn about him, because he would behiding himself. But is Mr. Glascock here?"

"I forgot to ask, " said Sir Marmaduke. 

Lady Rowley did not reproach him. It is impossible that any fathershould altogether share a mother's anxiety in regard to the marriageof their daughters. But what a thing it would be! Lady Rowley thoughtthat she could compound for all misfortunes in other respects, if shecould have a daughter married to the future Lord Peterborough. Shehad been told in England that he was faultless, --not very clever, notvery active, not likely to be very famous; but, as a husband, simplyfaultless. He was very rich, very good-natured, easily managed, more likely to be proud of his wife than of himself, addicted to nojealousies, afflicted by no vices, so respectable in every way thathe was sure to become great as an English nobleman by the very weightof his virtues. And it had been represented also to Lady Rowleythat this paragon among men had been passionately attached to herdaughter! Perhaps she magnified a little the romance of the story;but it seemed to her that this greatly endowed lover had rushed awayfrom his country in despair, because her daughter Nora would notsmile upon him. Now they were, as she hoped, in the same city withhim. But it was indispensable to her success that she should not seemto be running after him. To Nora, not a word had been said of theprospect of meeting Mr. Glascock at Florence. Hardly more than aword had been said to her sister Emily, and that under injunctionof strictest secrecy. It must be made to appear to all the worldthat other motives had brought them to Florence, --as, indeed, othermotives had brought them. Not for worlds would Lady Rowley have runafter a man for her daughter; but still, still, --still, seeing thatthe man was himself so unutterably in love with her girl, seeing thathe was so fully justified by his position to be in love with anygirl, seeing that such a maximum of happiness would be the result ofsuch a marriage, she did feel that, even for his sake, she must bedoing a good thing to bring them together! Something, though not muchof all this, she had been obliged to explain to Sir Marmaduke;--andyet he had not taken the trouble to inquire whether Mr. Glascock wasin Florence!

On the third day after their arrival, the wife of the Britishminister came to call upon Lady Rowley, and the wife of the Britishminister was good-natured, easy-mannered, and very much given toconversation. She preferred talking to listening, and in the courseof a quarter of an hour had told Lady Rowley a good deal aboutFlorence; but she had not mentioned Mr. Glascock's name. It wouldhave been so pleasant if the requisite information could have beenobtained without the asking of any direct question on the subject!But Lady Rowley, who from many years' practice of similar, thoughperhaps less distinguished, courtesies on her part, knew well thefirst symptom of the coming end of her guest's visit, found that theminister's wife was about to take her departure without an allusionto Mr. Glascock. And yet the names had been mentioned of so manyEnglish residents in Florence, who neither in wealth, rank, orvirtue, were competent to hold a candle to that phoenix! She wasforced, 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 singularbeing!"

Lady Rowley thought that she could perceive that her phoenix hadnot made himself agreeable at the embassy. It might perhaps be thathe had buried himself away from society because of his love. "And ishere now?" asked Lady Rowley. 

"I cannot say at all. He is sometimes here and sometimes with hisfather at Naples. But when here, he lives chiefly with the Americans. They say he is going to marry an American girl, --their minister'sniece. There are three of them, I think, and he is to take theeldest. " Lady Rowley asked no more questions, and let her augustvisitor go, almost without another word. 

CHAPTER LXXVI. 

"WE SHALL BE SO POOR. "

Mr. Glascock at that moment was not only in Florence, but wasoccupying rooms in the very hotel in which the Rowleys were staying. Lady Rowley, when she heard that he was engaged to marry an Americanlady, became suddenly very sick at heart, --sick with a sicknessthat almost went beyond her heart. She felt ill, and was glad to bealone. The rumour might be untrue. Such rumours generally are untrue. But then, as Lady Rowley knew very well, they generally have somefoundation in truth. Mr. Glascock, if he were not actually engagedto the American girl, had probably been flirting with her;--and, ifso, where was that picture which Lady Rowley had been painting forherself of a love-lorn swain to be brought back to the pleasures andoccupations of the world only by the girl 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 SirMarmaduke and his family were in Florence, --and would probably cometo them. Then, if Nora would only behave herself, the American girlmight still be conquered. 

During two or three days after this nothing was seen or heard ofMr. Glascock. Had Lady Rowley thought of mentioning the name to thewaiter at the hotel, she would have learned that he was living in thenext passage; but it did not occur to her to seek information in thatfashion. Nor did she ask direct questions in other quarters aboutMr. Glascock himself. She did, however, make inquiry about Americansliving in Florence, --especially about the American Minister, --and, before a week had passed overhead, had been introduced to theSpaldings. Mrs. Spalding was very civil, and invited Lady Rowley andall the girls and Sir Marmaduke to come to her on her "Fridays. " Shereceived her friends every Friday, and would continue to do so tillthe middle of June. She had nieces who would, she said, be so happyto make the acquaintance of the Miss Rowleys. 

By this time the picture galleries, the churches, and the palaces inFlorence had nearly all been visited. Poor Lady Rowley had draggedherself wearily from sight to sight, hoping always to meet withMr. Glascock, ignorant of the fact that residents in a town do notpass their mornings habitually in looking after pictures. Duringthis time inquiries were being made through the police, respectingTrevelyan; and Sir Marmaduke had obtained information that an Englishgentleman, with a little boy, had gone on to Siena, and had locatedhimself there. There seemed to be but little doubt that this wasTrevelyan, --though nothing had been learned with certainty as to thegentleman's name. It had been decided that Sir Marmaduke, with hiscourier and Mrs. Trevelyan, should go on to Siena, and endeavourto come upon the fugitive, and they had taken their departure on acertain morning. On that same day Lady Rowley was walking with Noraand one of the other girls through the hall of the hotel, when theywere met in full face--by Mr. Glascock! Lady Rowley and Lucy were infront, and they, of course, did not know the man. Nora had seen himat once, and in her confusion hardly knew how to bear herself. Mr. Glascock was passing by her without recognising her, --had passed hermother and sister, and had so far gone on, that Nora had determinedto make no sign, when he chanced to look up and see who it was thatwas so close to him. "Miss Rowley, " he said, "who thought of meetingyou in Florence!" Lady Rowley, of course, turned round, and there wasan introduction. Poor Nora, though she knew nothing of her mother'sschemes, was confused and ill at ease. Mr. Glascock was very civil, but at the same time rather cold. Lady Rowley was all smiles andcourtesy. She had, she said, heard his name from her daughters, andwas very happy to make his acquaintance. Lucy looked on somewhatastonished to find that the lover whom her sister had been blamed forrejecting, and who was spoken of with so many encomiums, was so old aman. Mr. Glascock asked after Mrs. Trevelyan; and Lady Rowley, in alow, melancholy whisper, told him that they were now all in Florence, in the hope of meeting Mr. Trevelyan. "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 herthat he had seen Mr. Trevelyan in Florence within the last ten days. This was so interesting, that, at Lady Rowley's request, he went withthem up to their rooms, and in this way the acquaintance was made. Itturned out that Mr. Glascock had spoken to Mr. Trevelyan, and thatTrevelyan had told him that he meant for the present to take up hisresidence in some small Italian town. "And how was he looking, Mr. Glascock?"

"Very ill, Lady Rowley;--very ill, indeed. "

"Do not tell her so, Mr. Glascock. She has gone now with her fatherto Siena. We think that he is there, with the boy, --or, at least, that he may be heard of there. And you;--you are living here?" Mr. Glascock said that he was living between Naples and Florence, --goingoccasionally to Naples, a place that he hated, to see his father, and coming back at intervals to the capital. Nora sat by, and hardlyspoke a word. She was nicely dressed, with an exquisite littlebonnet, which had been bought as they came through Paris; and LadyRowley, with natural pride, felt that if he was ever in love with herchild, that love must come back upon him now. American girls, she hadbeen told, were hard, and dry, and sharp, and angular. She had seensome at the Mandarins, with whom she thought it must be impossiblethat any Englishman should be in love. There never, surely, hadbeen 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 tired of them. What 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 hardlypropose that they should come and sit and do nothing with him. Couldhe have been lured into churches or galleries, Nora might have beenonce 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 evening, --she and her daughters. Mr. Glascockreplied that he did know the Spaldings, and that he also should be attheir house. Lady Rowley thought that she discovered something like ablush about his cheekbones and brow, as he made his answer. Then heleft them, giving his hand to Nora as he went;--but there was nothingin his manner to justify the slightest hope. 

"I don't think he 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 nonsensewhen he said that he liked to sit still and do nothing. He is not atall an idle man;--at least I am told so. "

"But he is as old as Methuselah, " said Lucy. 

"He is between thirty and forty, " said Lady Rowley. "Of course weknow that from the peerage. " Lady Rowley, however, was wrong. Had sheconsulted the peerage, she would have seen that Mr. Glascock was overforty. 

Nora, as soon as she was alone and could think about it all, feltquite sure that Mr. Glascock would never make her another offer. Thisought not to have caused her any sorrow, as she was very well awarethat she would not accept him, should he do so. Yet, perhaps, therewas a moment of some feeling akin to disappointment. Of course shewould not have accepted him. How could she? Her faith was so plightedto Hugh Stanbury that she would be a by-word among women for ever, were she to be so false. And as she told herself, she had not theslightest feeling of affection for Mr. Glascock. It was quite out ofthe question, and a matter simply for speculation. Nevertheless itwould have been a very grand thing to be Lady Peterborough, and shealmost regretted that she had a heart in her bosom. 

She had become fully aware during that interview that her motherstill entertained hopes, and almost suspected that Lady Rowley hadknown something of Mr. Glascock's residence in Florence. She hadseen that her mother had met Mr. Glascock almost as though some suchmeeting had been expected, and had spoken to him almost as though shehad expected to have to speak to him. Would it not be better that sheshould at once make her mother understand that all this could be ofno avail? If she were to declare plainly that nothing could bringabout such a marriage, would not her mother desist? She almost madeup her mind to do so; but as her mother said nothing to her beforethey started for Mr. Spalding's house, neither did she say anythingto her mother. She did not wish to have angry words if they could beavoided, and she felt that there might be anger and unpleasant wordswere she to insist upon her devotion to Hugh Stanbury while this richprize was in sight. If her mother should speak to her, then, indeed, she would declare her own settled purpose; but she would do nothingto accelerate the evil hour. 

There were but few people in Mrs. Spalding's drawing-room when theywere announced, and Mr. Glascock was not among them. Miss WallachiaPetrie was there, and in the confusion of the introduction waspresumed by Lady Rowley to be one of the nieces introduced. She hadbeen distinctly told that Mr. Glascock was to marry the eldest, andthis lady was certainly older than the other two. In this way LadyRowley decided that Miss Wallachia Petrie was her daughter's hatedrival, and she certainly was much surprised at the gentleman's taste. But there is nothing, --nothing in the way of an absurd matrimonialengagement, --into which a man will not allow himself to be entrappedby pique. Nora would have a great deal to answer for, Lady Rowleythought, if the unfortunate man should be driven by her cruelty tomarry such a woman as this one now before her. 

It happened that Lady Rowley soon found herself seated by MissPetrie, and she at once commenced her questionings. She intended tobe very discreet, but the subject was too near her heart to allow herto be altogether silent. "I believe you know Mr. Glascock?" she said. 

"Yes, " said Wallachia, "I do know him. " Now the peculiar nasal twangwhich our cousins over the water have learned to use, and whichhas grown out of a certain national instinct which coerces them toexpress themselves with self-assertion;--let the reader go into hiscloset and talk through his nose for awhile with steady attentionto the effect which his own voice will have, and he will find thatthis theory is correct;--this intonation, which is so peculiar amongintelligent Americans, had been adopted con amore, and, as it were, taken to her bosom by Miss Petrie. Her ears had taught themselvesto feel that there could be no vitality in speech without it, andthat all utterance unsustained by such tone was effeminate, vapid, useless, unpersuasive, unmusical, --and English. It was a complaintfrequently made by her against her friends Caroline and Olivia thatthey debased their voices, and taught themselves the puling Britishmode of speech. "I do know the gentleman, " said Wallachia;--and LadyRowley shuddered. Could it be that such a woman as this was to reignover 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 whenhe was living in London. "

"I dare say. I believe that in London the titled aristocrats do hangpretty much together. " It had never occurred to poor Lady Rowley, since the day in which her husband had been made a knight, at theadvice of the Colonial Minister, in order that the inhabitants ofsome island might be gratified by the opportunity of using thetitle, that she and her children had thereby become aristocrats. Were her daughter Nora to marry Mr. Glascock, Nora would become anaristocrat, --or would, rather, be ennobled, --all which Lady Rowleyunderstood perfectly. 

"I don't know that London society is very exclusive in that respect, "said Lady Rowley. 

"I guess you are pretty particular, " said Miss Petrie, "and it seemsto me you don't have much regard to intellect or erudition, --but fixthings up straight according to birth and money. "

"I hope we are not quite so bad as that, " said Lady Rowley. "I do notknow London well myself, as I have passed my life in very distantplaces. "

"The distant places are, in my estimation, the best. The further themind is removed from the contamination incidental to the centres oflong-established luxury, the more chance it has of developing itselfaccording to the intention of the Creator, when he bestowed his giftsof intellect upon us. " Lady Rowley, when she heard this eloquence, could hardly believe that such a man as Mr. Glascock should really beintent 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 alsowere talking of Mr. Glascock. Caroline Spalding had said that Mr. Glascock had spoken to her of Nora Rowley, and Nora acknowledged thatthere had been some acquaintance between them in London. "Almost morethan that, I should have thought, " said Miss Spalding, "if one mightjudge by his manner of speaking of you. "

 [Illustration: The rivals. ]

"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 isvery intimate in this house. It begun in this way;--Olivia and I weretravelling together, and there was--a difficulty, as we say in ourcountry when three or four gentlemen shoot each other. Then therecame up Mr. Glascock and another gentleman. By-the-bye, the othergentleman 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 isat Siena to-day. "

"I have heard about him, and it is so sad. Mr. Glascock knows him. AsI said, they were travelling together, when Mr. Glascock came to ourassistance. Since that, we have seen him very frequently. I don'tthink 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 opinion iscertainly worth having. Here he is. Mr. Glascock, I hope your earsare tingling. They ought to do so, because we are saying all mannerof fine things about you. "

"I could not be well spoken of by two on whose good word I should seta 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 praiseyou louder than I can do, but no one will ever do so with moresincerity. " There was a pretty earnestness about her as she spoke, which Lady Rowley ought to have heard. Mr. Glascock bowed, and MissSpalding smiled, and Nora blushed. 

"If you are not overwhelmed now, " said Miss Spalding, "you must be soused to flattery, that it has no longer any effect upon you. You mustbe like a drunkard, to whom wine is as water, and who thinks thatbrandy is not strong enough. "

"I think I had better go away, " said Mr. Glascock, "for fear thebrandy should be watered by degrees. " And so he left them. 

Nora had become quite aware, without much process of thinking aboutit, that her former lover and this American young lady were veryintimate with each other. The tone of the conversation had shewn thatit was so;--and, then, how had it come to pass that Mr. Glascock hadspoken to this American girl about her, --Nora Rowley? It was evidentthat he had spoken of her with warmth, and had done so in a manner toimpress his hearer. For a minute or two they sat together in silenceafter Mr. Glascock had left them, but neither of them stirred. ThenCaroline Spalding turned suddenly upon Nora, and took her by thehand. "I must tell you something, " said she, "only it must be asecret for awhile. "

"I will not repeat it. "

"Thank you, dear. I am engaged to him, --as his wife. He asked me thisvery afternoon, and nobody knows it but my aunt. When I had acceptedhim, he told me all the story about you. He had very often spokenof you before, and I had guessed how it must have been. He wearshis heart so open for those whom he loves, that there is nothingconcealed. He had seen you just before he came to me. But perhaps Iam wrong to tell you that now. He ought to have been thinking of youagain 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 beenhis wife if you wished it. He has told me all that. And he especiallywants us to be friends. Is there anything to prevent it?"

"On my part? Oh, dear, no;--except that you will be such grand folk, and we shall be so poor. "

"We!" said Caroline, laughing. "I am so glad that there is a 'we. '"

CHAPTER LXXVII. 

THE FUTURE LADY PETERBOROUGH. 

"If you have not sold yourself for British gold, and for Britishacres, and for British rank, I have nothing to say against it, "said Miss Wallachia Petrie that same evening to her friend CarolineSpalding. 

"You know that I have not sold myself, as you call it, " saidCaroline. There had been a long friendship between these two ladies, and the younger one knew that it behoved her to bear a good dealfrom the elder. Miss Petrie was honest, clever, and in earnest. Wein England are not usually favourably disposed to women who take apride in a certain antagonism to men in general, and who are anxiousto shew the world that they can get on very well without maleassistance; but there are many such in America who have nobleaspirations, good intellects, much energy, and who are by no meansunworthy of friendship. The hope in regard to all such women, --thehope entertained not by themselves, but by those who are solicitousfor them, --is that they will be cured at last by a husband andhalf-a-dozen children. In regard to Wallachia Petrie there was not, perhaps, much ground for such hope. She was so positively wedded towomen's rights in general, and to her own rights in particular, thatit was improbable that she should ever succumb to any man;--and wherewould be the man brave enough to make the effort? From circumstancesCaroline Spalding had been the beloved of her heart since CarolineSpalding was a very little girl; and she had hoped that Carolinewould through life have borne arms along with her in that contestwhich she was determined to wage against man, and which she alwayswaged with the greatest animosity against men of the British race. She hated rank; she hated riches; she hated monarchy;--and witha true woman's instinct in battle, felt that she had a speciallystrong point against Englishmen, in that they submitted themselvesto dominion from a woman monarch. And now the chosen friend of heryouth, --the friend who had copied out all her poetry, who had learnedby heart all her sonnets, who had, as she thought, reciprocated allher ideas, was going to be married, --and to be married to an Englishlord! She had seen that it was coming for some time, and had spokenout very plainly, hoping that she might still save the brand fromthe burning. Now the evil was done; and Caroline Spalding, when shetold her news, knew well that she would have to bear some heavyreproaches. 

"How many of us are there who never know whether we sell ourselvesor not?" said Wallachia. "The senator who longs for office, and whovotes this way instead of that in order that he may get it, thinksthat he is voting honestly. The minister who calls himself a teacherof God's word, thinks that it is God's word that he preaches whenhe strains his lungs to fill his church. The question is this, Caroline;--would you have loved the same man had he come to you witha woodman's axe in his hand or a clerk's quill behind his ear? Iguess not. "

"As to the woodman's axe, Wally, it is very well in theory; but--"

"Things good in theory, Caroline, will be good also when practised. You may be sure of that. We dislike theory simply because ourintelligences are higher than our wills. But we will let that pass. "

"Pray let it pass, Wally. Do not preach me sermons to-night. I am sohappy, and you ought to wish me joy. "

"If wishing you joy would get you joy, I would wish it you while Ilived. I cannot be happy that you should be taken from us whither Ishall 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. What should I be in the glitteringhalls of an English baron? Could there be any visiting less fitting, any admixture less appropriate? Could I who have held up my voicein the Music Hall of Lacedæmon, amidst the glories of the West, inthe great and free State of Illinois, against the corruption of anEnglish aristocracy, --could I, who have been listened to by twothousand of my countrywomen, --and men, --while I spurned the unmanly, inhuman errors of primogeniture, --could I, think you, hold my tonguebeneath the roof of a feudal lord!" Caroline Spalding knew that herfriend could not hold her tongue, and hesitated to answer. There hadbeen that fatal triumph of a lecture on the joint rights of men andwomen, and it had rendered poor Wallachia Petrie unfit for ordinarysociety. 

"You might come there without talking politics, Wally, " saidCaroline. 

"No, Caroline; no. I will go into the house of no man in which thefree expression of my opinion is debarred me. I will not sit evenat your table with a muzzled tongue. When you are gone, Caroline, I shall devote myself to what, after all, must be the work of mylife, and I shall finish the biographical history of our greathero in verse, --which I hope may at least be not ephemeral. Frommonth to month I shall send you what I do, and you will not refuseme your friendly criticism, --and, perhaps, some slight meed ofapprobation, --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 advantagewhich rarely if ever falls to the lot of a man, --that they are neverconvinced of error. Men, let them be ever so much devoted to theirclosets, let them keep their work ever so closely veiled from publicscrutiny, still find themselves subjected to criticism, and underthe necessity of either defending themselves or of succumbing. If, indeed, a man neither speaks, nor writes, --if he be dumb as regardsopinion, --he passes simply as one of the crowd, and is in the wayneither of convincing nor of being convinced; but a woman may speak, and almost write, as she likes, without danger of being wounded bysustained conflict. Who would have the courage to begin with such aone as Miss Petrie, and endeavour to prove to her that she is wrongfrom the beginning? A little word of half-dissent, a smile, a shrug, and an ambiguous compliment which is misunderstood, are all the formsof argument which can be used against her. Wallachia Petrie, inher heart of hearts, conceived that she had fairly discussed hergreat projects from year to year with indomitable eloquence andunanswerable truth, --and that none of her opponents had had a legto stand upon. And this she believed because the chivalry of menhad given to her sex that protection against which her life was onecontinued protest. 

"Here he is, " said Caroline, as Mr. Glascock came up to them. "Tryand say a civil word to him, if he speaks about it. Though he is tobe a lord, still he is a man and a brother. "

"Caroline, " said the stern monitress, "you are already learning tolaugh at principles which have been dear to you since you left yourmother's breast. Alas, how true it is, 'You cannot touch pitch andnot be defiled. '"

The further progress of these friendly and feminine amenities wasstopped by the presence of the gentleman who had occasioned them. "Miss Petrie, " said the hero of the hour, "Caroline was to tell youof my good fortune, and no doubt she has done so. "

"I cannot wait to hear the pretty things he has to say, " saidCaroline, "and I must look after my aunt's guests. There is poorSignor Buonarosci without a soul to say a syllable to him, and I mustgo and use my ten Italian words. "

"You are about to take with you to your old country, Mr. Glascock, "said Miss Petrie, "one of the brightest stars in our young Americanfirmament. " There could be no doubt, from the tone of Miss Petrie'svoice, that she now regarded this star, however bright, as one of asort which is subjected to falling. 

"I am going to take a very nice young woman, " said Mr. Glascock. 

"I hate that word woman, sir, uttered with the half-hidden sneerwhich always accompanies its expression from the mouth of a man. "

"Sneer, Miss Petrie!"

"I quite allow that it is involuntary, and not analysed or understoodby yourselves. If you speak of a dog, you intend to do so withaffection, but there is always contempt mixed with it. The so-calledchivalry of man to woman is all begotten in the same spirit. I wantno favour, but I claim to be your equal. "

"I thought that American ladies were generally somewhat exacting asto those privileges which chivalry gives them. "

"It is true, sir, that the only rank we know in our country is inthat precedence which man gives to woman. Whether we maintain that, or whether we abandon it, we do not intend to purchase it at theprice of an acknowledgment of intellectual inferiority. For myself, Ihate chivalry;--what you call chivalry. I can carry my own chair, andI claim the right to carry it whithersoever I may please. "

Mr. Glascock remained with her for some time, but made no opportunityfor giving that invitation to Monkhams of which Caroline had spoken. As he said afterwards, he found it impossible to expect her to attendto any subject so trivial; and when, afterwards, Caroline told him, with some slight mirth, --the capability of which on such a subjectwas coming to her with her new ideas of life, --that, though he waspartly saved as a man and a brother, still he was partly the reverseas a feudal lord, he began to reflect that Wallachia Petrie would bea guest with whom he would find it very difficult to make things gopleasant at Monkhams. "Does she not bully you horribly?" he asked. 

"Of course she bullies me, " Caroline answered; "and I cannot expectyou to understand as yet how it is that I love her and like her; butI do. If I were in distress to-morrow, she would give everything shehas in the world to put me right. "

"So would I, " said he. 

"Ah, you;--that is a matter of course. That is your business now. And she would give everything she has in the world to set the worldright. Would you do that?"

"It would depend on the amount of my faith. If I could believe in theresult, I suppose I should do it. "

"She would do it on the slightest hope that such giving would haveany tendency that way. Her philanthropy is all real. Of course she isa bore to you. "

"I am very patient. "

"I hope I shall find you so, --always. And, of course, she isridiculous--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 overthe water, and mine will come from--where shall I say?--over thetable. If I can't talk her down with so much advantage on my side, Iought to be made a woman's-right man myself. "

Poor Lady Rowley had watched Miss Petrie and Mr. Glascock duringthose moments that they had been together, and had half believed therumour, and had half doubted, thinking in the moments of her beliefthat Mr. Glascock must be mad, and in the moments of unbelief thatthe rumours had been set afloat by the English Minister's wife withthe express intention of turning Mr. Glascock into ridicule. It hadnever occurred to her to doubt that Wallachia was the eldest of thatfamily of nieces. Could it be possible that a man who had knownher Nora, who had undoubtedly loved her Nora, --who had travelledall the way from London to Nuncombe Putney to ask Nora to be hiswife, --should within twelve months of that time have resolved tomarry a woman whom he must have selected simply as being the mostopposite to Nora of any female human being that he could find? It wasnot credible to her; and if it were not true, there might still be ahope. Nora had met him, and had spoken to him, and it had seemed thatfor a moment or two they had spoken as friends. Lady Rowley, whentalking to Mrs. Spalding, had watched them closely; and she had seenthat Nora's eyes had been bright, and that there had been somethingbetween them which was pleasant. Suddenly she found herself close toWallachia, and thought that she would trust herself to a word. 

"Have you been long in Florence?" asked Lady Rowley in her softestvoice. 

"A pretty considerable time, ma'am;--that is, since the fall began. "

What a voice;--what an accent;--and what words! Was there a manliving with sufficient courage to take this woman to England, andshew her to the world as Lady Peterborough?

"Are you going to remain in Italy for the summer?" continued LadyRowley. 

"I guess I shall;--or, perhaps, locate myself in the purer atmosphereof the Swiss mountains. "

"Switzerland in summer must certainly be much pleasanter. "

"I was thinking at the moment of the political atmosphere, " said MissPetrie; "for although, certainly, much has been done in this countryin the way of striking off shackles and treading sceptres under foot, still, Lady Rowley, there remains here that pernicious thing, --aking. The feeling of the dominion of a single man, --and that of asingle 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 shesaid this, put forth her hand, and raised her chin, and extendedher arm. She paused, feeling that justice demanded that Lady Rowleyshould 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 sweetsavours and the soft luxuries of the outer world with any comfort tomy inner self, while the circumstances of the society around me areoppressive to my spirit. When our war was raging all around me I waslight-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, were those fiery days ofindiscriminate slaughter; but they were not days of desolation, because hope was always there by our side. There was a hope inwhich the soul could trust, and the trusting soul is ever light andbuoyant. "

"I dare say it is, " said Lady Rowley. 

"But apathy, and serfdom, and kinghood, and dominion, drain thefountain of its living springs, and the soul becomes like the plummetof lead, whose only tendency is to hide itself in subaqueous mud andunsavoury slush. "

Subaqueous mud and unsavoury slush! Lady Rowley repeated the words toherself as she made good her escape, and again expressed to herselfher conviction that it could not possibly be so. The "subaqueous mudand unsavoury slush, " with all that had gone before it about thesoul was altogether unintelligible to her; but she knew that it wasAmerican buncom of a high order of eloquence, and she told herselfagain and again that it could not be so. She continued to keep hereyes upon Mr. Glascock, and soon saw him again talking to Nora. Itwas hardly possible, she thought, that Nora should speak to himwith so much animation, or he to her, unless there was some feelingbetween them which, if properly handled, might lead to a renewal ofthe old tenderness. She went up to Nora, having collected the othergirls, and said that the carriage was then waiting for them. Mr. Glascock immediately offered Lady Rowley his arm, and took herdown to the hall. Could it be that she was leaning upon a futureson-in-law? There was something in the thought which made her layher weight upon him with a freedom which she would not otherwisehave used. Oh!--that her Nora should live to be Lady Peterborough!We are apt to abuse mothers for wanting high husbands for theirdaughters;--but can there be any point in which the true maternalinstinct can shew itself with more affectionate enthusiasm? This poormother wanted nothing for herself from Mr. Glascock. She knew verywell that it was her fate to go back to the Mandarins, and probablyto die there. She knew also that such men as Mr. Glascock, when theymarry beneath themselves in rank and fortune, will not ordinarilytrouble themselves much with their mothers-in-law. There was nothingdesired for herself. Were such a match accomplished, she might, perhaps, indulge herself in talking among the planters' wives of herdaughter's coronet; but at the present moment there was no idea evenof 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 theone might be rich and splendid, and the others have some path openedfor them to riches and splendour. Husband-hunting mothers may beinjudicious; but surely they are maternal and unselfish. Mr. Glascockput her into the carriage, and squeezed her hand;--and then hesqueezed Nora's hand. She saw it, and was sure of it. "I am so gladyou are going to be happy, " Nora had said to him before this. "Asfar as I have seen her, I like her so much. " "If you do not comeand visit her in her own house, I shall think you have no spirit offriendship, " he said. "I will, " Nora had replied;--"I will. " This hadbeen said up-stairs, just as Lady Rowley was coming to them, and onthis understanding, on this footing, Mr. Glascock had pressed herhand. 

As she went home, Lady Rowley's mind was full of doubt as to thecourse which it was best that she should follow with her daughter. She was not unaware how great was the difficulty before her. HughStanbury's name had not been mentioned since they left London, but atthat time Nora was obstinately bent on throwing herself away upon the"penny-a-liner. " She had never been brought to acknowledge that sucha marriage would be even inappropriate, and had withstood gallantlythe expression of her father's displeasure. But with such a spirit asNora'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 tosay nothing further of Hugh Stanbury. Let the cure come, if it mightbe possible, from absence and from her daughter's good sense. Theonly question was whether it would be wise to say any word about Mr. Glascock. In the carriage she was not only forbearing but flatteringin her manner to Nora. She caressed her girl's hand and spoke toher, --as mothers know how to speak when they want to make much oftheir girls, and to have it understood that those girls are behavingas girls should behave. There was to be nobody to meet them to-night, as it had been arranged that Sir Marmaduke and Mrs. Trevelyan shouldsleep at Siena. Hardly a word had been spoken in the carriage; butup-stairs, in their drawing-room, there came a moment in which Lucyand Sophie had left them, and Nora was alone with her mother. LadyRowley almost knew that it would be most prudent to be silent;--but aword spoken in season;--how good it is! And the thing was so near toher that she could not hold her peace. "I must say, Nora, " she began, "that I do like your 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 aword 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 seemedto be leading the way herself to such discourse. "Of course, he isnot your Mr. Glascock. You cannot eat your cake and have it, nor canyou throw it away and have it. "

"I have thrown my cake away altogether, and certainly I cannot haveit. " She was still smiling as she spoke, and seemed to be quite merryat the idea of regarding Mr. Glascock as the cake which she haddeclined to eat. 

"I can see one thing quite plainly, dear. "

"What is that, mamma?"

"That in spite of what you have done, you can still have your cakewhenever 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 Rowley's solemnity as she asked thisquestion 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 friendship withher 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!"

"Perfectly awful! She talked to me in a way that I have read aboutin books, but which I did not before believe to be possible. Do youmean that he is going to be married to that hideous old maid, --thatbell-clapper?"

"Oh, mamma, what slander! I think her so pretty. "

"Pretty!"

"Very pretty. And, mamma, ought I not to be happy that he shouldhave been able to make himself so happy? It was quite, quite, quiteimpossible that I should have been his wife. I have thought about itever so much, and I am so glad of it! I think she is just the girlthat is fit for him. "

Lady Rowley took her candle and went to bed, professing to herselfthat 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'sreach, and if he chose to marry a republican virago, with a red nose, it could now make no difference to Nora. Lady Rowley almost felta touch of satisfaction in reflecting on the future misery of hismarried life. 

CHAPTER LXXVIII. 

CASALUNGA. 

Sir Marmaduke had been told at the Florence post-office that he wouldno doubt be able to hear tidings of Trevelyan, and to learn hisaddress, from the officials in the post-office at Siena. At Florencehe had been introduced to some gentleman who was certainly ofimportance, --a superintendent who had clerks under him and who was abig man. This person had been very courteous to him, and he had goneto Siena thinking that he would find it easy to obtain Trevelyan'saddress, --or to learn that there was no such person there. But atSiena he and his courier together could obtain no information. Theyrambled about the huge cathedral and the picturesque market-placeof that quaint old city for the whole day, and on the next morningafter breakfast they returned to Florence. They had learned nothing. The young man at the post-office had simply protested that he knewnothing of the name of Trevelyan. If letters should come addressed tosuch a name, he would keep them till they were called for; but, tothe best of his knowledge, he had never seen or heard the name. Atthe guard-house of the gendarmerie they could not, or would not, givehim any information, and Sir Marmaduke came back with an impressionthat everybody at Siena was ignorant, idiotic, and brutal. Mrs. Trevelyan was so dispirited as to be ill, and both Sir Marmaduke andLady Rowley were disposed to think that the world was all againstthem. "You have no conception of the sort of woman that man is goingto marry, " said Lady Rowley. 

"What man?"

"Mr. Glascock! A horrid American female, as old almost as I am, whotalks through her nose, and preaches sermons about the rights ofwomen. It is incredible! And Nora might have had him just for liftingup her hand. " But Sir Marmaduke could not interest himself much aboutMr. Glascock. When he had been told that his daughter had refused theheir to a great estate and a peerage, it had been matter of regret;but he had looked upon the affair as done, and cared nothing nowthough Mr. Glascock should marry a transatlantic Xantippe. He wasangry with Nora because by her obstinacy she was adding to thegeneral perplexities of the family, but he could not make comparisonson Mr. Glascock's behalf between her and Miss Spalding, --as his wifewas doing, either mentally or aloud, from hour to hour. "I suppose itis too late now, " said Lady Rowley, shaking her head. 

"Of course it is too late. The man must marry whom he pleases. I ambeginning to wonder that anybody should ever want to get married. Iam 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 Marchhare, and yet nobody can touch him. If it was not for the child, Ishould advise Emily to put him out of her head altogether. "

But though Sir Marmaduke could not bring himself to take any interestin Mr. Glascock's affairs, and would not ask a single questionrespecting the fearful American female whom this unfortunate manwas about to translate to the position of an English peeress, yetcircumstances so fell out that before three days were over he andMr. Glascock were thrown together in very intimate relations. SirMarmaduke had learned that Mr. Glascock was the only Englishman inFlorence to whom Trevelyan had been known, and that he was the onlyperson with whom Trevelyan had been seen to speak while passingthrough the city. In his despair, therefore, Sir Marmaduke had goneto Mr. Glascock, and it was soon arranged that the two gentlemenshould renew the search at Siena together, without having with themeither Mrs. Trevelyan or the courier. Mr. Glascock knew the waysof the people better than did Sir Marmaduke, and could speak thelanguage. He obtained a passport to the good offices of the police ofSiena, and went prepared to demand rather than to ask for assistance. They started very early, before breakfast, and on arriving at Sienaat about noon, first employed themselves in recruiting exhaustednature. By the time that they had both declared that the hotel atSiena was the very worst in all Italy, and that a breakfast withouteatable butter was not to be considered a breakfast at all, theyhad become so intimate that Mr. Glascock spoke of his own intendedmarriage. He must have done this with the conviction on his mind thatNora Rowley would have told her mother of his former intention, andthat Lady Rowley would have told Sir Marmaduke; but he did not feelit to be incumbent on himself to say anything on that subject. He hadnothing to excuse. He had behaved fairly and honourably. It was notto be expected that he should remain unmarried for ever for the sakeof a girl who had twice refused him. "Of course there are very manyin England, " he said, "who will think me foolish to marry a girl fromanother country. "

"It is done every day, " said Sir Marmaduke. 

"No doubt it is. I admit, however, that I ought to be more carefulthan some other persons. There is a title and an estate to beperpetuated, and I cannot, perhaps, be justified in taking quite somuch liberty as some other men may do; but I think I have chosen awoman born to have a high position, and who will make her own way inany society in which she may be placed. "

"I have no doubt she will, " said Sir Marmaduke, who had stillsounding in his ears the alarming description which his wife hadgiven him of this infatuated man's proposed bride. But he would havebeen bound to say as much had Mr. Glascock intended to marry as lowlyas did King Cophetua. 

"She is highly educated, gentle-mannered, as sweetly soft as anyEnglish 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 afault on the right side. " Sir Marmaduke, as he wiped his beard afterhis breakfast, remembered what his wife had told him about the lady'sage. But it was nothing to him. "She is four-and-twenty, I think, "said Mr. Glascock. If Mr. Glascock chose to believe that his intendedwife was four-and-twenty instead of something over forty, that wasnothing to Sir Marmaduke. 

"The very best age in the world, " said he. 

They had sent for an officer of the police, and before they had beenthree hours in Siena they had been told that Trevelyan lived aboutseven 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 smallcarriage from a man in the town. To this man they went, and it soonbecame evident to them that he of whom they were in search was livingat this house, which was called Casalunga, and was not, as the policeofficer told them, on the way to any place. They must leave Siena bythe road for Rome, take a turn to the left about a mile beyond thecity gate, and continue on along the country lane till they saw acertain round hill to the right. On the top of that round hill wasCasalunga. As the country about Siena all lies in round hills, thiswas no adequate description;--but it was suggested that the countrypeople would know all about it. They got a small open carriage inthe market-place, and were driven out. Their driver knew nothing ofCasalunga, and simply went whither he was told. But by the aid of thecountry people they got along over the unmade lanes, and in littlemore than an hour were told, at the bottom of the hill, that theymust now walk up to Casalunga. Though the hill was round-topped, andno more than a hill, still the ascent at last was very steep, andwas paved with stones set edgeway in a manner that could hardly havebeen intended to accommodate wheels. When Mr. Glascock asserted thatthe signor who lived there had a carriage of his own, the driversuggested that he must keep it at the bottom of the hill. It wasclearly not his intention to attempt to drive up the ascent, and SirMarmaduke and Mr. Glascock were therefore obliged to walk. It wasnow in the latter half of May, and there was a blazing Italian skyover their heads. Mr. Glascock was acclimated to Italian skies, anddid not much mind the work; but Sir Marmaduke, who never did muchin walking, declared that Italy was infinitely hotter than theMandarins, 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 aman as Trevelyan. At the top of the hill there was a huge entrancethrough a wooden gateway, which seemed to have been constructed withthe intention of defying any intruders not provided with warlikeammunition. The gates were, indeed, open at the period of theirvisit, but it must be supposed that they were intended to be closedat any rate at night. Immediately on the right, as they enteredthrough the gates, there was a large barn, in which two men werecoopering wine vats. From thence a path led slanting to the house, of which the door was shut, and all the front windows blocked withshutters. The house was very long, and only of one story for aportion of its length. Over that end at which the door was placedthere were upper rooms, and there must have been space enough for alarge family with many domestics. There was nothing round or nearthe residence which could be called a garden, so that its look ofdesolation was extreme. There were various large barns and outhouses, as though it had been intended by the builder that corn and hay andcattle should be kept there; but it seemed now that there was nothingthere except the empty vats at which the two men were coopering. Hadthe Englishmen gone farther into the granary, they would have seenthat there were wine-presses stored away in the dark corners. 

They stopped and looked at the men, and the men halted for a momentfrom their work and looked at them; but the men spoke never a word. Mr. Glascock then asked after Mr. Trevelyan, and one of the cooperspointed to the house. Then they crossed over to the door, and Mr. Glascock finding there neither knocker nor bell, first tapped withhis knuckles, and then struck with his stick. But no one came. Therewas not a sound in the house, and no shutter was removed. "I don'tbelieve that there is a soul here, " said Sir Marmaduke. 

"We'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 dugwith the spade, came up to the very windows. There was hardly evena particle of grass to be seen. A short way down the hill therewere rows of olive trees, standing in prim order and at regulardistances, from which hung the vines that made the coopering ofthe vats necessary. Olives and vines have pretty names, and callup associations of landscape beauty. But here they were in no waybeautiful. The ground beneath them was turned up, and brown, andarid, so that there was not a blade of grass to be seen. On somefurrows the maize or Indian corn was sprouting, and there werepatches of growth of other kinds, --each patch closely marked by itsown straight lines; and there were narrow paths, so constructed as totake as little room as possible. But all that had been done had beendone for economy, and nothing for beauty. The occupiers of Casalungahad thought more of the produce of their land than of picturesque orattractive appearance. 

The sun was blazing fiercely hot, hotter on this side, Sir Marmadukethought, even than on the other; and there was not a wavelet of acloud in the sky. A balcony ran the whole length of the house, andunder this Sir Marmaduke took shelter at once, leaning with his backagainst 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;"and, at any rate, we will try the windows. " So saying, he walkedalong the front of the house, Sir Marmaduke following him slowly, till they came to a door, the upper half of which was glazed, andthrough which they looked into one of the rooms. Two or three of theother windows in this frontage of the house came down to the ground, and were made for egress and ingress; but they had all been closedwith shutters, as though the house was deserted. But they now lookedinto a room which contained some signs of habitation. There was asmall table with a marble top, on which lay two or three books, andthere 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--arocking-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 anyone!"

"I never saw such a place for an Englishman to come and live inbefore, " 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 Trevelyanstanding before them, looking at them through the window. He wore anold red English dressing-gown, which came down to his feet, and asmall braided Italian cap on his head. His beard had been allowedto grow, and he had neither collar nor cravat. His trousers wereunbraced, and he shuffled in with a pair of slippers, which wouldhardly cling to his feet. He was paler and still thinner than when hehad been visited at Willesden, and his eyes seemed to be larger, andshone 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 frontdoor, but nobody came, " continued Mr. Glascock. "I suppose this isthe 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 roundagain?" Trevelyan had stood still contemplating them, but at lastcame forward and put back the bolt. "That is all right, " saidMr. Glascock, entering. "I am sure you will be glad to see SirMarmaduke. "

"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 wereuttered with a certain amount of intended grandeur. "Any of thefamily would be welcome were it not--"

"Were it not what?" asked Mr. Glascock. 

"It can be nothing to you, sir, what troubles I have here. This is myown abode, in which I had flattered myself that I could be free fromintruders. I do not want visitors. I am sorry that you should havehad trouble in coming here, but I do not want visitors. I am verysorry that I have nothing that I can offer you, Mr. Glascock. "

"Emily is in Florence, " said Sir Marmaduke. 

"Who brought her? Did I tell her to come? Let her go back to herhome. I have come here to be free from her, and I mean to be free. Ifshe wants my money, let her take it. "

"She wants her child, " said Mr. Glascock. 

"He is my child, " said Trevelyan, "and my right to him is better thanhers. Let her try it in a court of law, and she shall see. Why didshe deceive me with that man? Why has she driven me to this? Lookhere, Mr. Glascock;--my whole life is spent in this seclusion, and itis 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 wife's character?" said SirMarmaduke, coming up in wrath. "Remember that she is my daughter, andthat there are things which flesh and blood cannot stand. "

"She is my wife, sir, and that is ten times more. Do you think thatyou would do more for her than I would do, --drink more of Esill? Youhad better go away, Sir Marmaduke. You can do no good by coming hereand talking of your daughter. I would have given the world to saveher;--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. Itwas so manifest to him that the balance of the poor man's mind wasgone, that it seemed to him to be ridiculous to upbraid the sufferer. He was such a piteous sight to behold, that it was almost impossibleto feel indignation against him. "You cannot wonder, " said Mr. Glascock, advancing close to the master of the house, "that themother should want to see her only child. You do not wish that yourwife should be the most wretched woman in the world. "

"Am not I the most wretched of men? Can anything be more wretchedthan this? Is her life worse than mine? And whose fault was it? HadI any friend to whom she objected? Was I untrue to her in a singlethought?"

"If you say that she was untrue, it is a falsehood, " said SirMarmaduke. 

"You allow yourself a liberty of expression, sir, because you are mywife's father, " said Trevelyan, "which you would not dare to take inother circumstances. "

"I say that it is a false calumny, --a lie! and I would say so to anyman on earth who should dare to slander my child's name. "

"Your child, sir! She is my wife;--my wife;--my wife!" Trevelyan, ashe spoke, advanced close up to his father-in-law; and at last hissedout his words, with his lips close to Sir Marmaduke's face. "Yourright in her is gone, sir. She is mine, --mine, --mine! And you see theway in which she has treated me, Mr. Glascock. Everything I had washers; but the words of a grey-haired sinner were sweeter to her thanall my love. I wonder whether you think that it is a pleasant thingfor such a one as I to come out here and live in such a place asthis? I have not a friend, --a companion, --hardly a book. There isnothing that I can eat or drink. I do not stir out of the house, --andI am ill;--very ill! Look at me. See what she has brought me to! Mr. Glascock, on my honour as a man, I never wronged her in a thought ora word. "

Mr. Glascock had come to think that his best chance of doing any goodwas to get Trevelyan into conversation with himself, free from theinterruption of Sir Marmaduke. The father of the injured woman couldnot bring himself to endure the hard words that were spoken of hisdaughter. During this last speech he had broken out once or twice;but Trevelyan, not heeding him, had clung to Mr. Glascock's arm. "SirMarmaduke, " said he, "would you not like to see the boy?"

"He shall not see the boy, " said Trevelyan. "You may see him. Heshall not. What is he that he should have control over me?"

"This is the most fearful thing I ever heard of, " said Sir Marmaduke. "What are we to do with him?"

Mr. Glascock whispered a few words to Sir Marmaduke, and thendeclared that he was ready to be taken to the child. "And he willremain here?" asked Trevelyan. A pledge was then given by SirMarmaduke 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, perspiring at every pore, thoroughly uncomfortable and ill at ease, thought of all the hardpositions of which he had ever read, and that his was harder thanthem all. Here was a man married to his daughter, in possession ofhis daughter's child, manifestly mad, --and yet he could do nothingto him! He was about to return to the seat of his government, andhe must leave his own child in this madman's power! Of course, hisdaughter could not go with him, leaving her child in this madman'shands. He had been told that even were he to attempt to prove the manto be mad in Italy, the process would be slow; and, before it couldbe well commenced, Trevelyan would be off with the child elsewhere. There never was an embarrassment, thought Sir Marmaduke, out of whichit was so impossible to find a clear way. 

In the meantime, Mr. Glascock and Trevelyan were visiting the child. It was evident that the father, let him be ever so mad, had discernedthe expediency of allowing some one to see that his son was aliveand in health. Mr. Glascock did not know much of children, and couldonly say afterwards that the boy was silent and very melancholy, butclean, and apparently well. It appeared that he was taken out dailyby his father in the cool hours of the morning, and that his fatherhardly left him from the time that he was taken up till he was put tobed. But Mr. Glascock's desire was to see Trevelyan alone, and thishe did after they had left the boy. "And now, Trevelyan, " he said, "what do you mean to do?"

"To do?"

"In what way do you propose to live? I want you to be reasonable withme. "

"They do not treat me reasonably. "

"Are you going to measure your own conduct by that of other people?In the first place, you should go back to England. What good can youdo here?" Trevelyan shook his head, but remained silent. "You cannotlike this life. "

"No, indeed. But whither can I go now that I shall like to live?"

"Why not home?"

"I have no home. "

"Why not go back to England? Ask your wife to join you, and returnwith her. She would go at a word. " The poor wretch again shookhis 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 believe thatshe has been untrue to you?" Trevelyan would say nothing to this, butstood silent waiting for Mr. Glascock to continue. "Let her come backto you--here; and then, as soon as you can arrange it, go to your ownhome. "

"Shall I tell you something?" said Trevelyan. 

"What is it?"

He came up close to Mr. Glascock, and put his hand upon his visitor'sshoulder. "I will tell you what she would do at once. I dare say thatshe would come to me. I dare say that she would go with me. I amsure she would. And directly she got me there, she would--say that Iwas--mad! She, --my wife, would do it! He, --that furious, ignorant oldman below, tried to do it before. His wife said that I was mad. " Hepaused a moment, as though waiting for a reply; but Mr. Glascock hadnone to make. It had not been his object, in the advice which he hadgiven, to entrap the poor fellow by a snare, and to induce him so toact that he should deliver himself up to keepers; but he was wellaware that wherever Trevelyan might be, it would be desirable that heshould be placed for awhile in the charge of some physician. He couldnot bring himself at the spur of the moment to repudiate the idea bywhich Trevelyan was actuated. "Perhaps you think that she would beright?" 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. Iintend to travel. I shall probably leave this and go to--to--toGreece, perhaps. It is a healthy place, this, and I like it for thatreason; but I shall not stay here. If my wife likes to travel withme, 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 shewill come, --without her father, --she shall see him. She shall nottake him from hence. Nor shall she return to live with me, withoutfull acknowledgment of her fault, and promises of an amended life. Iknow what I am saying, Mr. Glascock, and have thought of these thingsperhaps more than you have done. I am obliged to you for coming tome; but now, if you please, I would prefer to be alone. "

Mr. Glascock, seeing that nothing further could be done, joined SirMarmaduke, and the two walked down to their carriage at the bottom ofthe hill. Mr. Glascock, as he went, declared his conviction that theunfortunate man was altogether mad, and that it would be necessaryto obtain some interference on the part of the authorities for theprotection of the child. How this could be done, or whether itcould be done in time to intercept a further flight on the part ofTrevelyan, Mr. Glascock could not say. It was his idea that Mrs. Trevelyan should herself go out to Casalunga, and try the force ofher own persuasion. 

"I believe that he would murder her, " said Sir Marmaduke. 

"He would not do that. There is a glimmer of sense in all hismadness, which will keep him from any actual violence. "

CHAPTER LXXIX. 

"I CAN SLEEP ON THE BOARDS. "

Three days after this there came another carriage to the bottom ofthe hill on which Casalunga stood, and a lady got out of it allalone. It was Emily Trevelyan, and she had come thither from Sienain quest of her husband and her child. On the previous day SirMarmaduke's courier had been at the house with a note from thewife to the husband, and had returned with an answer, in whichMrs. Trevelyan was told that, if she would come quite alone, sheshould see her child. Sir Marmaduke had been averse to any furtherintercourse with the man, other than what might be made in accordancewith medical advice, and, if possible, with government authority. Lady Rowley had assented to her daughter's wish, but had suggestedthat she should at least be allowed to go also, --at any rate, asfar 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 noharm to her, and he was indisposed to believe that any interferenceon the part of the Italian Government could be procured in such acase with sufficient celerity to be of use. He still thought it mightbe possible that the wife might prevail over the husband, or themother over the father. Sir Marmaduke was at last obliged to yield, and Mrs. Trevelyan went to Siena with no other companion but thecourier. From Siena she made the journey quite alone; and havinglearned the circumstances of the house from Mr. Glascock, she got outof the carriage, and walked up the hill. There were still the two mencoopering at the vats, but she did not stay to speak to them. Shewent through the big gates, and along the slanting path to the door, not doubting of her way;--for Mr. Glascock had described it all toher, making a small plan of the premises, and even explaining to herthe position of the room in which her boy and her husband slept. Shefound the door open, and an Italian maid-servant at once welcomedher to the house, and assured her that the signor would be with herimmediately. She was sure that the girl knew that she was the boy'smother, and was almost tempted to ask questions at once as to thestate of the household; but her knowledge of Italian was slight, andshe felt that she was so utterly a stranger in the land that shecould dare to trust no one. Though the heat was great, her face wascovered 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 intothe room which her father had been allowed to enter through thewindow; and here she sat, in her husband's house, feeling that in noposition in the world could she be more utterly separated from theinterests 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 haddressed himself with some care; but it may be doubted whether thegarments which he wore did not make him appear thinner even and morehaggard than he had looked to be in his old dressing-gown. He had notshaved himself, but his long hair was brushed back from his forehead, after a fashion quaint and very foreign to his former ideas ofdress. His wife had not expected that her child would come to herat once, --had thought that some entreaties would be necessary, someobedience perhaps exacted from her, before she would be allowed tosee him; and now her heart was softened, and she was grateful to herhusband. But she could not speak to him till she had had the boy inher arms. She tore off her bonnet, and then clinging to the child, covered him with kisses. "Louey, my darling! Louey; you remembermamma?" The child pressed himself close to the mother's bosom, butspoke never a word. He was cowed and overcome, not only by theincidents of the moment, but by the terrible melancholy of hiswhole life. He had been taught to understand, without actual spokenlessons, that he was to live with his father, and that the formerwoman-given happinesses of his life were at an end. In this secondvisit from his mother he did not forget her. He recognised the luxuryof her love; but it did not occur to him even to hope that she mighthave come to rescue him from the evil of his days. Trevelyan wasstanding by, the while, looking on; but he did not speak till sheaddressed 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 havebeen better that I should have sent him by a servant; but there arecircumstances which make me fear to let him out of my sight. "

"Do you think that I did not wish to see you also? Louis, why doyou do me so much wrong? Why do you treat me with such cruelty?"Then she threw her arms round his neck, and before he could repulseher, --before he could reflect whether it would be well that he shouldrepulse her or not, --she had covered his brow and cheeks and lipswith kisses. "Louis, " she said; "Louis, speak to me!"

"It is hard to speak sometimes, " he said. 

 [Illustration: "It is hard to speak sometimes. "]

"You love me, Louis?"

"Yes;--I love you. But I am afraid of you!"

"What is it that you fear? I would give my life for you, if you wouldonly come back to me and let me feel that you believed me to betrue. " He shook his head, and began to think, --while she still clungto him. He was quite sure that her father and mother had intended tobring a mad doctor down upon him, and he knew that his wife was inher mother's hands. Should he yield to her now, --should he make herany promise, --might not the result be that he would be shut up indark rooms, robbed of his liberty, robbed of what he loved betterthan his liberty, --his power as a man. She would thus get the betterof him and take the child, and the world would say that in thiscontest between him and her he had been the sinning one, and she theone against whom the sin had been done. It was the chief object ofhis mind, the one thing for which he was eager, that this shouldnever come to pass. Let it once be conceded to him from all sidesthat he had been right, and then she might do with him almost as shewilled. He knew well that he was ill. When he thought of his child, he would tell himself that he was dying. He was at some moments ofhis miserable existence fearfully anxious to come to terms with hiswife, in order that at his death his boy might not be without aprotector. Were he to die, then it would be better that his childshould be with its mother. In his happy days, immediately afterhis marriage, he had made a will, in which he had left his entireproperty to his wife for her life, providing for its subsequentdescent to his child, --or children. It had never even occurred to hispoor shattered brain that it would be well for him to alter his will. Had he really believed that his wife had betrayed him, doubtless hewould have done so. He would have hated her, have distrusted heraltogether, and have believed her to be an evil thing. He had no suchbelief. But in his desire to achieve empire, and in the sorrows whichhad come upon him in his unsuccessful struggle, his mind had waveredso frequently, that his spoken words were no true indicators of histhoughts; and in all his arguments he failed to express either hisconvictions or his desires. When he would say something stronger thanhe intended, and it would be put to him by his wife, by her father ormother, or by some friend of hers, whether he did believe that shehad been untrue to him, he would recoil from the answer which hisheart would dictate, lest he should seem to make an acknowledgmentthat might weaken the ground upon which he stood. Then he wouldsatisfy his own conscience by assuring himself that he had neveraccused her of such sin. She was still clinging to him now as hismind was working after this fashion. "Louis, " she said, "let it allbe 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 wordspoken of the past. " Again he shook his head. "Will it not be bestthat there should be no word spoken?"

"'Forgiveness may be spoken with the tongue, '" he said, beginning toquote from a poem which had formerly been frequent in his hands. 

"Cannot there be real forgiveness between you and me, --betweenhusband and wife who, in truth, love each other? Do you think that Iwould tell you of it again?" He felt that in all that she said therewas an assumption that she had been right, and that he had beenwrong. She was promising to forgive. She was undertaking to forget. She was willing to take him back to the warmth of her love, and thecomfort of her kindness, --but was not asking to be taken back. Thiswas what he could not and would not endure. He had determined thatif she behaved well to him, he would not be harsh to her, and hewas struggling to keep up to his resolve. He would accuse her ofnothing, --if he could help it. But he could not say a word that wouldeven imply that she need forget, --that she should forgive. It was forhim to forgive;--and he was willing to do it, if she would acceptforgiveness. "I will never speak a word, Louis, " she said, laying herhead 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 ourreligion, Emily, forgiveness is sure, not after penitence, but withrepentance. "

"What does that mean?"

"It means this, that though I would welcome you back to my arms withjoy, I cannot do so, till you have--confessed your fault. "

"What fault, Louis? If I have made you unhappy, I do, indeed, grievethat it has been so. "

"It is of no use, " said he. "I cannot talk about it. Do you supposethat it does not tear me to the very soul to think of it?"

"What is it that you think, Louis?" As she had been travellingthither, she had determined that she would say anything that hewished her to say, --make any admission that might satisfy him. Thatshe could be happy again as other women are happy, she did notexpect; but if it could be conceded between them that bygones shouldbe 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 husband wasmad; but she was willing to put up with his madness on such terms asthese. What could her husband do to her in his madness that he couldnot do also to the child? "Tell me what you want me to say, and Iwill say it, " she said. 

"You have sinned against me, " he said, raising her head gently fromhis shoulder. 

"Never!" she exclaimed. "As God is my judge, I never have!" As shesaid this, she retreated and took the sobbing boy again into herarms. 

He was at once placed upon his guard, telling himself that he saw thenecessity of holding by his child. How could he tell? Might there notbe a policeman down from Florence, ready round the house, to seizethe boy and carry him away? Though all his remaining life should bea torment to him, though infinite plagues should be poured upon hishead, though he should die like a dog, alone, unfriended, and indespair, while he was fighting this battle of his, he would not giveway. "That is sufficient, " he said. "Louey must return now to his ownchamber. "

"I may go with him?"

"No, Emily. You cannot go with him now. I will thank you to releasehim, that I may take him. " She still held the little fellow closelypressed in her arms. "Do not reward me for my courtesy by furtherdisobedience, " he said. 

"You will let me come again?" To this he made no reply. "Tell me thatI may come again. "

"I do not think that I shall remain here long. "

"And I may not stay now?"

"That would be impossible. There is no accommodation for you. "

"I could sleep on the boards beside his cot, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"That is my place, " he replied. "You may know that he is notdisregarded. With my own hands I tend him every morning. I take himout myself. I feed him myself. He says his prayers to me. He learnsfrom 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 boy from her arms, and she let her childgo, lest he should learn to know that there was a quarrel betweenhis father and his mother. "If you will excuse me, " he said, "I willnot come down to you again to-day. My servant will see you to yourcarriage. "

So he left her; and she, with an Italian girl at her heels, got intoher vehicle, and was taken back to Siena. There she passed the nightalone at the inn, and on the next morning returned to Florence by therailway. 

CHAPTER LXXX. 

"WILL THEY DESPISE HIM?"

Gradually the news of the intended marriage between Mr. Glascock andMiss Spalding spread itself over Florence, and people talked aboutit with that energy which subjects of such moment certainly deserve. That Caroline Spalding had achieved a very great triumph, was, ofcourse, the verdict of all men and of all women; and I fear thatthere was a corresponding feeling that poor Mr. Glascock had beentriumphed over, and as it were, subjugated. In some respects he hadbeen remiss in his duties as a bachelor visitor to Florence, --as avisitor to Florence who had manifestly been much in want of a wife. He had not given other girls a fair chance, but had thrown himselfdown at the feet of this American female in the weakest possiblemanner. And then it got about the town that he had been refused overand over again by Nora Rowley. It is too probable that Lady Rowleyin her despair and dismay had been indiscreet, and had told secretswhich should never have been mentioned by her. And the wife ofthe English minister, who had some grudges of her own, lifted hereyebrows and shook her head and declared that all the Glascocks athome 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 themwhether they should issue a commission de lunatico. " Lady Rowley didnot know what a commission de lunatico meant, but was quite willingto regard poor Mr. Glascock as a lunatic. "And there is poor LordPeterborough at Naples just at death's door, " continued the BritishMinister's wife. In this she was perhaps nearly correct; but as LordPeterborough had now been in the same condition for many months, ashis mind had altogether gone, and as the doctor declared that hemight live in his present condition for a year, or for years, itcould not fairly be said that Mr. Glascock was acting without duefilial feeling in engaging himself to marry a young lady. "And shesuch a creature!" said Lady Rowley, with emphasis. This the BritishMinister's wife noticed simply by shaking her head. Caroline Spaldingwas undoubtedly a pretty girl; but, as the British Minister's wifesaid afterwards, it was not surprising that poor Lady Rowley shouldbe 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 rightas to that mistake of hers about Wallachia Petrie. That other troubleof hers, and her eldest daughter's journey to Siena, had preventedthem from going out; and though the matter had often been discussedbetween Lady Rowley and Nora, there had not as yet come between themany proper explanation. Nora would declare that the future bridewas very pretty and very delightful; and Lady Rowley would throw upher hands in despair and protest that her daughter was insane. "Whyshould he not marry whom he likes, mamma?" Nora once said, almostwith indignation. 

"Because he will disgrace his family. "

"I cannot understand what you mean, mamma. They are, at any rate, asgood 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 Englishpeer and a Yankee--female, I cannot help you. I suppose it is becauseyou have been brought up within the limited society of a smallcolony. If so, it is not your fault. But I had hoped you had been inEurope long enough to have learned what was what. Do you think, mydear, that she will look well when she is presented to her Majesty asLord Peterborough's wife?"

"Splendid, " said Nora. "She has just the brow for a coronet. "

"Heavens and earth!" said Lady Rowley, throwing up her hands. "Andyou believe that he will be proud of her in England?"

"I am sure he will. "

"My belief is that he will leave her behind him, or that theywill settle somewhere in the wilds of America, --out in Mexico, orMassachusetts, or the Rocky Mountains. I do not think that he willhave the courage to shew her in London. "

The marriage was to take place in the Protestant church at Florenceearly in June, and then the bride and bridegroom were to go over theAlps, and to remain there subject to tidings as to the health of theold man at Naples. Mr. Glascock had thrown up his seat in Parliament, some month or two ago, knowing that he could not get back to hisduties during the present session, and feeling that he would shortlybe called upon to sit in the other House. He was thus free to use histime and to fix his days as he pleased; and it was certainly clear tothose who knew him, that he was not ashamed of his American bride. He spent much of his time at the Spaldings' house, and was alwaysto be seen with them in the Cascine and at the Opera. Mrs. Spalding, the aunt, was, of course, in great glory. A triumphant, happy, oreven simply a splendid marriage, for the rising girl of a family isa great glory to the maternal mind. Mrs. Spalding could not but beaware that the very air around her seemed to breathe congratulationsinto her ears. Her friends spoke to her, even on indifferentsubjects, as though everything was going well with her, --better withher than with anybody else; and there came upon her in these daysa dangerous feeling, that in spite of all the preachings of thepreachers, the next world might perhaps be not so very much betterthan this. She was, in fact, the reverse of the medal of whichpoor Lady Rowley filled the obverse. And the American Minister wascertainly an inch taller than before, and made longer speeches, beingmuch more regardless of interruption. Olivia was delighted at hersister's success, and heard with rapture the description of Monkhams, which came to her second-hand through her sister. It was alreadysettled that she was to spend her next Christmas at Monkhams, andperhaps there might be an idea in her mind that there were othereldest sons of old lords who would like American brides. Everythingaround Caroline Spalding was pleasant, --except the words of WallachiaPetrie. 

Everything around her was pleasant till there came to her a touch ofa suspicion that the marriage which Mr. Glascock was going to makewould be detrimental to her intended husband in his own country. There were many in Florence who were saying this besides the wife ofthe English Minister and Lady Rowley. Of course Caroline Spaldingherself was the last to hear it, and to her the idea was broughtby Wallachia Petrie. "I wish I could think you would make yourselfhappy, --or him, " Wallachia had said, croaking. 

"Why should I fail to make him happy?"

"Because you are not of the same blood, or race, or manners ashimself. They say that he is very wealthy in his own country, andthat those who live around him will look coldly on you. "

"So that he does not look coldly, I do not care how others may look, "said Caroline proudly. 

"But when he finds that he has injured himself by such a marriage inthe estimation of all his friends, --how will it be then?"

This set Caroline Spalding thinking of what she was doing. She beganto realise the feeling that perhaps she might not be a fit bride foran English lord's son, and in her agony she came to Nora Rowley forcounsel. After all, how little was it that she knew of the home andthe country to which she was to be carried! She might not, perhaps, get adequate advice from Nora, but she would probably learn somethingon which she could act. There was no one else among the English atFlorence to whom she could speak with freedom. When she mentioned herfears to her aunt, her aunt of course laughed at her. Mrs. Spaldingtold her that Mr. Glascock might be presumed to know his own businessbest, and that she, as an American lady of high standing, --the nieceof a minister!--was a fitting match for any Englishman, let him beever so much a lord. But Caroline was not comforted by this, and inher suspense she went to Nora Rowley. She wrote a line to Nora, andwhen 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 goingto do, I am bound to save him from his own folly. You know your owncountry better than I do. Will they think that he has disgracedhimself?"

"Certainly not that, " said Nora. 

"Shall I be a load round his neck? Miss Rowley, for my own sake Iwould 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 ofhim, --because of me--!"

"No one will think ill of him. "

"Is it esteemed needful that such a one as he should marry a woman ofhis own rank? I can bear to end it all now; but I shall not be ableto bear his humiliation, and my own despair, if I find that I haveinjured him. Tell me plainly, --is it a marriage that he should notmake?" Nora paused for a while before she answered, and as she satsilent the other girl watched her face carefully. Nora on being thusconsulted, was very careful that her tongue should utter nothing thatwas not her true opinion as best she knew how to express it. Hersympathy would have prompted her to give such an answer as wouldat once have made Caroline happy in her mind. She would have beendelighted to have been able to declare that these doubts were utterlygroundless, and this hesitation needless. But she conceived that sheowed it as a duty from one woman to another to speak the truth as sheconceived it on so momentous an occasion, and she was not sure butthat Mr. Glascock would be considered by his friends in England to bedoing badly in marrying an American girl. What she did not rememberwas this, --that her very hesitation was in fact an answer, and suchan answer as she was most unwilling to give. "I see that it would beso, " 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 failto admire you. " Nora, as she said this, thought of her mother, buttold herself at once that in this matter her mother's judgment hadbeen altogether destroyed by her disappointment. "What I think willtake place will be this. His family, when first they hear of it, willbe 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'tput an end to it. I don't think I have a right. I shall not do it anyway, however. "

"But if it were for his good?"

"It couldn't be for his good. He and I have got to go along togethersomehow. "

"You wouldn't hurt him, " said Caroline. 

"I won't if I can help it, but he has got to take me along with himany how; and Mr. Glascock has got to take you. If I were you, Ishouldn't ask any more questions. "

"It isn't the same. You said that you were to be poor, but he is veryrich. And I am beginning to understand that these titles of yours aresomething like kings' crowns. The man who has to wear them can't dojust as he pleases with them. Noblesse oblige. I can see the meaningof that, even when the obligation itself is trumpery in its nature. If it is a man's duty to marry a Talbot because he's a Howard, Isuppose he ought to do his duty. " After a pause she went on again. "Ido believe that I have made a mistake. It seemed to be absurd at thefirst to think of it, but I do believe it now. Even what you say tome makes me think it. "

"At any rate you can't go back, " said Nora enthusiastically. 

"I will try. "

"Go to himself and ask him. You must leave him to decide it at last. I don't see how a girl when she is engaged, is to throw a man overunless he consents. Of course you can throw yourself into the Arno. "

"And get the water into my shoes, --for it wouldn't do much more atpresent. "

"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 adviseyou to think no more about it; but if you speak to anybody it shouldbe to him. " This was at last the result of Nora's wisdom, and thenthe two girls descended together to the room in which Lady Rowley wassitting with her other daughters. Lady Rowley was very careful inasking after Miss Spalding's sister, and Miss Spalding assured herthat Olivia was quite well. Then Lady Rowley made some inquiry aboutOlivia and Mr. Glascock, and Miss Spalding assured her that no twopersons were ever such allies, and that she believed that they weretogether at this moment investigating some old church. Lady Rowleysimpered, and declared that nothing could be more proper, andexpressed 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 amsure 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, " saidMiss 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 marriedto 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 shespoke, --"it is this one that is to be Mrs. Glascock. "

"It is a most natural mistake to make, " said Caroline. 

Lady Rowley became very red in the face, and was unhappy. "Ideclare, " she said, "that they told me 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 somuch. Don't you, Miss Spalding?"

"I have always supposed so. "

"I don't understand it at all, " said Lady Rowley, who had no imagebefore her mind's eye but that of Wallachia Petrie, and who wasbeginning to feel that she had disgraced her own judgment by thecriticisms she had expressed everywhere as to Mr. Glascock's bride. "I don't understand it at all. Do you mean that both your sisters areyounger than you, Miss Spalding?"

"I have only got one, Lady Rowley. "

"Mamma, you are thinking of Miss Petrie, " said Nora, clapping bothher hands together. 

"I mean the lady that wears the black bugles. "

"Of course you do;--Miss Petrie. Mamma has all along thought that Mr. Glascock was going to carry away with him the republican Browning!"

"Oh, mamma, how can you have made such a blunder!" said SophieRowley. "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 wrong, that has not been my fault, " saidLady Rowley. 

The poor woman was so evidently disconcerted that Caroline Spaldingwas quite unhappy. "My dear Lady Rowley, there has been no fault. Andwhy shouldn't it have been so? Wallachia is so clever, that it is themost 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 herfriend, "and you must not be angry with us if we laugh a little atyour poetess. Mamma has been frantic with Mr. Glascock because he hasbeen going to marry, --whom shall I say, --her edition of you. She hassworn that he must be insane. When we have sworn how beautiful youwere, and how nice, and how jolly, and all the rest of it, --she hassworn 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 going tomarry it, --yes. Can't you see how we 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 we have had such a battle hereabout it. We thought that mamma had lost her eyes and her ears andher knowledge of things in general. And now it has all come out! Youwon't be angry?"

"Why should I be angry?"

"Miss Spalding, " said Lady Rowley, "I am really unhappy at what hasoccurred, and I hope that there may be nothing more said about it. I am quite sure that somebody told me wrong, or I should not havefallen 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 comingup to Lady Rowley to say good-bye, kissed her on her cheeks. Thisovercame the spirit of the disappointed mother, and Lady Rowley neversaid another word against Caroline Spalding or her marriage. "Now, mamma, what do you think of her?" said Nora, as soon as Caroline wasgone. 

"Was it odd, my dear, that I should be astonished at his wanting tomarry that other woman?"

"But, mamma, when we told you that she was young and pretty andbright!"

"I thought that you were all demented. I did indeed. I still think ita pity that he should take an American. I think that Miss Spalding isvery nice, but there are English girls quite as nice-looking as her. "After that there was not another word said by Lady Rowley againstCaroline Spalding. 

Nora, when she thought of it all that night, felt that she had hardlyspoken to Miss Spalding as she should have spoken as to the treatmentin England which would be accorded to Mr. Glascock's wife. She becameaware of the effect which her own hesitation must have had, andthought that it was her duty to endeavour to remove it. Perhaps, too, the conversion of her mother had some effect in making her feel thatshe had been wrong in supposing that there would be any difficultyin Caroline's position in England. She had heard so much adversecriticism from her mother that she had doubted in spite ofher own convictions;--but now it had come to light that LadyRowley's criticisms had all come from a most absurd blunder. "Onlyfancy;"--she said to herself;--"Miss Petrie coming out as LadyPeterborough! Poor mamma!" And then she thought of the receptionwhich would be given to Caroline, and of the place the future LadyPeterborough would fill in the world, and of the glories of Monkhams!Resolving that she would do her best to counteract any evil whichshe might have done, she seated herself at her desk, and wrote thefollowing letter to Miss Spalding:--

 MY DEAR CAROLINE, 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 your 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 who 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 certainly 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 you 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 says 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 with it at once, and take it all afterwards as it may come. Nevertheless, perhaps, we may see each other somewhere, and I may be able to introduce you to the dearest, honestest, very best, and most affectionate man in the world. And he is very, very clever. 

 Yours very affectionately, NORA ROWLEY. 

 Thursday morning. 

CHAPTER LXXXI. 

MR. GLASCOCK IS MASTER. 

 [Illustration]

Caroline Spalding, when she received Nora's letter, was not disposedto give much weight to it. She declared to herself that the girl'sunpremeditated expression of opinion was worth more than her studiedwords. But she was not the less grateful or the less loving towardsher new friend. She thought how nice it would be to have Nora at thatsplendid abode in England of which she had heard so much, --but shethought also that in that splendid abode she herself ought never tohave part or share. If it were the case that this were an unfittingmatch, it was clearly her duty to decide that there should be nomarriage. Nora had been quite right in bidding her speak to Mr. Glascock himself, and to Mr. Glascock she would go. But it was verydifficult for her to determine on the manner in which she woulddiscuss the subject with him. She thought that she could be firm ifher mind were once made up. She believed that perhaps she was bynature more firm than he. In all their intercourse together he hadever yielded to her; and though she had been always pleased andgrateful, there had grown upon her an idea that he was perhaps tooeasy, --that he was a man as to whom it was necessary that they wholoved him should see that he was not led away by weakness into folly. But she would want to learn something from him before her decisionwas finally reached, and in this she foresaw a great difficulty. In her trouble she went to her usual counsellor, --the RepublicanBrowning. 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 thedifference between one's own country and others. "

"We can at least learn a great deal that is satisfactory, " saidWallachia. "About one out of every five Italians can read a book, about two out of every five Englishmen can read a book. Out of everyfive New Englanders four and four-fifths can read a book. I guessthat is knowing a good deal. "

"I don't mean in statistics. "

"I cannot conceive how you are to learn anything about any countryexcept by statistics. I have just discovered that the number ofillegitimate children--"

"Oh, Wally, I can't talk about that, --not now at least. What I cannotrealise is this, --what sort of a life it is that they will lead atMonkhams. "

"Plenty to eat and drink, I guess; and you'll always have to go roundin fine clothes. "

"And that will be all?"

"No;--not all. There will be carriages and horses, and all mannerof people there who won't care much about you. If he is firm, --veryfirm;--if he have that firmness which one does not often meet, evenin an American man, he will be able, after a while, to give youa position as an English woman of rank. " It is to be feared thatWallachia 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 timesa day. I don't suppose you will be allowed to nurse it, because theynever do in England. You have read what the Saturday Review says. Inevery other respect the Saturday Review has been the falsest of allfalse periodicals, but I guess it has been pretty true in what it hassaid about English women. "

"I wish I knew more about it really. "

"When a man has to leap through a window in the dark, Caroline, ofcourse he doubts whether the feather bed said to be below will besoft enough for him. "

"I shouldn't fear the leap for myself, if it wouldn't hurt him. Doyou think it possible that society can be so formed that a man shouldlose caste because he doesn't marry just one of his own set?"

"It has been so all over the world, my dear. If like to like is to betrue anywhere, it should be true in marriage. "

"Yes;--but with a difference. He and I are like to like. We come ofthe same race, we speak the same language, we worship the same God, we have the same ideas of culture and of pleasures. The difference isone that is not patent to the eye or to the ear. It is a differenceof accidental incident, not of nature or of acquirement. "

"I guess you would find, Caroline, that a jury of English matronssworn to try you fairly, would not find you to be entitled to comeamong them as one of themselves. "

"And how will that affect him?"

"Less powerfully than many others, because he is not impassioned. Heis, perhaps--lethargic. "

"No, Wally, he is not lethargic. "

"If you ask me I must speak. It would harass some men almost todeath; it will not do so with him. He would probably find hishappiness best in leaving his old country and coming among yourpeople. "

The idea of Mr. Glascock, --the future Lord Peterborough, --leavingEngland, abandoning Monkhams, deserting his duty in the House ofLords, and going away to live in an American town, in order that hemight escape the miseries which his wife had brought upon him in hisown country, was more than Caroline could bear. She knew that, atany rate, it would not come to that. The lord of Monkhams would liveat Monkhams, though the heavens should fall--in regard to domesticcomforts. It was clear to Caroline that Wallachia Petrie had in truthnever brought home to her own imagination the position of an Englishpeer. "I don't think you understand the people at all, " she saidangrily. 

"You think that you can understand them better because you areengaged to this man!" said Miss Petrie, with well-pronounced irony. "You have found generally that when the sun shines in your eyes yoursight is improved by it! You think that the love-talk of a few weeksgives clearer instruction than the laborious reading of many volumesand thoughtful converse with thinking persons! I hope that you mayfind it so, Caroline. " So saying Wallachia Petrie walked off in greatdudgeon. 

Miss Petrie, not having learned from her many volumes and her muchconverse with thoughtful persons to read human nature aright, wasconvinced by this conversation that her friend Caroline was blindto all results, and was determined to go on with this dangerousmarriage, having the rays of that sun of Monkhams so full upon hereyes that she could not see at all. She was specially indignant atfinding that her own words had no effect. But, unfortunately, herwords had had much effect; and Caroline, though she had contested herpoints, had done so only with the intention of producing her Mentor'sadmonitions. Of course it was out of the question that Mr. Glascockshould go and live in Providence, Rhode Island, from which thrivingtown Caroline Spalding had come; but, because that was impossible, it was not the less probable that he might be degraded and mademiserable in his own home. That suggested jury of British matronswas a frightful conclave to contemplate, and Caroline was disposedto believe that the verdict given in reference to herself wouldbe adverse to her. So she sat and meditated, and spoke not a wordfurther to any one on the subject till she was alone with the manthat she loved. 

Mr. Spalding at this time inhabited the ground floor of a largepalace in the city, from which there was access to a garden which atthis period of the year was green, bright, and shady, and which asbeing in the centre of a city was large and luxurious. From one endof the house there projected a covered terrace, or loggia, in whichthere were chairs and tables, sculptured ornaments, busts, and oldmonumental relics let into the wall in profusion. It was half chamberand half garden, --such an adjunct to a house as in our climate wouldgive only an idea of cold, rheumatism, and a false romance, but underan Italian sky, is a luxury daily to be enjoyed during most months ofthe year. Here Mr. Glascock and Caroline had passed many hours, --andhere they were now seated, late in the evening, while all others ofthe family were away. As far as regarded the rooms occupied by theAmerican Minister, they had the house and garden to themselves, andthere never could come a time more appropriate for the saying of athing difficult to be said. Mr. Glascock had heard from his father'sphysician, and had said that it was nearly certain now that heneed not go down to Naples again before his marriage. Caroline wastrembling, not knowing how to speak, not knowing how to begin;--butresolved 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 knowme, " said she, taking the opportunity of rushing at her subject. 

"Why so? Of all human beings he was the softest-hearted. "

"Not softer-hearted than you, Charles. But soft hearts have to behardened. "

"What do you mean? Am I becoming obdurate?"

"I am, Charles, " she said. "I have got something to say to you. Whatwill your uncles and aunts and your mother's relations say of me whenthey see me at Monkhams?"

"They will swear to me that you are charming; and then, --when my backis turned, --they'll pick you to pieces a little among themselves. Ibelieve that is the way of the world, and I don't suppose that we areto do better than others. "

"And if you had married an English girl, a Lady AugustaSomebody, --would they 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'tprevent 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 you know any man in your position who ever did marry an Americangirl;--any man of your rank in England?" Mr. Glascock began to thinkof 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 bedone;--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 runfrom one little suggestion to another, and that he, either wilfullyor in sheer simplicity, would take such suggestions simply as jokes;and she was aware that she lacked the skill to bring the conversationround gradually to the point which she was bound to reach. She mustmake another dash, let it be ever so sudden. Her mode of doing sowould be crude, ugly, --almost vulgar she feared; but she would attainher object and say what she had to say. When once she had warmedherself with the heat which argument would produce, then, she waspretty sure, she would find herself at least as strong as he. "Idon't know that the thing ought to be done at all, " she said. Duringthe last moment or two he had put his arm round her waist; and she, not choosing to bid him desist from embracing her, but unwilling inher present mood to be embraced, got up and stood before him. "I havethought, and thought, and thought, and feel that it should not bedone. In marriage, like should go to like. " She despised herself forusing Wallachia's words, but they fitted in so usefully, that shecould not refrain from them. "I was wrong not to know it before, butit is better to know it now, than not to have known it till too late. Everything that I hear and see tells me that it would be so. If youwere simply an Englishman, I would go anywhere with you; but I am notfit to be the wife of an English lord. The time would come when Ishould be a disgrace to you, and then I should die. "

"I think I should go near dying myself, " said he, "if you were adisgrace to me. " He had not risen from his chair, and sat calmlylooking up into her face. 

"We have made a mistake, and let us unmake it, " she continued. "Iwill always be your friend. I will correspond with you. I will comeand see your wife. "

"That will be very kind!"

"Charles, if you laugh at me, I shall be angry with you. It is rightthat you should look to your future life, as it is right that Ishould do so also. Do you think that I am joking? Do you suppose thatI do not mean it?"

"You have taken an extra dose this morning of Wallachia Petrie, andof course you mean it. "

"If you think that I am speaking her mind and not my own, you do notknow me. "

"And what is it you propose?" he said, still keeping his seat andlooking 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 notunderstand it before, but now I do. It will not be good for you tomarry an American girl. It will not add to your happiness, and maydestroy it. I have learned, at last, to know how much higher is yourposition 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 begenerous also. "

"Now, look here, Caroline, you must not be angry with me if on sucha subject I speak plainly. You must not even be angry if I laugh alittle. "

"Pray do not laugh at me!--not now. "

"I must a little, Carry. Why am I to be supposed to be so ignorant ofwhat concerns my own happiness and my own duties? If you will not sitdown, I will get up, and we will take a turn together. " He rose fromhis seat, but they did not leave the covered terrace. They moved onto the extremity, and then he stood hemming her in against a marbletable in the corner. "In making this rather wild proposition, haveyou 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-fetchedideas respecting English society, for which you have no basis exceptyour own dreams, --and by the fantasies of a rabid enthusiast. "

"She is not rabid, " said Caroline earnestly; "other people think justthe same. "

"My dear, there is only one person whose thinking on this subjectis of any avail, and I am that person. Of course, I can't drag youinto church to be married, but practically you can not help yourselffrom being taken there now. As there need be no question about ourmarriage, --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 insiston having the ceremony performed, I choose to regard it as acertainty. Passing that by, then, I will go on to the results. Myuncles, and aunts, and cousins, and the people you talk of, were veryreasonable folk when I last saw them, and quite sufficiently alive tothe fact that they had to regard me as the head of their family. Ido not doubt that we shall find them equally reasonable when we gethome; but should they be changed, should there be any sign shewn thatmy choice of a wife had occasioned displeasure, --such displeasurewould not affect you. "

"But it would affect you. "

"Not at all. In my own house I am master, --and I mean to continue tobe so. You will be mistress there, and the only fear touching sucha position is that it may be recognised by others too strongly. Youhave nothing to fear, Carry. "

"It is of you I am thinking. "

"Nor have I. What if some old women, or even some young women, shouldturn up their noses at the wife I have chosen, because she has notbeen chosen from among their own countrywomen, is that to be a causeof suffering to us? Can not we rise above that, --lasting as it woulddo for a few weeks, a month or two perhaps, --say a year, --till myCaroline shall have made herself known? I think that we are strongenough to live down a trouble so light. " He had come close to heras he was speaking, and had again put his arm round her waist. Shetried to escape from his embrace, --not with persistency, not with thestrength which always suffices for a woman when the embrace is intruth a thing to be avoided, but clutching at his fingers with hers, pressing them rather than loosening their grasp. "No, Carry, " hecontinued; "we have got to go through with it now, and we will tryand make the best of it. You may trust me that we shall not find itdifficult, --not, at least, on the ground of your present fears. I canbear 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 isfixed between us now, and do not let us be so silly as to raiseimaginary difficulties. Of course you would have to marry me, even ifthere were cause for such fears. If there were any great cause, stillthe game would be worth the candle. There could be no going back, letthe fear be what it might. But there need be no fear if you will onlylove me. " She felt that he was altogether too strong for her, --thatshe had mistaken his character in supposing that she could be morefirm than he. He was so strong that he treated her almost as achild;--and yet she loved him infinitely the better for so treatingher. Of course, she knew now that her objection, whether true orunsubstantial, could not avail. As he stood with his arm round her, she was powerless to contradict him in anything. She had so faracknowledged this that she no longer struggled with him, but allowedher hand to remain quietly within his. If there was no going backfrom this bargain that had been made, --why, then, there was no needfor combating. And when he stooped over and kissed her lips, she hadnot a word to say. "Be good to me, " he said, "and tell me that I amright. "

"You must be master, I suppose, whether you are right or wrong. A manalways 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, MissPetrie, has lost it. I hope she will understand that she has beenbeaten at last out of the field. " As he said this, he heard a stepbehind them, and turning round saw Wallachia there almost before hecould drop his arm. 

"I am sorry that I have intruded on you, " she said very grimly. 

"Not in the least, " said Mr. Glascock. "Caroline and I have had alittle dispute, but we have settled it without coming to blows. "

"I do not suppose that an English gentleman ever absolutely strikes alady, " said Wallachia Petrie. 

"Not except on strong provocation, " said Mr. Glascock. "In referenceto 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 isnothing 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 wasabsolutely necessary that she should explain the circumstances of herposition to Nora. She had left Nora with the purpose of performinga very high-minded action, of sacrificing herself for the sake ofher lover, of giving up all her golden prospects, and of becomingonce again the bosom friend of Wallachia Petrie, with this simpleconsolation for her future life, --that she had refused to marryan English nobleman because the English nobleman's condition wasunsuited to her. It would have been an episode in female life inwhich pride might be taken;--but all that was now changed. She hadmade her little attempt, --had made it, as she felt, in a very languidmanner, and had found herself treated as a child for doing so. Ofcourse she was happy in her ill success; of course she would havebeen broken-hearted had she succeeded. But, nevertheless, she wassomewhat lowered in her own esteem, and it was necessary that sheshould acknowledge the truth to the friend whom she had consulted. Aday or two had passed before she found herself alone with Nora, butwhen 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. Whenthe 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 Iwas. Don't you know that there are times when it does not seem to beworth your while to put out your strength against an adversary? So itwas with him. He just told me that he was my master, and that I wasto do as he bade me. "

"And what did you say?"

"I promised to be a good girl, " said Caroline, "and not to pretendto have any opinion of my own ever again. And so we kissed, and werefriends. "

"I dare say there was a kiss, my dear. "

"Of course there was;--and he held me in his arms, and comforted me, and told me how to behave;--just as you would do a little girl. It'sall over now, of course; and if there be a mistake, it is his fault. I feel that all responsibility is gone from myself, and that for allthe 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 castawayand a recreant. I am a recreant, I know;--but yet I think that I wasright. I know I could not help myself. "

"Of course you were right, my dear, " said the sage Nora. "If you hadthe notion in your head, it was wise to get rid of it; but I knew howit 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 heaventhat I was to become his captive. "

After that Wallachia Petrie never again tried her influence on herformer friend, but admitted to herself that the evil was done, andthat it could not be remedied. According to her theory of life, Caroline Spalding had been wrong, and weak, --had shewn herself tobe comfort-loving and luxuriously-minded, had looked to get herhappiness from soft effeminate pleasures rather than from rationalwork and the useful, independent exercise of her own intelligence. In the privacy of her little chamber Wallachia Petrie shed, --notabsolute tears, --but many tearful thoughts over her friend. It wasto her a thing very terrible that the chosen one of her heart shouldprefer the career of an English lord's wife to that of an Americancitizeness, with all manner of capability for female voting, femalespeech-making, female poetising, and, perhaps, female politicalaction before her. It was a thousand pities! "You may take a horseto water, "--said Wallachia to herself, thinking of the ever-freshlyspringing fountain of her own mind, at which Caroline Spalding wouldalways have been made welcome freely to quench her thirst, --"but youcannot make him drink if he be not athirst. " In the future she wouldhave no friend. Never again would she subject herself to the disgraceof such a failure. But the sacrifice was to be made, and she knewthat it was bootless to waste her words further on Caroline Spalding. She left Florence before the wedding, and returned alone to the landof liberty. She wrote a letter to Caroline explaining her conduct, and Caroline Spalding shewed the letter to her husband, --as one thatwas both loving and eloquent. 

"Very loving and very eloquent, " he said. "But, nevertheless, onedoes think of sour grapes. "

"There I am sure you wrong her, " said Caroline. 

CHAPTER LXXXII. 

MRS. FRENCH'S CARVING KNIFE. 

During these days there were terrible doings at Exeter. Camilla hadsworn that if Mr. Gibson did not come to, there should be a tragedy, and it appeared that she was inclined to keep her word. Immediatelyafter the receipt of her letter from Mr. Gibson she had had aninterview with that gentleman in his lodgings, and had asked him hisintentions. He had taken measures to fortify himself against such anattack; but, whatever those measures were, Camilla had broken throughthem. She had stood before him as he sat in his arm-chair, and he hadbeen dumb in her presence. It had perhaps been well for him that theeloquence of her indignation had been so great that she had hardlybeen able to pause a moment for a reply. "Will you take your letterback again?" she had said. "I should be wrong to do that, " he hadlisped out in reply, "because it is true. As a Christian ministerI could not stand with you at the altar with a lie in my mouth. "In no other way did he attempt to excuse himself, --but that, twicerepeated, filled up all the pause which she made for him. 

 [Illustration: Camilla's wrath. ]

There never had been such a case before, --so impudent, so cruel, sogross, so uncalled for, so unmanly, so unnecessary, so unjustifiable, so damnable, --so sure of eternal condemnation! All this shesaid to him with loud voice, and clenched fist, and startingeyes, --regardless utterly of any listeners on the stairs, or ofoutside passers in the street. In very truth she was moved to asublimity of indignation. Her low nature became nearly poetic underthe wrong inflicted upon her. She was almost tempted to tear him withher hands, and inflict upon him at the moment some terrible vengeancewhich should be told of for ever in the annals of Exeter. A man somean as he, so weak, so cowardly, one so little of a hero;--that heshould dare to do it, and dare to sit there before her, and to saythat he would do it! "Your gown shall be torn off your back, sir, andthe very boys of Exeter shall drag you through the gutters!" To thisthreat he said nothing, but sat mute, hiding his face in his hands. "And now tell me this, sir;--is there anything between you andBella?" 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 stabher! Yes, I would;--you poor, paltry, lying, cowardly creature!" Sheremained with him for more than half an hour, and then banged out ofthe room flashing back a look of scorn at him as she went. Martha, before that day was 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 Stanbury'sanswer. Throughout Exeter the great wonder arising from the crisiswas the amount of spirit which had been displayed by Mr. Gibson. 

When he was left alone he shook himself, and began to think that ifthere were danger that such interviews might occur frequently he hadbetter 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 thingwould kill him. When a couple of hours had passed over his head heshook himself again, and sat down and wrote a letter to his intendedmother-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, butshe was less afraid of her than were other people. Familiarity, theysay, breeds contempt; and who can be so familiar with a child as itsparent? She did not in her heart believe that Camilla would murderanybody, and she fully realised the conviction that, even after allthat was come and gone, it would be better that one of her daughtersshould have a husband than that neither should be so blessed. If onlyCamilla could be got out of Exeter for a few months, --how good athing it would be for them all! She had a brother in Gloucester, --ifonly he could be got to take Camilla for a few months! And then, too, she knew that if the true rights of her two daughters were strictlyand impartially examined, Arabella's claim was much stronger than anythat Camilla could put forward to the hand of Mr. 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 not haveit done. If I am provoked, I will send to your uncle at Gloucester. "Now the uncle at Gloucester was a timber merchant, a man withprotuberant eyes and a great square chin, --known to be a very sternman indeed, and not at all afraid of young women. 

"What do I care for my uncle? My uncle would take my part. "

"No, he would not. The truth is, Camilla, you interfered with Bellafirst. "

"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 bemarried if their hearts are inclined to each other. "

"I will die first!"

"Your dying has nothing to do with it, Camilla. "

"And I will kill her!"

"If you speak to me again in that way I will write to your uncle atGloucester. I have done the best I could for you both, and I will notbear such treatment. "

"And how am I treated?"

"You should not have interfered with your 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 coulddie, --and I will die! Anybody else would, at any rate, have had theirmother and sister with them!" Then she burst into a flood of real, true, womanly tears. 

After this there was a lull at Heavitree for a few days. Camilladid not speak to her sister, but she condescended to hold someintercourse with her mother, and to take her meals at the familytable. She did not go out of the house, but she employed herself inher own room, doing no one knew what, with all that new clothing andhousehold gear which was to have been transferred in her train toMr. Gibson's house. Mrs. French was somewhat uneasy about the newclothing and household gear, feeling that, in the event of Bella'smarriage, at least a considerable portion of it must be transferredto the new bride. But it was impossible at the present moment to opensuch a subject to Camilla;--it would have been as a proposition to alioness respecting the taking away of her whelps. Nevertheless, theday must soon come in which something must be said about the clothingand household gear. All the property that had been sent into thehouse at Camilla's orders could not be allowed to remain as Camilla'sperquisites, now that Camilla was not to be married. "Do you knowwhat she is doing, my dear?" said Mrs. 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 oneof the two letters would do for her. But neither of them dared tospeak to her of her occupation in these first days of her despair. 

Mr. Gibson in the meantime remained at home, or only left his houseto go to the Cathedral or to visit the narrow confines of his littleparish. When he was out he felt that everybody looked at him, and itseemed to him that people whispered about him when they saw him athis usual desk in the choir. His friends passed him merely bowing tohim, and he was aware that he had done that which would be regardedby every one around him as unpardonable. And yet, --what ought he tohave done? He acknowledged to himself that he had been very foolish, mad, --quite demented at the moment, --when he allowed himself to thinkit possible that he should marry Camilla French. But having found outhow mad he had been at that moment, having satisfied himself that tolive with her as his wife would be impossible, was he not right tobreak the engagement? Could anything be so wicked as marrying a womanwhom he--hated? Thus he tried to excuse himself; but yet he knew thatall 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 todo anything within bounds in mitigation of his offence. He would giveup fifty pounds a year to Camilla for his life, --or he would marryBella. Yes; he would marry Bella at once, --if Camilla would onlyconsent, and give up that idea of stabbing some one. Bella Frenchwas not very nice in his eyes; but she was quiet, he thought, and itmight be possible to live with her. Nevertheless, he told himselfover and over again that the manner in which unmarried men withincomes were set upon by ladies in want of husbands was verydisgraceful to the country at large. That mission to Natal which hadonce been offered to him would have had charms for him now, of whichhe had not recognised the force when he rejected it. 

"Do you think that he ever was really engaged to her?" Dorothy saidto her aunt. Dorothy was now living in a seventh heaven of happiness, writing love-letters to Brooke Burgess every other day, and devotingto this occupation a number of hours of which she ought to havebeen ashamed; making her purchases for her wedding, --with nothing, however, of the magnificence of a Camilla, --but discussing everythingwith her aunt, who urged her on to extravagances which seemed beyondthe scope of her own economical ideas; settling, or trying to settle, little difficulties which perplexed her somewhat, and wonderingat her own career. She could not of course be married without thepresence of her mother and sister, and her aunt, --with something ofa grim courtesy, --had intimated that they should be made welcome tothe house in the Close for the special occasion. But nothing had beensaid about Hugh. The wedding was to be in the Cathedral, and Dorothyhad a little scheme in her head for meeting her brother among theaisles. He would no doubt come down with Brooke, and nothing perhapsneed 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 betaken which would vex the old woman. It was evident enough thatwhen permission had been given for the visit of Mrs. Stanbury andPriscilla, Hugh's name had been purposely kept back. There had beenno accidental omission. Dorothy, therefore, did not dare to mentionit, --and yet it was essential for her happiness that he should bethere. At the present moment Miss Stanbury's intense interest in theStanbury wedding was somewhat mitigated by the excitement occasionedby Mr. Gibson's refusal to be married. Dorothy was so shocked thatshe could not bring herself to believe the statement that had reachedthem through Martha. 

"Of course he was engaged to her. We all knew that, " said MissStanbury. 

"I think there must have been some mistake, " said Dorothy. "I don'tsee how he could do it. "

"There is no knowing what people can do, my dear, when they're harddriven. I suppose we shall have a lawsuit now, and he'll have to payever so much money. Well, well, well! see what a deal of trouble youmight have saved!"

"But he'd have done the same to me, aunt;--only, you know, I nevercould have taken him. Isn't it better as it is, aunt? Tell me. "

"I suppose young women always think it best when they can get theirown 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 CamillaFrench is not allowed to have hers at all. Dear, dear, dear! I didn'tthink the man would ever have been such a fool to begin with;--orthat he would ever have had the heart to get out of it afterwards. "It astonished Dorothy to find that her aunt was not loud inreprobation 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 theroom to rights, " as she called it, --which description probably wasintended to cover the circumstances of an accurate search, --haddiscovered, hidden among some linen, --a carving knife! such aknife as is used for the cutting up of fowls; and, after two days'interval, had imparted the discovery to Mrs. French. Instant visitwas made to the pantry, and it was found that a very aged butunbroken and sharply-pointed weapon was missing. Mrs. French at onceaccused Camilla, and Camilla, after some hesitation, admitted thatit might be there. Molly, she said, was a nasty, sly, wicked thing, to go looking in her drawers, and she would never leave anythingunlocked again. The knife, she declared, had been taken up-stairs, because she had wanted something very sharp to cut, --the bones ofher stays. The knife was given up, but Mrs. French thought it bestto write to her brother, Mr. Crump. She was in great doubt aboutsundry matters. Had the carving knife really pointed to a domestictragedy;--and if so, what steps ought a poor widow to take withsuch a daughter? And what ought to be done about Mr. Gibson? It ranthrough Mrs. French's mind that unless something were done at once, Mr. Gibson would escape scot free. It was her wish that he should yetbecome her son-in-law. Poor Bella was entitled to her chance. Butif Bella was to be disappointed, --from fear of carving knives, orfor other reasons, --then there came the question whether Mr. Gibsonshould not be made to pay in purse for the mischief he had done. Withall these thoughts and doubts running through her head, Mrs. Frenchwrote to her brother at Gloucester. 

There came back an answer from Mr. Crump, in which that gentlemanexpressed a very strong idea that Mr. Gibson should be prosecuted fordamages with the utmost virulence, and with the least possible delay. No compromise should be accepted. Mr. Crump would himself come toExeter and see the lawyer as soon as he should be told that therewas a lawyer to be seen. As to the carving knife, Mr. Crump was ofopinion that it did not mean anything. Mr. Crump was a gentleman whodid not believe in strong romance, but who had great trust in allpecuniary claims. The Frenches had always been genteel. The lateCaptain French had been an officer in the army, and at ordinary timesand seasons the Frenches were rather ashamed of the Crump connection. But now the timber merchant might prove himself to be a usefulfriend. 

Mrs. French shewed her brother's letter to Bella, --and poor Bella wasagain sore-hearted, seeing that nothing was said in it of her claims. "It will be dreadful scandal to have it all in the papers!" saidBella. 

"But what can we do?"

"Anything would be better than that, " said Bella. "And you don't wantto punish Mr. Gibson, mamma. "

"But, my dear, you see what your uncle says. What can I do, except goto him for advice?"

"Why don't you go to Mr. Gibson yourself, mamma?"

But nothing was said to Camilla about Mr. Crump;--nothing as yet. Camilla did not love Mr. Crump, but there was no other house exceptthat of Mr. Crump's at Gloucester to which she might be sent, ifit 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 shewanted nothing, --but was it not the duty of her whole life to fightfor her daughters? Poor woman! If somebody would only have taught herhow that duty might best be done, she would have endeavoured to obeythe teaching. "You know I do not want to threaten you, " she said toMr. Gibson; "but you see what my brother says. Of course I wrote tomy brother. What could a poor woman do in such circumstances exceptwrite to her brother?"

"If you choose to set the bloodhounds of the law at me, of course youcan, " said Mr. Gibson. 

"I do not want to go to law at all;--God knows I do not!" said Mrs. French. Then there was a pause. "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 withit!" said Mr. Gibson, feeling himself to be very hard pressed. 

CHAPTER LXXXIII. 

BELLA VICTRIX. 

Mr. Crump arrived at Exeter. Camilla was not told of his coming tillthe morning of the day on which he arrived; and then the tidings werecommunicated, because it was necessary that a change should be madein the bed-rooms. She and her sister had separate rooms when therewas no visitor with them, but now Mr. Crump must be accommodated. There was a long consultation between Bella and Mrs. French, but atlast it was decided that Bella should sleep with her mother. Therewould still be too much of the lioness about Camilla to allow of herbeing 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 Jonasmean to see Mr. Gibson?"

"I suppose he will, " said Mrs. French. 

"Then he will see a low, mean fellow;--the lowest, meanest fellowthat ever was heard of! But that won't make much difference to UncleJonas. I wouldn't have him now, if he was to ask me ever so;--that Iwouldn't!"

Mr. Crump came, and kissed his sister and two nieces. The embracewith Camilla was not very affectionate. "So your Joe has been andjilted you?" said Uncle Jonas;--"it's like one of them clergymen. They say so many prayers, they think they may do almost anythingafterwards. Another man would have had his head punched. "

"The less talk there is about it the better, " said Camilla. 

On the following day Mr. Crump called by appointment on Mr. Gibson, and remained closeted with that gentleman for the greater portion ofthe morning. Camilla knew well that he was going, and went about thehouse like a perturbed spirit during his absence. There was a lookabout her that made them all doubt whether she was not, in truth, losing her mind. Her mother more than once went to the pantry tosee that the knives were right; and, as regarded that sharp-pointedweapon, was careful to lock it up carefully out of her daughter'sway. Mr. Crump had declared himself willing to take Camilla back toGloucester, and had laughed at the obstacles which his niece might, perhaps, throw in the way of such an arrangement. "She mustn't havemuch luggage;--that is all, " said Mr. Crump. For Mr. Crump had beenmade aware of the circumstances of the trousseau. About three o'clockMr. Crump came back from Mr. Gibson's, and expressed a desire to beleft alone with Camilla. Mrs. French was prepared for everything; andMr. 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 lateto prove to you that young women shouldn't be too keen in settingtheir caps at the gentlemen. It's better for them to be hunted, thanto 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, anyhow. "

"I wouldn't touch him with a pair of tongs, if he were kneeling at myfeet!"

"That's right; stick to that. Of course, you wouldn't now, after allthat has come and gone. No girl with any spirit would. "

"He's a coward and a thief, and he'll be--damned for what he hasdone, some of these days!"

"T-ch, t-ch, t-ch! That isn't a proper way for a young lady to talk. That's cursing 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 wantsto marry some one else, and that can't hurt you. "

"He may marry 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'llgo to the church and prevent its being done. I'll make such a noisein the town that it can't be done. It's no use your looking at melike that, Uncle Jonas. I've got my own feelings, and he shall nevermarry Bella. It's what they have been intending all through, and itshan't be done!"

"It will be done. "

"Uncle Jonas, I'll stab her to the heart, and him too, before I'llsee it done! Though I were to be killed the next day, I would. Couldyou bear it?"

"I'm not a young woman. Now, I'll tell you what I want you to do. "

"I'll not do anything. "

"Just pack up your things, and start with me to Gloucesterto-morrow. "

"I--won't!"

"Then you'll be carried, my dear. I'll write to your aunt, to saythat you're coming; and we'll be as jolly as possible when we get youhome. "

"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'swife!"

Nevertheless, on the day but one after this, Camilla French did go toGloucester. Before she went, however, things had to be done in thathouse which almost made Mrs. French repent that she had sent for sostern an assistant. Camilla was at last told, in so many words, thatthe things which she had prepared for her own wedding must be givenup for the wedding of her sister; and it seemed that this item inthe list of her sorrows troubled her almost more than any other. Sheswore that whither she went there should go the dresses, and thehandkerchiefs, and the hats, the bonnets, and the boots. "Let herhave them, " Bella had pleaded. But Mr. Crump was inexorable. He hadlooked into his sister's affairs, and found that she was already indebt. To his practical mind, it was an absurdity that the unmarriedsister should keep things that were wholly unnecessary, and that thesister that was to be married should be without things that wereneeded. There was a big trunk, of which Camilla had the key, butwhich, unfortunately for her, had been deposited in her mother'sroom. Upon this she sat, and swore that nothing should move her but apromise that her plunder should remain untouched. But there came thisadvantage from the terrible question of the wedding raiments, --thatin her energy to keep possession of them, she gradually abandoned heropposition to her sister's marriage. She had been driven from onepoint to another till she was compelled at last to stand solely uponher possessions. "Perhaps we had better let her keep them, " said Mrs. French. "Trash and nonsense!" said Mr. Crump. "If she wants a newfrock, let her have it; as for the sheets and tablecloths, you'dbetter 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 wasto depart that she had in truth armed herself with a dagger or claspknife. She actually displayed it when her uncle told her to come awayfrom the chest on which she was sitting. She declared that she woulddefend herself there to the last gasp of her life; but of course theknife fell from her hand the first moment that she was touched. "Idid think once that she was going to make a poke at me, " Mr. Crumpsaid afterwards; "but she had screamed herself so weak that shecouldn't do it. "

When the morning came, she was taken to the fly and driven tothe station without any further serious outbreak. She had evencondescended to select certain articles, leaving the rest ofthe hymeneal wealth behind her. Bella, early on that morning ofdeparture, with great humility, implored her sister to forgive her;but no entreaties could induce Camilla to address one gracious wordto the proposed bride. "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 Vicarof St. Peter's-cum-Pumpkin. It is astonishing how the greatestdifficulties will sink away, and become as it were nothing, whenthey are encountered face to face. It is certain that Mr. Gibson'sposition had been one most trying to the nerves. He had speculated onvarious modes of escape;--a curacy in the north of England would bewelcome, or the duties of a missionary in New Zealand, --or death. Totell the truth, he had, during the last week or two, contemplatedeven a return to the dominion of Camilla. That there should everagain be things pleasant for him in Exeter seemed to be quiteimpossible. And yet, on the evening of the day but one after thedeparture of Camilla, he was seated almost comfortably with his ownArabella! There is nothing that a man may not do, nothing that he maynot 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 shouldask him; but it would have been better perhaps if she had held hertongue. Had she spoken to him about his house, or his income, or theservants, or the duties of his parish church, it would have beeneasier for him to make a comfortable reply. 

"Yes;--I love you, " he replied; "of course I love you. We have alwaysbeen friends, and I hope things will go straight now. I have hada great deal to go through, Bella, and so have you;--but God willtemper the wind to the shorn lambs. " How was the wind to be temperedfor the poor lamb who had gone forth shorn down to the very skin!

Soon after this Mrs. French returned to the room, and then there wasno more romance. Mrs. French had by no means forgiven Mr. Gibsonall the trouble he had brought into the family, and mixed a certainamount of acrimony with her entertainment of him. She dictated tohim, treated him with but scant respect, and did not hesitate to lethim understand that he was to be watched very closely till he wasactually and absolutely married. The poor man had in truth no furtheridea of escape. He was aware that he had done that which made itnecessary that he should bear a great deal, and that he had no rightto resent suspicion. When a day was fixed in June on which he shouldbe married at the church of Heavitree, and it was proposed that heshould 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 ofthe Cathedral that it might be well for him to change his clericalduties for a period with the vicar of a remote parish in the northof Cornwall, --so as to be out of the way of remark from those whomhe had scandalised by his conduct, --he had no objection to make tothat arrangement. When Mrs. MacHugh met him in the Close, and toldhim that he was a gay Lothario, he shook his head with a melancholyself-abasement, and passed on without even a feeling of anger. "Whenthey smite me on the right cheek, I turn unto them my left, " he saidto himself, when one of the cathedral vergers remarked to him thatafter all he was going to be married, at last. Even Bella becamedominant over him, and assumed with him occasionally the air of onewho had been injured. 

Bella wrote a touching letter to her sister;--a letter that ought tohave touched Camilla, begging for forgiveness, and for one word ofsisterly love. Camilla answered the letter, but did not send a wordof sisterly love. "According to my way of thinking, you have been anasty sly thing, and I don't believe you'll ever be happy. As forhim, I'll never speak to him again. " That was nearly the whole of herletter. "You must leave it to time, " said Mrs. French wisely; "she'llcome round some day. " And then Mrs. French thought how bad it wouldbe 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 HeavitreeChurch, --Mr. Gibson and his first love, --and things went onpretty much as though nothing had been done amiss. The gentlemanfrom Cornwall came down to take Mr. Gibson's place at St. Peter's-cum-Pumpkin, while his duties in the Cathedral weretemporarily divided among the other priest-vicars, --with some amountof grumbling on their part. Bella commenced her modest preparationswithout any of the éclat which had attended Camilla's operations, butshe felt more certainty of ultimate success than had ever fallen toCamilla's lot. In spite of all that had come and gone, Bella neverfeared again that Mr. Gibson would be untrue to her. In regard tohim, it must be doubted whether Nemesis ever fell upon him with ahand sufficiently heavy to punish him for the great sins which hehad manifestly committed. He had encountered a bad week or two, andthere had been days in which, as has been said, he thought of Natal, of ecclesiastical censures, and even of annihilation; but no realpunishment seemed to fall upon him. It may be doubted whether, whenthe whole arrangement was settled for him, and when he heard thatCamilla had yielded to the decrees of Fate, he did not rather flatterhimself on being a successful man of intrigue, --whether he did nottake some glory to himself for his good fortune with women, and pridehimself amidst his self-reproaches for the devotion which had beendisplayed for him by the fair sex in general. It is quite possiblethat he taught himself to believe that at one time Dorothy Stanburywas devotedly in love with him, and that when he reckoned up hissins she was one of those in regard to whom he accounted himselfto have been a sinner. The spirit of intrigue with women, as towhich men will flatter themselves, is customarily so vile, so mean, so vapid a reflection of a feeling, so aimless, resultless, andutterly unworthy! Passion exists and has its sway. Vice has itsvotaries, --and there is, too, that worn-out longing for vice, "prurient, yet passionless, cold-studied lewdness, " which drags ona feeble continuance with the aid of money. But the commonest follyof man in regard to women is a weak taste for intrigue, with littleor nothing on which to feed it;--a worse than feminine aptitude formale coquetry, which never ascends beyond a desire that somebodyshall hint that there is something peculiar; and which is shocked andretreats backwards into its boots when anything like a consequenceforces itself on the apprehension. Such men have their glory in theirown estimation. We remember how Falstaff flouted the pride of hiscompanion whose victory in the fields of love had been but littleglorious. But there are victories going now-a-days so infinitely lessglorious, that Falstaff's page was a Lothario, a very Don Juan, incomparison with the heroes whose praises are too often sung by theirown lips. There is this recompense, --that their defeats are alwayssung by lips louder than their own. Mr. Gibson, when he found that hewas to escape apparently unscathed, --that people standing respectablybefore the world absolutely dared to whisper words to him ofcongratulation on this third attempt at marriage within little morethan a year, took pride to himself, and bethought himself that hewas a gay deceiver. He believed that he had selected his wife, --andthat 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, " saidMiss Stanbury to her niece. 

"It does seem to me to be so odd, " said Dorothy. "I wonder how helooked when he proposed it. "

"Like a fool, --as he always does. "

Dorothy refrained from remarking that Miss Stanbury had not alwaysthought that Mr. Gibson looked like a fool, but the idea occurred toher 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'tsuppose it much matters which he marries, or whether he marries themboth, or neither. They are to be married by banns, they say, --atHeavitree. "

"I don't see anything bad in that. "

"Only Camilla might step out and forbid them, " said Aunt Stanbury. "Ialmost 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 marriedbefore you now, Dolly. "

"That won't break my heart, aunt. "

"I don't suppose there'll be much of a wedding. They haven't anybodybelonging to them, except that uncle at Gloucester. " Then there was apause. "I think it is a nice thing for friends to collect together ata 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 ofyours, Dolly, --or else you won't be contented. "

"Dear, dear, dearest aunt!" said Dorothy, falling down on her kneesat her aunt's feet. 

CHAPTER LXXXIV. 

SELF-SACRIFICE. 

 [Illustration]

Trevelyan, when his wife had left him, sat for hours in silencepondering over his own position and hers. He had taken his child toan upper room, in which was his own bed and the boy's cot, and beforehe seated himself, he spread out various toys which he had been atpains to purchase for the unhappy little fellow, --a regiment ofGaribaldian soldiers, all with red shirts, and a drum to give theregiment martial spirit, and a soft fluffy Italian ball, and abattledore and a shuttlecock, --instruments enough for juvenile joy, if only there had been a companion with whom the child could usethem. But the toys remained where the father had placed them, almostunheeded, and the child sat looking out of the window, melancholy, silent, and repressed. Even the drum did not tempt him to be noisy. Doubtless he did not know why he was wretched, but he was fullyconscious of his wretchedness. In the meantime the father satmotionless, in an old worn-out but once handsome leathern arm-chair, with his eyes fixed against the opposite wall, thinking of the wreckof his life. 

Thought deep, correct, continued, and energetic is quite compatiblewith madness. At this time Trevelyan's mind was so far unhinged, hisordinary faculties were so greatly impaired, that they who declaredhim to be mad were justified in their declaration. His condition wassuch that the happiness and welfare of no human being, --not even hisown, --could safely be entrusted to his keeping. He considered himselfto have been so injured by the world, to have been the victim of socruel a conspiracy among those who ought to have been his friends, that there remained nothing for him but to flee away from them andremain in solitude. But yet, through it all, there was somethingapproaching to a conviction that he had brought his misery uponhimself by being unlike to other men; and he declared to himselfover and over again that it was better that he should suffer thanthat others should be punished. When he was alone his reflectionsrespecting his wife were much juster than were his words when hespoke either with her, or to others, of her conduct. He would declareto himself not only that he did not believe her to have been false tohim, but that he had never accused her of such crime. He had demandedfrom her obedience, and she had been disobedient. It had beenincumbent upon him, --so ran his own ideas, as expressed to himselfin these long unspoken soliloquies, --to exact obedience, or at leastcompliance, let the consequences be what they might. She had refusedto obey or even to comply, and the consequences were very grievous. But, though he pitied himself with a pity that was feminine, yet heacknowledged to himself that her conduct had been the result of hisown moody temperament. Every friend had parted from him. All those towhose counsels he had listened, had counselled him that he was wrong. The whole world was against him. Had he remained in England, thedoctors and lawyers among them would doubtless have declared him tobe mad. He knew all this, and yet he could not yield. He could notsay that he had been wrong. He could not even think that he had beenwrong as to the cause of the great quarrel. He was one so miserableand so unfortunate, --so he thought, --that even in doing right he hadfallen 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 hedid not hate the latter the more strongly of the two. He knew nowthat Bozzle had been untrue to him, but his disgust did not springfrom that so much as from the feeling that he had defiled himself bydealing with the man. Though he was quite assured that he had beenright in his first cause of offence, he knew that he had fallen frombad to worse in every step that he had taken since. Colonel Osbornehad marred his happiness by vanity, by wicked intrigue, by a devilishdelight in doing mischief; but he, he himself, had consummated theevil by his own folly. Why had he not taken Colonel Osborne by thethroat, instead of going to a low-born, vile, mercenary spy forassistance? He hated himself for what he had done;--and yet it wasimpossible that he should yield. 

It was impossible that he should yield;--but it was yet open to himto sacrifice himself. He could not go back to his wife and say thathe was wrong; but he could determine that the destruction shouldfall upon him and not upon her. If he gave up his child and thendied, --died, alone, without any friend near him, with no word of lovein his ears, in that solitary and miserable abode which he had foundfor himself, --then it would at least be acknowledged that he hadexpiated the injury that he had done. She would have his wealth, hisname, his child to comfort her, --and would be troubled no longer bydemands for that obedience which she had sworn at the altar to givehim, and which she had since declined to render to him. Perhaps therewas some feeling that the coals of fire would be hot upon her headwhen she should think how much she had received from him and howlittle she had done for him. And yet he loved her, with all hisheart, and would even yet dream of bliss that might be possible withher, --had not the terrible hand of irresistible Fate come betweenthem and marred it all. It was only a dream now. It could be no morethan a dream. He put out his thin wasted hands and looked at them, and touched the hollowness of his own cheeks, and coughed that hemight hear the hacking sound of his own infirmity, and almost tookglory in his weakness. It could not be long before the coals of firewould be heaped upon her head. 

"Louey, " he said at last, addressing the child who had sat for anhour gazing through the window without stirring a limb or uttering asound; "Louey, my boy, would you like to go back to mamma?" The childturned 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 handto the boy. Louey got up, and approached slowly and stood between hisfather's knees. "Tell me, darling;--you understand what papa says?"

"Altro!" said the boy, who had been long enough among Italianservants to pick up the common words of the language. Of course hewould 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 with you that oneday more need be a sorrow to you. You shall go, --and then you willnever see your father again!" Trevelyan as he said this drew hishands away so as not to touch the child. The little fellow had putout his arm, but seeing his father's angry gesture had made nofurther attempt at a caress. He feared his father from the bottom ofhis little heart, and yet was aware that it was his duty to try tolove papa. He did not understand the meaning of that last threat, but slunk back, passing his untouched toys, to the window, and thereseated himself again, filling his mind with the thought that when twomore long long days should have crept by, he should once more go tohis mother. 

Trevelyan 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 hadbeen true to the letter. He had spared no personal trouble, he haddone all that he had known how to do, he had exercised all hisintelligence to procure amusement for the boy;--but Louey had hardlysmiled since he had been taken from his mother. And now that he wastold that he was to go and never see his father again, the tidingswere to him simply tidings of joy. "There is a curse upon me, " saidTrevelyan; "it is written down in the book of my destiny that nothingshall ever love me!"

He went out from the house, and made his way down by the narrow paththrough the olives and vines to the bottom of the hill in front ofthe villa. It was evening now, but the evening was very hot, andthough the olive trees stood in long rows, there was no shade. Quiteat the bottom of the hill there was a little sluggish muddy brook, along the sides of which the reeds grew thickly and the dragon-flieswere playing on the water. There was nothing attractive in the spot, but he was weary, and sat himself down on the dry hard bank which hadbeen made by repeated clearing of mud from the bottom of the littlerivulet. He sat watching the dragon-flies as they made their shortflights in the warm air, and told himself that of all God's creaturesthere was not one to whom less power of disporting itself in God'ssun was given than to him. Surely it would be better for him that heshould die, than live as he was now living without any of the joys oflife. The solitude of Casalunga was intolerable to him, and yet therewas no whither that he could go and find society. He could travel ifhe pleased. He had money at command, and, at any rate as yet, therewas no embargo on his personal liberty. But how could he travelalone, --even if his strength might suffice for the work? There hadbeen moments in which he had thought that he would be happy in thelove of his child, --that the companionship of an infant would sufficefor him if only the infant would love him. But all such dreams asthat were over. To repay him for his tenderness his boy was alwaysdumb before him. Louey would not prattle as he had used to do. Hewould not even smile, or give back the kisses with which his fatherhad attempted to win him. In mercy to the boy he would send him backto his mother;--in mercy to the boy if not to the mother also. It wasin vain that he should look for any joy in any quarter. Were he toreturn to England, they would say that he was mad!

 [Illustration: Trevelyan at Casalunga. ]

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 ofascending the hill was so great to him that he was forced to pauseand hold by the olive trees as he slowly performed his task. Theperspiration came in profusion from his pores, and he found himselfto be so weak that he must in future regard the brook as being beyondthe tether of his daily exercise. Eighteen months ago he had been astrong walker, and the snow-bound paths of Swiss mountains had beena joy to him. He paused as he was slowly dragging himself on, andlooked up at the wretched, desolate, comfortless abode which hecalled his home. Its dreariness was so odious to him that he washalf-minded to lay himself down where he was, and let the night aircome upon him and do its worst. In such case, however, some Italiandoctor would be sent down who would say that he was mad. Aboveall the things, and to the last, he must save himself from thatdegradation. 

When he had crawled up to the house, he went to his child, and foundthat the woman had put the boy to bed. Then he was angry with himselfin that he himself had not seen to this, and kept up his practiceof attending the child to the last. He would, at least, be true tohis resolution, and prepare for the boy's return to his mother. Notknowing how otherwise to manage it, he wrote that night the followingnote to Mr. Glascock;--

 Casalunga, Thursday night. 

 MY DEAR SIR, Since you last were considerate enough to call upon me I have resolved to take a step in my affairs 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, --trusting to her sense of honour to restore him to me should I demand it. In my present unfortunate position I cannot suggest that she should come for the boy. I am unable to support the excitement occasioned by her presence. I will, however, deliver up my darling either 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 subscribe myself yours very faithfully, LOUIS TREVELYAN. 

 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 Rowley. Sir Marmaduke 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 hadremoved from Florence to the Baths of Lucca. Mr. Glascock hadfollowed in their wake, and the whole party were living at the Bathsin one of those hotels in which so many English and Americans arewont to congregate in the early weeks of the Italian summer. Themarriage was to take place in the last week of the month; and allthe party were to return to Florence for the occasion, --with theexception of Sir Marmaduke and Mrs. Trevelyan. She was altogetherunfitted for wedding joys, and her father had promised to bear hercompany when the others left her. Mr. Glascock and Caroline Spaldingwere to be married in Florence, and were to depart immediately fromthence for some of the cooler parts of Switzerland. After thatSir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley were to return to London with theirdaughters, preparatory to that dreary journey back to the Mandarins;and they had not even yet resolved what they had better do respectingthat unfortunate man who was living in seclusion on the hill-top nearSiena. They had consulted lawyers and doctors in Florence, but it hadseemed that everybody there was afraid of putting the law in forceagainst an Englishman. Doubtless there was a law in respect to thecustody of the insane; and it was admitted that if Trevelyan weredangerously mad something could be done; but it seemed that nobodywas willing to stir in such a case as that which now existed. Something, it was said, might be done at some future time; but thedifficulties were so great that nothing could be done now. 

It was very sad, because it was necessary that some decisionshould be made as to the future residence of Mrs. Trevelyan and ofNora. Emily had declared that nothing should induce her to go tothe Islands with her father and mother unless her boy went withher. Since her journey to Casalunga she had also expressed herunwillingness to leave her husband. Her heart had been greatlysoftened 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 meansas well as she might be able in his service. 

Then there had arisen the question of Nora's future residence. Andthere had come troubles and storms in the family. Nora had said thatshe would not go back to the Mandarins, but had not at first beenable to say where or how she would live. She had suggested thatshe might stay with her sister, but her father had insisted thatshe could not live on the income supplied by Trevelyan. Then, whenpressed hard, she had declared that she intended to live on HughStanbury's income. She would marry him at once, --with her father'sleave, 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 homefitted for her. Lady Rowley, in arguing this, had expressed no assentto the marriage, even as a distant arrangement, but had thoughtthus to vanquish her daughter by suggesting small but insuperabledifficulties. On a sudden, however, Lady Rowley found that allthis was turned against her, by an offer that came direct from Mr. Glascock. His Caroline, he said, was very anxious that Nora shouldcome to them at Monkhams as soon as they had returned home fromSwitzerland. They intended to be there by the middle of August, andwould hurry there sooner, if there was any intermediate difficultyabout finding a home for Nora. Mr. Glascock said nothing about HughStanbury; but, of course, Lady Rowley understood that Nora had toldall her troubles and hopes to Caroline, and that Caroline had toldthem to her future husband. Lady Rowley, in answer to this, couldonly say that she would consult her husband. 

There was something very grievous in the proposition to Lady Rowley. If Nora had not been self-willed and stiff-necked beyond the usualself-willedness and stiff-neckedness of young women she might havebeen herself the mistress of Monkhams. It was proposed now that sheshould go there to wait till a poor man should have got togethershillings enough to buy a few chairs and tables, and a bed to lieupon! The thought of this was very bitter. "I cannot think, Nora, howyou could have the heart to go there, " said Lady Rowley. 

"I cannot understand why not, mamma. Caroline and I are friends, andsurely he and I need not be enemies. He has never injured me; and ifhe does not take offence, why should I?"

"If you don't see it, I can't help it, " said Lady Rowley. 

And then Mrs. Spalding's triumph was terrible to Lady Rowley. Mrs. Spalding knew nothing of her future son-in-law's former passion, andspoke of her Caroline as having achieved triumphs beyond the reach ofother girls. Lady Rowley bore it, never absolutely telling the taleof her daughter's fruitless victory. She was too good at heart toutter the boast;--but it was very hard to repress it. Upon the wholeshe would have preferred that Mr. Glascock and his bride should nothave become the fast friends of herself and her family. There wasmore of pain than of pleasure in the alliance. But circumstanceshad been too strong for her. Mr. Glascock had been of great use inreference to Trevelyan, and Caroline and Nora had become attachedto each other almost on their first acquaintance. Here they weretogether at the Baths of Lucca, and Nora was to be one of the fourbridesmaids. When Sir Marmaduke was consulted about this visit toMonkhams, he became fretful, and would give no answer. The marriage, he said, was impossible, and Nora was a fool. He could give her noallowance more than would suffice for her clothes, and it was madnessfor her to think of stopping in England. But he was so full of caresthat 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 will have you. Has not Charles said how delighted hewould be?"

"Oh yes, --your Charles, " said Nora, laughing. 

"He is mine now, dear. You must not expect him to change his mindagain. I gave him the chance, you know, and he would not take it. But, Nora, come to Monkhams, and stay as long as it suits. I havetalked it all over with him, and we both agree that you shall havea home there. You shall be just like a sister. Olivia is coming tooafter a bit; but he says there is room for a dozen sisters. Of courseit will be all right with Mr. Stanbury after a while. " And so it wassettled among them that Nora Rowley should find a home at Monkhams, if a home in England should be wanted for her. 

It wanted but four days to that fixed for the marriage at Florence, and but six to that on which the Rowleys were to leave Italy forEngland, when Mr. Glascock received Trevelyan's letter. It wasbrought to him as he was sitting at a late breakfast in the gardenof the hotel; and there were present at the moment not only all theSpalding family, but the Rowleys also. Sir Marmaduke was there andLady Rowley, and the three unmarried daughters; but Mrs. Trevelyan, as was her wont, had remained alone in her own room. Mr. Glascockread the letter, and read it again, without attracting muchattention. Caroline, who was of course sitting next to him, had hereyes upon him, and could see that the letter moved him; but she wasnot curious, and at any rate asked no question. He himself understoodfully how great was the offer made, --how all-important to thehappiness of the poor mother, --and he was also aware, or thoughtthat he was aware, how likely it might be that the offer would beretracted. As regarded himself, a journey from the Baths at Lucca toCasalunga and back before his marriage, would be a great inflictionon his patience. It was his plan to stay where he was till the daybefore his marriage, and then to return to Florence with the restof the party. All this must be altered, and sudden changes must bemade, if he decided on going to Siena himself. The weather now wasvery hot, and such a journey would be most disagreeable to him. Ofcourse he had little schemes in his head, little amatory schemesfor prænuptial enjoyment, which, in spite of his mature years, were exceedingly agreeable to him. The chestnut woods round theBaths of Lucca are very pleasant in the early summer, and therewere excursions planned in which Caroline would be close to hisside, --almost already his wife. But, if he did not go, whom could hesend? It would be necessary at least that he should consult her, themother of the child, before any decision was formed. 

At last he took Lady Rowley aside, and read to her the letter. Sheunderstood at once that it opened almost a heaven of bliss to herdaughter;--and she understood also how probable it might be that thatwretched man, with his shaken wits, should change his mind. "I thinkI ought to go, " said Mr. Glascock. 

"But how can you go now?"

"I can go, " said he. "There is time for it. It need not put off mymarriage, --to which of course I could not consent. I do not know whomI could send. "

"Monnier could go, " said Lady Rowley, naming the courier. 

"Yes;--he could go. But it might be that he would return withoutthe child, and then we should not forgive ourselves. I will go, Lady Rowley. After all, what does it signify? I am a little old, Isometimes think, for this philandering. You shall take this letter toyour daughter, and I will explain it all to Caroline. "

Caroline had not a word to say. She could only kiss him, and promiseto make him what amends she could when he came back. "Of course youare right, " she said. "Do you think that I would say a word againstit, even though the marriage were to be postponed?"

"I should;--a good many words. But I will be back in time for that, and will bring the boy with me. "

Mrs. Trevelyan, when her husband's letter was read to her, was almostovercome by the feelings which it excited. In her first paroxysm ofjoy she declared that she would herself go to Siena, not for herchild's sake, but for that of her husband. She felt at once that theboy was being given up because of the father's weakness, --becausehe felt himself to be unable to be a protector to his son, --andher woman's heart was melted with softness as she thought of thecondition of the man to whom she had once given her whole heart. Since then, doubtless, her heart had revolted from him. Since thattime there had come hours in which she had almost hated him for hiscruelty to her. There had been moments in which she had almost cursedhis name because of the aspersion which it had seemed that he hadthrown upon her. But this was now forgotten, and she remembered onlyhis weakness. "Mamma, " she said, "I will go. It is my duty to go tohim. " But Lady Rowley withheld her, explaining that were she to go, the mission might probably fail in its express purpose. "Let Louey besent to us first, " said Lady Rowley, "and then we will see what canbe done afterwards. "

And so Mr. Glascock started, taking with him a maid-servant who mighthelp him with the charge of the child. It was certainly very hardupon 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 shouldleave the Baths at five in the morning. "If ever there was a hero ofromance, you are he!" said Nora to him. 

"The heroes of life are so much better than the heroes of romance, "said Caroline. 

"That is a lesson from the lips of the American Browning, " said Mr. Glascock. "Nevertheless, I think I would rather ride a charge againsta Paynim knight in Palestine than get up at half-past four in themorning. "

"We will get up too, and give the knight his coffee, " said Nora. They did get up, and saw him off; and when Mr. Glascock and Carolineparted with a lover's embrace, Nora stood by as a sister might havedone. Let us hope that she remembered that her own time was coming. 

There had been a promise given by Nora, when she left London, thatshe would not correspond with Hugh Stanbury while she was in Italy, and this promise had been kept. It may be remembered that Hugh hadmade a proposition to his lady-love, that she should walk out of thehouse one fine morning, and get herself married without any referenceto her father's or her mother's wishes. But she had not been willingto take upon herself as yet independence so complete as this wouldhave required. She had assured her lover that she did mean to marryhim some day, even though it should be in opposition to her father, but that she thought that the period for filial persuasion was notyet over; and then, in explaining all this to her mother, she hadgiven a promise neither to write nor to receive letters during theshort period of her sojourn in Italy. She would be an obedient childfor so long;--but, after that, she must claim the right to fight herown battle. She had told her lover that he must not write; and, ofcourse, she had not written a word herself. But now, when her motherthrew 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 ofhim. How could he be expected to say that he was ready, --deprived ashe was of the power of saying anything at all?

"Mamma, " she said, the day before they went to Florence, "has papafixed about your leaving England yet? I suppose you'll go now on thelast Saturday in July?"

"I suppose we shall, my dear. "

"Has not papa written 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 itnot best that we should understand each other? All my life depends onmy going or my staying now. I must decide. "

"After what has passed, you do not, I suppose, mean to live in 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 notwritten, --because I told him not. Therefore, nothing is settled. Butit is not fair to throw it in my teeth that nothing is settled. "

"I have thrown nothing in your teeth, Nora. "

"Papa talks sneeringly about chairs and tables. Of course, I knowwhat he is thinking of. As I cannot go with him to the Mandarins, Ithink 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. Stanbury. I do not want to be left without a home. "

"You cannot wish to write to a gentleman and ask him to marry you!"

"Why not? We are engaged. I shall not ask him to marry me, --that isalready settled; but I shall ask him to make arrangements. "

"Your papa will be very angry if you break your word to him. "

"I will write, and show you the letter. Papa may see it, and if hewill not let it go, it shall not go. He shall not say that I broke myword. But, mamma, I will not go out to the Islands. I should neverget back again, and I should be broken-hearted. " Lady Rowley hadnothing to say to this; and Nora went and wrote her letter. "DearHugh, " the letter ran, "Papa and mamma leave England on the lastSaturday 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 dayafter to-morrow, and they have asked me to go with them to Monkhamssome time in August. I think I shall do so, unless Emily wants me toremain with her. At any rate, I shall try to be with her till I gothere. You will understand why I tell you all this. Papa and mammaknow 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 thatthat ought to be sent. If papa chooses to prevent its going, he can. "

Lady Rowley, when she handed the letter to her husband, recommendedthat it should be allowed to go to its destination. She admittedthat, if they sent it, they would thereby signify their consent toher engagement;--and she alleged that Nora was so strong in her will, and that the circumstances of their journey out to the Antipodes wereso peculiar, that it was of no avail for them any longer to opposethe match. They could not force their daughter to go with them. "But I can cast her off from me, if she be disobedient, " said SirMarmaduke. Lady Rowley, however, had no desire that her daughtershould be cast off, and was aware that Sir Marmaduke, when it cameto the point of casting off, would be as little inclined to be sternas she was herself. Sir Marmaduke, still hoping that firmness wouldcarry the day, and believing that it behoved him to maintain hisparental authority, ended the discussion by keeping possession of theletter, and saying that he would take time to consider the matter. "What security have we that he will ever marry her, if she doesstay?" he asked the next morning. Lady Rowley had no doubt on thisscore, and protested that her opposition to Hugh Stanbury arosesimply from his want of income. "I should never be justified, " saidSir Marmaduke, "if I were to go and leave my girl as it were in thehands of a penny-a-liner. " The letter, in the end, was not sent; andNora and her father hardly spoke to each other as they made theirjourney back to Florence together. 

Emily Trevelyan, before the arrival of that letter from her husband, had determined that she would not leave Italy. It had been herpurpose to remain somewhere in the neighbourhood of her husband andchild; and to overcome her difficulties, --or be overcome by them, ascircumstances might direct. Now her plans were again changed, --or, rather, she was now without a plan. She could form no plan tillshe should again see Mr. Glascock. Should her child be restored toher, would it not be her duty to remain near her husband? All thismade Nora's line of conduct the more difficult for her. It wasacknowledged that she could not remain in Italy. Mrs. Trevelyan'sposition would be most embarrassing; but as all her efforts were tobe used towards a reconciliation with her husband, and as his stateutterly precluded the idea of a mixed household, --of any such afamily arrangement as that which had existed in Curzon Street, --Noracould not remain with her. Mrs. Trevelyan herself had declared thatshe would not wish it. And, in that case, where was Nora to bestowherself when Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley had sailed? Carolineoffered to curtail those honeymoon weeks in Switzerland, but it wasimpossible to listen to an offer so magnanimous and so unreasonable. Nora had a dim romantic idea of sharing Priscilla's bed-room in thatsmall cottage near Nuncombe Putney, of which she had heard, and ofthere learning lessons in strict economy;--but of this she saidnothing. The short journey from the Baths of Lucca to Florence wasnot a pleasant one, and the Rowley family were much disturbed as theylooked into the future. Lodgings had now been taken for them, andthere was the great additional doubt whether Mrs. Trevelyan wouldfind her child there on her arrival. 

The Spaldings went one way from the Florence station, and the Rowleysanother. The American Minister had returned to the city some dayspreviously, --drawn there nominally by pleas of business, but, intruth, by the necessities of the wedding breakfast, --and he met themat the station. "Has Mr. Glascock come back?" Nora was the first toask. 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. "And has he brought the child?" asked Caroline, relieved of doubton her own account. Mr. Spalding did not know;--indeed, he had notinterested himself quite so intently about Mrs. Trevelyan's littleboy, as had all those who had just returned from the Baths. Mr. Glascock had said nothing to him about the child, and he had notquite 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 hurried his women-kind into their carriage, and they were drivenaway; and then Sir Marmaduke was driven away with his women-kind. Caroline Spalding had perhaps thought that Mr. Glascock might havebeen there to meet her. 

CHAPTER LXXXVI. 

MR. GLASCOCK AS NURSE. 

A message had been sent by the wires to Trevelyan, to let him knowthat Mr. Glascock was himself coming for the boy. Whether suchmessage would or would not be sent out to Casalunga Mr. Glascock hadbeen quite ignorant;--but it could, at any rate, do no harm. He didfeel it hard as in this hot weather he made the journey, first toFlorence, and then on to Siena. What was he to the Rowleys, or toTrevelyan himself, that such a job of work should fall to his lot atsuch a period of his life? He had been very much in love with 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 SirMarmaduke, --Sir Marmaduke was nothing to him. He was almost angryeven with Mrs. Trevelyan as he arrived tired, heated, and very dusty, at Siena. It was his purpose to sleep at Siena that night, and togo out to Casalunga early the next morning. If the telegram had notbeen forwarded, he would send a message on that evening. On inquiry, however, he found that the message had been sent, and that the paperhad been put into the Signore's own hand by the Sienese messenger. Then he got into some discourse with the landlord about the strangegentleman at Casalunga. Trevelyan was beginning to become the subjectof gossip in the town, and people were saying that the stranger wasvery strange indeed. The landlord thought that if the Signore hadany friends at all, it would be well that such friends should comeand look after him. Mr. Glascock asked if Mr. Trevelyan was ill. Itwas not only that the Signore was out of health, --so the landlordheard, --but that he was also somewhat-- And then the landlord touchedhis head. He eat nothing, and went nowhere, and spoke to no one; andthe people at the hospital to which Casalunga belonged were beginningto be uneasy about their tenant. Perhaps Mr. Glascock had come totake him away. Mr. Glascock explained that he had not come to takeMr. Trevelyan away, --but only to take away a little boy that was withhim. For this reason he was travelling with a maid-servant, --a factfor which Mr. Glascock clearly thought it necessary that he shouldgive an intelligible and credible explanation. The landlord seemed tothink that the people at the hospital would have been much rejoicedhad Mr. Glascock intended to take Mr. Trevelyan away also. 

He started after a very early breakfast, and found himself walkingup over the stone ridges to the house between nine and ten in themorning. He himself had sat beside the driver and had put the maidinside the carriage. He had not deemed it wise to take an undividedcharge of the boy even from Casalunga to Siena. At the door of thehouse, as though waiting for him, he found Trevelyan, not dirty as hehad been before, but dressed with much appearance of smartness. Hehad a brocaded cap on his head, and a shirt with a laced front, and aworked waistcoat, and a frock coat, and coloured bright trousers. Mr. Glascock knew at once that all the clothes which he saw before himhad been made for Italian and not for English wear; and could almosthave 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. 

"For fear there might be mistakes, I thought it better to comemyself, " said Mr. Glascock. "You did not wish to see Sir Marmaduke?"

"Certainly not Sir Marmaduke, " said Trevelyan, with a look of angerthat 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 angertowards her. If I could welcome my wife here, Mr. Glascock, withouta 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 beenmisfortunes. Never mind. There is no reason why I should trouble youwith them. Let us go in to breakfast. After your drive you will havean appetite. "

Poor Mr. Glascock was afraid to decline to sit down to the meal whichwas prepared for him. He did mutter something about having alreadyeaten, but Trevelyan put this aside with a wave of his hand as he ledthe way into a spacious room, in which had been set out a table withalmost a sumptuous banquet. The room was very bare and comfortless, having neither curtains nor matting, and containing not above halfa dozen chairs. But an effort had been made to give it an air ofItalian luxury. The windows were thrown open, down to the ground, andthe table was decorated with fruits and three or four long-neckedbottles. Trevelyan waved with his hand towards an arm-chair, and Mr. Glascock had no alternative but to seat himself. He felt that he wassitting down to breakfast with a madman; but if he did not sit down, the madman might perhaps break out into madness. Then Trevelyan wentto the door and called aloud for Catarina. "In these remote places, "said he, "one has to do without the civilisation of a bell. Perhapsone gains as much in quiet as one loses in comfort. " Then Catarinacame with hot meats and fried potatoes, and Mr. Glascock wascompelled to help himself. 

"I am but a bad trencherman myself, " said Trevelyan, "but I shalllament my misfortune doubly if that should interfere with yourappetite. " Then he got up and poured out wine into Mr. Glascock'sglass. "They tell me that it comes from the Baron's vineyard, " saidTrevelyan, alluding to the wine-farm of Ricasoli, "and that there isnone better in Tuscany. I never was myself a judge of the grape, butthis to me is as palatable as any of the costlier French wines. Howgrand a thing would wine really be, if it could make glad the heartof man. How truly would one worship Bacchus if he could make one'sheart to rejoice. But if a man have a real sorrow, wine will not washit away, --not though a man were drowned in it, as Clarence was. "

Mr. Glascock hitherto had spoken hardly a word. There was an attemptat joviality about this breakfast, --or, at any rate, of the usualcomfortable luxury of hospitable entertainment, --which, coming as itdid from Trevelyan, almost locked his lips. He had not come there tobe jovial or luxurious, but to perform a most melancholy mission; andhe had brought with him his saddest looks, and was prepared for afew sad words. Trevelyan's speech, indeed, was sad enough, but Mr. Glascock could not take up questions of the worship of Bacchus athalf a minute's warning. He eat a morsel, and raised his glass to hislips, and felt himself to be very uncomfortable. It was necessary, however, that he should utter a word. "Do you not let your little boycome in to breakfast?" he said. 

"He is better away, " said Trevelyan gloomily. 

"But as we are to travel together, " said Mr. Glascock, "we might aswell make acquaintance. "

"You have been a little hurried with me on that score, " saidTrevelyan. "I wrote certainly with a determined mind, but things havechanged somewhat since then. "

"You do not mean that you will not send him?"

"You have been somewhat hurried with me, I say. If I rememberrightly, I named no time, but spoke of the future. Could I haveanswered the message which I received from you, I would havepostponed your visit for a week or so. "

"Postponed it! Why, --I am to be married the day after to-morrow. 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 preparedhimself to speak up. "Your wife expects her child now, and you willbreak her heart by refusing to send him. "

"Nobody thinks of my heart, Mr. Glascock. "

"But this is your own offer. "

"Yes, it was my own offer, certainly. I am not going to deny my ownwords, which have no doubt been preserved in testimony against me. "

"Mr. Trevelyan, what do you mean?" Then, when he was on the point ofboiling over with passion, Mr. Glascock remembered that his companionwas not responsible for his expressions. "I do hope you will letthe child go away with me, " he said. "You cannot conceive the stateof his mother's anxiety, and she will send him back at once if youdemand 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, nobreach of promise, no treason that a woman will not excuse toherself, --or a man either, --by the comfortable self-assurance thatthe person to be injured is--mad. A hound without a friend is not socruelly treated. The outlaw, the murderer, the perjurer has surerprivileges than the man who is in the way, and to whom his friendscan point as being--mad!" Mr. Glascock knew or thought that he knewthat his host in truth was mad, and he could not, therefore, answerthis tirade by an assurance that no such idea was likely to prevail. "Have they told you, I wonder, " continued Trevelyan, "how it wasthat, driven to force and an ambuscade for the recovery of my ownchild, I waylaid my wife and took him from her? I have done nothingto forfeit my right as a man to the control of my own family. Idemanded that the boy should be sent to me, and she paid no attentionto my words. I was compelled to vindicate my own authority; and then, because I claimed the right which belongs to a father, they said thatI was--mad! Ay, and they would have proved it, too, had I not fledfrom my country and hidden myself in this desert. Think of that, Mr. Glascock! Now they have followed me here, --not out of love for me;and that man whom they call a governor comes and insults me; and mywife promises to be good to me, and says that she will forgive andforget! Can she ever forgive herself her own folly, and the crueltythat has made shipwreck of my life? They can do nothing to me here;but they would entice me home because there they have friends, andcan fee doctors, --with my own money, --and suborn lawyers, and put meaway, --somewhere in the dark, where I shall be no more heard of amongmen! As you are a man of honour, Mr. Glascock, --tell me; is it notso?"

"I know nothing of their plans, --beyond this, that you wrote me wordthat you would send them the boy. "

"But I know their plans. What you say is true. I did write youword, --and I meant it. Mr. Glascock, sitting here alone frommorning to night, and lying down from night till morning, withoutcompanionship, without love, in utter misery, I taught myself to feelthat I should think more of her than of myself. "

"If you are so unhappy here, come back yourself with the child. Yourwife 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 thewife of my bosom, and I will receive her with joy. But if she is tocome to me and tell me that she forgives me, --forgives me for theevil that she has done, --then, sir, she had better stay away. Mr. Glascock, you are going to be married. Believe me, --no man shouldsubmit to be forgiven by his wife. Everything must go astray if thatbe done. I would rather encounter their mad doctors, one of themafter another till they had made me mad;--I would encounter anythingrather than that. But, sir, you neither eat nor drink, and I fearthat my speech disturbs you. "

It was like enough that it may have done so. Trevelyan, as he hadbeen speaking, had walked about the room, going from one extremity tothe other with hurried steps, gesticulating with his arms, and everynow and then pushing back with his hands the long hair from off hisforehead. Mr. Glascock was in truth very much disturbed. He had comethere with an express object; but, whenever he mentioned the child, the father became almost rabid in his wrath. "I have done very well, thank you, " said Mr. Glascock. "I will not eat any more, and Ibelieve 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 Florenceearly to-morrow. I am to meet my--wife, as she will be, and theRowleys, and your wife. Upon my word I can't stay. Won't you just saya 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 havemade a fool of me in writing to me. "

"I intended to be honest, Mr. Glascock. "

"Stick to your honesty, and send the boy back to his mother. It willbe better for you, Trevelyan. "

"Better for me! Nothing can be better for me. All must be worst. Itwill be better for me, you say; and you ask me to give up the lastdrop of cold water wherewith I can touch my parched lips. Even in myhell I had so much left to me of a limpid stream, and you tell methat 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 itwhether the fiery furnace be heated seven times, or only six;--ineither degree the flames are enough! You may take him;--you may takehim. " So saying, Trevelyan walked out of the window, leaving Mr. Glascock seated in his chair. He walked out of the window and wentdown among the olive trees. He did not go far, however, but stoodwith his arm round the stem of one of them, playing with the shootsof a vine with his hand. Mr. Glascock followed him to the window andstood looking at him for a few moments. But Trevelyan did not turnor move. There he stood gazing at the pale, cloudless, heat-laden, motionless sky, thinking of his own sorrows, and remembering too, doubtless, with the vanity of a madman, that he was probably beingwatched in his reverie. 

Mr. Glascock was too practical a man not to make the most of theoffer that had been made to him, and he went back among the passagesand called for Catarina. Before long he had two or three women withhim, including her whom he had brought from Florence, and among themLouey was soon made to appear, dressed for his journey, together witha small trunk in which were his garments. It was quite clear thatthe order for his departure had been given before that scene at thebreakfast-table, and that Trevelyan had not intended to go back fromhis promise. Nevertheless Mr. Glascock thought it might be as well tohurry his departure, and he turned back to say the shortest possibleword of farewell to Trevelyan in the garden. But when he got to thewindow, Trevelyan was not to be found among the olive trees. Mr. Glascock walked a few steps down the hill, looking for him, butseeing nothing of him, returned to the house. The elder woman saidthat her master had not been there, and Mr. Glascock started with hischarge. Trevelyan was manifestly mad, and it was impossible to treathim as a sane man would have been treated. Nevertheless, Mr. Glascockfelt much compunction in carrying the child away without a final kissor word of farewell from its father. But it was not to be so. Hehad got into the carriage with the child, having the servant seatedopposite to him, --for he was moved by some undefinable fear whichmade him determine to keep the boy close to him, and he had not, therefore, returned to the driver's seat, --when Trevelyan appearedstanding by the road-side at the bottom of the hill. "Would you takehim 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 here. It is the last time that I shallever gladden my eyes with his brightness. Louey, my love, will youcome to your father?" Louey did not seem to be particularly willingto leave the carriage, but he made no loud objection when Mr. Glascock held him up to the open space above the door. The child hadrealised the fact that he was to go, and did not believe that hisfather would stop him now; but he was probably of opinion that thesooner the carriage began to go on the better it would be for him. Mr. Glascock, thinking that his father intended to kiss him over thedoor, held him by his frock; but the doing of this made Trevelyanvery angry. "Am I not to be trusted with my own child in my arms?"said he. "Give him to me, sir. I begin to doubt now whether I amright to deliver him to you. " Mr. Glascock immediately let go hishold of the boy's frock and leaned back in the carriage. "Louey willtell papa that he loves him before he goes?" said Trevelyan. The poorlittle fellow murmured something, but it did not please his father, who had him in his arms. "You are like the rest of them, Louey, " hesaid; "because I cannot laugh and be gay, all my love for you isnothing;--nothing! You may take him. He is all that I have;--all thatI have;--and I shall never see him again!" So saying he handed thechild into the carriage, and sat himself down by the side of the roadto watch till the vehicle should be out of sight. As soon as the lastspeck of it had vanished from his sight, he picked himself up, anddragged his slow footsteps back to the house. 

Mr. Glascock made sundry attempts to amuse the child, with whom hehad to remain all that night at Siena; but his efforts in that linewere not very successful. The boy was brisk enough, and happy, andsocial by nature; but the events, or rather the want of events ofthe last few months, had so cowed him, that he could not recover hisspirits at the bidding of a stranger. "If I have any of my own, " saidMr. Glascock to himself, "I hope they will be of a more cheerfuldisposition. "

As we have seen, he did not meet Caroline at the station, --therebyincurring his lady-love's displeasure for the period ofhalf-a-minute; but he did meet Mrs. Trevelyan almost at the door ofSir Marmaduke's lodgings. "Yes, Mrs. Trevelyan; he is here. "

"How am I ever to thank you for such goodness?" said she. "And Mr. Trevelyan;--you saw him?"

"Yes:--I saw him. "

Before he could answer her further she was up-stairs, and had herchild in her arms. It seemed to be an age since the boy had beenstolen from her in the early spring in that unknown, dingy streetnear Tottenham Court Road. Twice she had seen her darling sincethat, --twice during his captivity; but on each of these occasionsshe had seen him as one not belonging to herself, and had seen himunder circumstances which had robbed the greeting of almost all itspleasure. 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 close up to her as she hugged him, putting up hislittle 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 wascontented. 

Mr. Glascock had promised to wait for her a few minutes, --even at therisk of Caroline's displeasure, --and Mrs. Trevelyan ran down to himas soon as the first craving of her mother's love was satisfied. Herboy would at any rate be safe with her now, and it was her duty tolearn something of her husband. It was more than her duty;--if onlyher services might be of avail to him. "And you say he was well?"she asked. She had taken Mr. Glascock apart, and they were alonetogether, 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 beyondbelief. "

"Yes;--I saw that. "

"I never knew a man so thin and haggard. "

"My poor Louis!"

"But that is not the worst of it. "

"What do you mean, Mr. Glascock?"

"I mean that his mind is astray, and that he should not be leftalone. There is no knowing what he might do. He is so much more alonethere than he would be in England. There is not a soul who couldinterfere. "

"Do you mean that you think--that he is in danger--from himself?"

"I would not say so, Mrs. Trevelyan; but who can tell? I am sure ofthis, --that he should not be left alone. If it were only because ofthe misery of his life, he should not be left alone. "

"But what can I do? He would not even see papa. "

"He would see you. "

"But he would not let me guide him in anything. I have been to himtwice, 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?"

"Own to anything, and you will conquer him at once. That is what Ithink. You will excuse what I say, Mrs. Trevelyan. "

"Oh, Mr. Glascock, you have been such a friend! What should we havedone without you!"

"You cannot take to heart the words that come from a disorderedreason. 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 tohim, and I think that he will be softened towards you. Try to bringhim back to his own country. It may be that were he to--die there, alone, the memory of his loneliness would be heavy with you in afterdays. " Then, having so spoken, he rushed off, declaring, with aforced laugh, that Caroline Spalding would never forgive him. 

The next day was the day of the wedding, and Emily Trevelyan wasleft all alone. It was of course out of the question that she shouldjoin any party the purport of which was to be festive. Sir Marmadukewent with some grumbling, declaring that wine and severe food in themorning were sins against the plainest rules of life. And the threeRowley girls went, Nora officiating as one of the bridesmaids. ButMrs. Trevelyan was left with her boy, and during the day she wasforced to resolve what should be the immediate course of her life. Two days after the wedding her family would return to England. It wasopen to her to go with them, and to take her boy with her. But a fewdays since how happy she would have been could she have been made tobelieve that such a mode of returning would be within her power! Butnow she felt that she might not return and leave that poor, sufferingwretch behind her. As she thought of him she tried to interrogateherself in regard to her feelings. Was it love, or duty, orcompassion which stirred her? She had loved him as fondly as anybright young woman loves the man who is to take her away fromeverything else, and make her a part of his house and of himself. She had loved him as Nora now loved the man whom she worshipped andthought to be a god, doing godlike work in the dingy recesses of theD. R. Office. Emily Trevelyan was forced to tell herself that allthat was over with her. Her husband had shown himself to be weak, suspicious, unmanly, --by no means like a god. She had learned to feelthat she could not trust her comfort in his hands, --that she couldnever know what his thoughts of her might be. But still he was herhusband, and the father of her child; and though she could not dareto look forward to happiness in living with him, she could understandthat no comfort would be possible to her were she to return toEngland and to leave him to perish alone at Casalunga. Fate seemedto have intended that her life should be one of misery, and she mustbear it as best she might. 

The more she thought of it, however, the greater seemed to be herdifficulties. What was she to do when her father and mother shouldhave left her? She could not go to Casalunga if her husband would notgive her entrance; and if she did go, would it be safe for her totake her boy with her? Were she to remain in Florence she would behardly nearer to him for any useful purpose than in England; and evenshould she pitch her tent at Siena, occupying there some desolateset of huge apartments in a deserted palace, of what use could shebe to him? Could she stay there if he desired her to go; and was itprobable that he would be willing that she should be at Siena whilehe was living at Casalunga, --no more than two leagues distant? Howshould she begin her work; and if he repulsed her, how should shethen continue it?

But during these wedding hours she did make up her mind as to whatshe would do for the present. She would certainly not leave Italywhile her husband remained there. She would for a while keep herrooms in Florence, and there should her boy abide. But from timeto time, --twice a week perhaps, --she would go down to Siena andCasalunga, and there form her plans in accordance with her husband'sconduct. She was his wife, and nothing should entirely separate herfrom him, now that he so sorely wanted her aid. 

CHAPTER LXXXVII. 

MR. GLASCOCK'S MARRIAGE COMPLETED. 

 [Illustration]

The Glascock marriage was a great affair in Florence;--so muchso, that there were not a few who regarded it as a strengtheningof peaceful relations between the United States and the UnitedKingdom, and who thought that the Alabama claims and the questionof naturalisation might now be settled with comparative ease. AnEnglish lord was about to marry the niece of an American Ministerto a foreign court. The bridegroom was not, indeed, quite a lord asyet, but it was known to all men that he must be a lord in a veryshort time, and the bride was treated with more than usual bridalhonours because she belonged to a legation. She was not, indeed, anambassador's daughter, but the niece of a daughterless ambassador, and therefore almost as good as a daughter. The wives and daughtersof other ambassadors, and the other ambassadors themselves, ofcourse, came to the wedding; and as the palace in which Mr. Spaldinghad apartments stood alone, in a garden, with a separate carriageentrance, it seemed for all wedding purposes as though thewhole palace were his own. The English Minister came, and hiswife, --although she had never quite given over turning up her nose atthe American bride whom Mr. Glascock had chosen for himself. It wassuch a pity, she said, that such a man as Mr. Glascock should marrya young woman from Providence, Rhode Island. Who in England wouldknow anything of Providence, Rhode Island? And it was so expedient, in her estimation, that a man of family should strengthen himselfby marrying a woman of family. It was so necessary, she declared, that a man when marrying should remember that his child would havetwo grandfathers, and would be called upon to account for fourgreat-grandfathers. Nevertheless Mr. Glascock was--Mr. Glascock;and, let him marry whom he would, his wife would be the future LadyPeterborough. Remembering this, the English Minister's wife gave upthe point when the thing was really settled, and benignly promised tocome to the breakfast with all the secretaries and attachés belongingto the legation, and all the wives and daughters thereof. What maya man not do, and do with éclat, if he be heir to a peer and haveplenty of money in his pocket?

Mr. And Mrs. Spalding were covered with glory on the occasion; andperhaps they did not bear their glory as meekly as they should havedone. Mrs. Spalding laid herself open to some ridicule from theBritish Minister's wife because of her inability to understand withabsolute clearness the condition of her niece's husband in respect tohis late and future seat in Parliament, to the fact of his being acommoner and a nobleman at the same time, and to certain informationwhich was conveyed to her, surely in a most unnecessary manner, thatif Mr. Glascock were to die before his father her niece would neverbecome Lady Peterborough, although her niece's son, if she hadone, would be the future lord. No doubt she blundered, as was mostnatural; and then the British Minister's wife made the most of theblunders; and when once Mrs. Spalding ventured to speak of Carolineas her ladyship, not to the British Minister's wife, but to thesister of one of the secretaries, a story was made out of it whichwas almost as false as it was ill-natured. Poor Caroline was spokenof as her ladyship backward and forwards among the ladies of thelegation in a manner which might have vexed her had she knownanything about it; but, nevertheless, all the ladies prepared theirbest flounces to go to the wedding. The time would soon come when shewould in truth be a "ladyship, " and she might be of social use to anyone of the ladies in question. 

But Mr. Spalding was, for the time, the most disturbed of any ofthe party concerned. He was a tall, thin, clever Republican of theNorth, --very fond of hearing himself talk, and somewhat apt to takeadvantage of the courtesies of conversation for the purpose of makingunpardonable speeches. As long as there was any give and take goingon in the mêlée of words he would speak quickly and with energy, seizing his chances among others; but the moment he had establishedhis right to the floor, --as soon as he had won for himself theposition of having his turn at the argument, he would dole out hiswords with considerable slowness, raise his hand for oratorialeffect, and proceed as though Time were annihilated. And he would gofurther even than this, for, --fearing by experience the escape of hisvictims, --he would catch a man by the button-hole of his coat, orback him ruthlessly into the corner of a room, and then lay on to himwithout quarter. Since the affair with Mr. Glascock had been settled, he had talked an immensity about England, --not absolutely takinghonour to himself because of his intended connection with a lord, butmaking so many references to the aristocratic side of the Britishconstitution as to leave no doubt on the minds of his hearers asto the source of his arguments. In old days, before all this washappening, Mr. Spalding, though a courteous man in his personalrelations, had constantly spoken of England with the bitterindignation of the ordinary American politician. England must be madeto disgorge. England must be made to do justice. England must betaught her place in the world. England must give up her claims. Inhot moments he had gone further, and had declared that England mustbe--whipped. He had been specially loud against that aristocracy ofEngland which, according to a figure of speech often used by him, was always feeding on the vitals of the people. But now all this wasvery much changed. He did not go the length of expressing an opinionthat the House of Lords was a valuable institution; but he discussedquestions of primogeniture and hereditary legislation, in referenceto their fitness for countries which were gradually emergingfrom feudal systems, with an equanimity, an impartiality, and aperseverance which soon convinced those who listened to him where hehad learned his present lessons, and why. "The conservative nature ofyour institutions, sir, " he said to poor Sir Marmaduke at the Bathsof Lucca a very few days before the marriage, "has to be studiedwith great care before its effects can be appreciated in referenceto a people who, perhaps, I may be allowed to say, have more intheir composition of constitutional reverence than of educatedintelligence. " Sir Marmaduke, having suffered before, had endeavouredto bolt; but the American had caught him and pinned him, and theGovernor of the Mandarins was impotent in his hands. "The positionof the great peer of Parliament is doubtless very splendid, andmay be very useful, " continued Mr. Spalding, who was intending tobring round his argument to the evil doings of certain scandalouslyextravagant young lords, and to offer a suggestion that in suchcases a committee of aged and respected peers should sit and decidewhether a second son, or some other heir should not be called to theinheritance both of the title and the property. But Mrs. Spaldinghad seen the sufferings of Sir Marmaduke, and had rescued him. "Mr. Spalding, " she had said, "it is too late for politics, and SirMarmaduke has come out here for a holiday. " Then she took her husbandby the arm, and led him away helpless. 

In spite of these drawbacks to the success, --if ought can besaid to be a drawback on success of which the successful one isunconscious, --the marriage was prepared with great splendour, andeverybody who was anybody in Florence was to be present. Therewere only to be four bridesmaids, Caroline herself having stronglyobjected to a greater number. As Wallachia Petrie had fled atthe first note of preparation for these trivial and unpalatablefestivities, another American young lady was found; and the sister ofthe English secretary of legation, who had so maliciously spread thatreport about her "ladyship, " gladly agreed to be the fourth. 

As the reader will remember, the whole party from the Baths of Luccareached Florence only the day before the marriage, and Nora atthe station promised to go up to Caroline that same evening. "Mr. Glascock will tell me about the little boy, " said Caroline; "but Ishall be so anxious to hear about your sister. " So Nora crossed thebridge after dinner, and went up to the American Minister's palatialresidence. Caroline was then in the loggia, and Mr. Glascock waswith her; and for a while they talked about Emily Trevelyan and hermisfortunes. Mr. Glascock was clearly of opinion that Trevelyan wouldsoon be either in an asylum or in his grave. "I could not bringmyself to tell your sister so, " he said; "but I think your fathershould be told, --or your mother. Something should be done to put anend to that fearful residence at Casalunga. " Then by degrees theconversation changed itself to Nora's prospects; and Caroline, withher friend's hand in hers, asked after Hugh Stanbury. 

"You will not mind speaking before him, --will you?" said Caroline, putting her hand on her own lover's arm. 

"Not unless he should mind it, " said Nora, smiling. She had meantnothing beyond a simple reply to her friend's question, but he tookher words in a different sense, and blushed as he remembered hisvisit to Nuncombe Putney. 

"He thinks almost more of your happiness than he does of mine, " saidCaroline; "which isn't fair, as I am sure that Mr. Stanbury will notreciprocate the attention. And now, dear, when are we to see you?"

"Who on earth can say?"

"I suppose Mr. Stanbury would say something, --only he is not here. "

"And papa won't send my letter, " said Nora. 

"You are sure that you 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 andmamma here in Florence. "

"I am quite of opinion that she should not leave her husband alone inItaly, " said Mr. Glascock. 

"She has not told us with certainty, " said Nora; "but I feel surethat she will stay. Papa thinks she ought to go with them to London. "

"Your papa seems to have two very intractable daughters, " saidCaroline. 

"As for me, " declared Nora, solemnly, "nothing shall make me go backto 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 wemust be serious now. If it be necessary, we will get back by the endof July;--won't we, Charles?"

"You will do nothing of the kind, " said Nora. "What!--give up yourhoneymoon to provide me with board and lodgings! How can you supposethat I am so selfish or so helpless? I would go to my aunt, Mrs. Outhouse. "

"We know that that wouldn't do, " said Caroline. "You might as well bein 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 ofcourse she would be dull--"

"It is quite unnecessary, " said Nora. "I shall take a two-pair backin a respectable feminine quarter, like any other young woman whowants such accommodation, and shall wait there till my young man cancome and give me his arm to church. That is about the way we shall doit. I am not going to give myself any airs, Mr. Glascock, or make anydifficulties. Papa is always talking to me about chairs and tablesand frying-pans, and I shall practise to do with as few of them aspossible. As I am headstrong about having my young man, --and I ownthat I am headstrong about that, --I guess I've got to fit myself forthat sort of life. " And Nora, as she said this, pronounced her wordswith something of a nasal twang, imitating certain countrywomen ofher friend's. 

"I like to hear you joking about it, Nora; because your voice is socheery and you are so bright when you joke. But, nevertheless, onehas to be reasonable, and to look the facts in the face. I don't seehow you are to be left in London alone, and you know that your auntMrs. Outhouse, --or at any rate your uncle, --would not receive youexcept on receiving some strong anti-Stanbury pledge. "

"I certainly shall not give an anti-Stanbury pledge. "

"And, therefore, that is out of the question. You will have afortnight or three weeks in London, in all the bustle of theirdeparture, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will gowith them. "

"Never!--unless 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 are inItaly. "

"I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity onthis poor destitute one. "

"If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go toMonkhams. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that Ishall do something very shocking, --so that all your patronage willhardly be able to bring me round afterwards; but I will do somethingthat will serve my purpose. I have not gone so far as this to beturned back now. " Nora, as she spoke of having "gone so far, " waslooking at Mr. Glascock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair closeto the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow, and shewas thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to NuncombePutney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken whenshe told him that her love was given to another. That had been herRubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passingof it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, thatshe had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank withoutobtaining the perilous object of her ambition, --though there had beenmoments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and nobleaction, still, having passed the river, there was nothing for herbut to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by thewant of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She waswithout money, except so much as her mother might be able, almostsurreptitiously, to give her. She was without friends to helpher, --except these who were now with her, whose friendship had cometo her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at thepresent moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence ofthe promise that had been extorted from her that she should notcorrespond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes orintention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he wouldhardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, inthe press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to becarried away with the rest of the family to the other side of theworld. She knew all this, --but she had made up her mind that shewould not be carried away. It was not very pleasant, the thought thatshe would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she calledhim, to provide for her; but she would do that and trust herselfaltogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the Antipodes. "Ican be very resolute if I please, my dear, " she said, looking atCaroline. Mr. Glascock almost thought that she must have intended toaddress him. 

They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool, evening hours, but nothing could be settled further, --exceptthat Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begunto shape themselves after her return to England. At last Carolinewent into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glascock was alonewith Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for awhile unable to say the wordsthat he wished to utter. At last he spoke. "Miss Rowley, Caroline isso eager to be your friend. "

"I know she is, and I do love her so dearly. But, without joke, Mr. Glascock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us. "

"I do not know that there need be any gulf, great or little. ButI did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. Myfeelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know ofold 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 mostlygone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as agentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing todo with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey toDevonshire. 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 Rowley, --that you can never ask me to doanything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in somelittle difficulty now. "

"It will disappear, Mr. Glascock. Difficulties always do. "

"But we will do anything that we are wanted to do; and should acertain event take place--"

"It will take place some day. "

"Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wifequite at home at Monkhams. " After that he took Nora's hand and kissedit, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. 

"To-morrow, Mr. Glascock, " she said, "you will, I believe, be atliberty to kiss everybody; but to-day you should be more discreet. "

It was generally admitted among the various legations in Florencethat there had not been such a wedding in the City of Flowers sinceit had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glascock and Miss Spaldingwere married in the chapel of the legation, --a legation chapel on theground floor having been extemporised for the occasion. This greatlyenhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity ofmatrons and bridesmaids packing themselves and their finery intoclose fusty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in thechapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were foundstrolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfastwas very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this thebride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses tothe railway station, and before the last toast of the day had beenproposed by the Belgian Councillor of Legation, they were half way upthe Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himselflike a man on the occasion. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared thatthe republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happyalliance with the aristocratic splendour of the Old, and went on witha simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with goodhumour 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 shereturned home with her mother to her lodgings. 

"Yes, my dear; much, I fancy, as these things generally do. "

"I thought it was so nice. And she looked so very well. And he was sopleasant, and so much like a gentleman;--not noisy, you know, --andyet not too serious. "

"I dare say, my love. "

"It is easy enough, mamma, for a girl to be married, for she hasnothing to do but to wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can. And if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man hasso difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as thoughit were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way; and ifhe 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 youmust have, and such regrets, I cannot understand. "

"Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as forregrets, --I have not one. Can I regret, mamma, that I did not marry aman whom I did not love, --and that I rejected him when I knew that Iloved another? You cannot mean that, mamma. "

"I know this;--that I was thinking all the time how proud I shouldhave been, and how much more fortunate he would have been, had youbeen standing there instead of that American young woman. " As shesaid this Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answerher mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their partyhaving been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke havingtaken his two younger daughters. "Of course I feel it, " said LadyRowley, through her tears. "It would have been such a position formy child! And that young man, --without a shilling in the world; andwriting in that way, just for bare bread!" Nora had nothing moreto say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simplyaffectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that sheshould make her mother see it as she saw it. 

There was but one intervening day and then the Rowleys returned toEngland. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among themthat, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be aholiday up to the time of the Glascock marriage. Then must commenceat once the stern necessity of their return home, --home, not onlyto England, but to those antipodean islands from which it wastoo probable that some of them might never come back. And thedifficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. Firstof all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She haddetermined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husbandsaying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go outto him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any mannerthat he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intendingto go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receiveno answer from him. The parting between her and her mother andfather and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had becomeestranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and lovingwith his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea ofleaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yetnot within her custody. But he could do nothing, --could hardly say aword, --toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he suppliedher with the means of living; and when she said that it was her dutyto be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. "Iwill return to you the moment you send to me, " were Nora's last wordsto her sister. "I don't suppose I shall send, " said Emily. "I shalltry to bear it without assistance. "

Then the journey from Italy to England was made without muchgratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again foundthemselves at Gregg's Hotel. 

CHAPTER LXXXVIII. 

CROPPER AND BURGESS. 

We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess andMiss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that theyshould be thus hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence, to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire; but it is thenature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towardsits close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or fourmore to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to HughStanbury's treachery, or death, --or the possibility that he after allmay turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterboroughand the actual inheritor of the title and estate of Monkhams, norwill we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of theseemergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that CamillaFrench ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborneshould be caught in some matrimonial trap, --as, how otherwiseshould he be fitly punished?--and that something should be at leastattempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has beenintended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha shouldmarry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity; butthe fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolvedwith some delicacy and much detail. 

There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the firstplace Miss Stanbury was not very well, --and then she was veryfidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, andafter seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. "To have a lot of moneyto look after is more plague than profit, my dear, " she said toDorothy one day; "particularly when you don't quite know what youought to do with it. " Dorothy had always avoided any conversationwith her aunt about money since the first moment in which she hadthought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew thather aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that anyportion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed bya Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treasoneither against him or against her aunt. If, by engaging herself tohim, she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden tohim would her love have been! If, on the other hand, she shouldreward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcingherself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how basewould be her ingratitude! These thoughts had troubled her much, andhad always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chanceallusions to the property. For her, things had at last gone veryright. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she wasengaged to marry the man she loved. And her aunt was, at any rate, reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that shedid not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only holdher tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested toher that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, andthat, in the meantime, Brooke should come again to Exeter. She sworethat she did not care for how long it was put off, --only that shehoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being marriedout of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry tobe married, but she would have liked to have had her lover alwayscoming and going. Since the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in theClose; 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 inthe morning, were among the happiest epochs of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten, and he was gone, she wouldsit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifullycrossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to endbecause some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough;--what aheaven of happiness they were to her! The writing of the first haddisturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilegebefore it was ended; but with the first and second the difficultieshad disappeared; and, had she not felt somewhat ashamed of theoccupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him lettersall day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in amost cursory manner, --sending seven or eight lines in return for twosheets fully crossed; but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other thingsto do. He, too, could say, --so thought Dorothy, --more in eight linesthan she could put into as many pages. 

She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could nottake place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrifiedDorothy 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 businessshould not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, shecould do very well without that trip abroad which he had proposed forher. "I'm not going to be done in that way, " said Brooke. "And nowthat I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozentimes that I don't want to know anything about her will, and thatI'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled onyou, that she calls her own. "

"She is so generous, Brooke. "

"She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is goingto make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send somemessage to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to takeit. As far as I can understand, she has sent all the way to Londonfor me, 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 thinkit will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine thanhaving snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills andtenements and settlements. " As he said this, with his arm round herwaist and his face quite close to hers, --shewing thereby that he wasnot altogether averse even to his present privileges, --she forgavehim. 

On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having firstbeen closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt, --and, as he went, his step was sedate and his air was serious. He found his uncleBarty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was tothis effect, --that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoonor that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with thesubject in regard to which this singular interview was desired;but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any informationrespecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certainarrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgesscould be given; but his present mission was confined to an authorityto give the invitation. 

Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed todecline the proposition made by the "old harridan, " as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of MissStanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, becauseshe had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something inhis nephew's manner which at last induced him to discuss the matterrationally. 

"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 anyrate, I know enough to think that you ought to come. But I must notsay what it is. "

"Will it do me or anybody else any good?"

"It can't do you any harm. She won't eat you. "

"But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, andthen there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of herway, and I think I had better do so still. "

Nevertheless Brooke prevailed, --or rather the feeling of curiositywhich was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many yearsBarty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of businesswithout seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived, --andhe had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for theowner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling onhis part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, bywhose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as hethought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of thoseincidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after thedeath 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 allwho would hear him. And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must beadmitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of herexpression, --of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knewthat 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 weaknessand the fear of death were coming on her. His enemy, with all herfaults, was no coward. It could not be that now at the eleventh hourshe should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice, --nordid he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatredwas a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was achosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over toher door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brookehad said, --no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at leastlisten to her proposition. 

About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. MissStanbury was sitting in the small up-stairs parlour, dressed in hersecond best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness andstate for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in aquick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as thoughold Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room ata bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and wentwithout a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had neverspoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when shewould remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so muchevil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgesswas shewn up-stairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born inthis very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for morethan thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, andfollowed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted; but it had beendecided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at theinterview. As soon as her visitor entered the room she rose in astately way, and curtseyed, propping herself with one hand upon thetable as she did so. She looked him full in the face meanwhile, andcurtseying a second time asked him to seat himself in a chair whichhad been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may besurmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more thanonce, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round tothe chair and seated himself; but finding that he was so placed thathe could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was notgoing to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sunin his eyes. 

 [Illustration: Barty Burgess. ]

Hitherto there had hardly been a word spoken. Miss Stanbury hadmuttered something as she was curtseying, and Barty Burgess had madesome return. Then she began: "Mr. Burgess, " she said, "I am indebtedto you for your complaisance in coming here at my request. " To thishe bowed again. "I should not have ventured thus to trouble you wereit not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they arewith you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matterof deep interest otherwise than in my own room. " It was her roomnow, certainly, by law; but Barty Burgess remembered it when it washis mother's room, and when she used to give them all their mealsthere, --now so many, many years ago! He bowed again, and said not aword. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point byhis silence than by his speech. 

She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so shewas forced to allude to times long past, and to subjects which shefound it very difficult to touch without saying that which wouldeither belie herself, or seem to be severe upon him. Though she hadprepared herself, she could hardly get the words spoken, and she wasgreatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence. But at last herproposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy; and that it was herintention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property whichshe had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. "Indeed, " she said, "all that I received at your brother's handsshall 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 atfirst been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have sethis affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strongdesire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of thewealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for theterm of her life; but that she had found that the young people hadbeen so much in earnest, and that her own feeling had been so nearakin to a prejudice, that she had yielded. When this was said Bartysmiled instead of bowing, and Miss Stanbury felt that there might besomething worse even than his silence. His smile told her that hebelieved her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not foolenough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changedby a few words from her. So she went on. The marriage was a thingfixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking tolawyers about a new will. 

"I do not know that I can help you, " said Barty, finding that alonger pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary. 

"I am going on to that, and I regret that my story should detainyou 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 thatwhat she would at once give to the young couple, and what she wouldsettle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from suchsavings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish thefamily property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and MissStanbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But stillshe went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess shouldcome and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town andthe neighbourhood. It would be a seemly thing, --such were herwords, --that he should occupy the house that had belonged to hisgrandfather and his great-grandfather; and then, moreover, --sheacknowledged that she spoke selfishly, --she dreaded the idea of beingleft alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition atlast was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should giveto 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 theproposition. Miss Stanbury had of course known that any suchsuggestion coming from her without an adequate reason assigned, wouldhave been mere idle wind. She was prepared with such adequate reason. If Mr. Burgess could see his way to make the proposed transfer of hisshare of the bank business, she, Miss Stanbury, would hand over tohim, for his life, a certain proportion of the Burgess property whichlay in the city, the income of which would exceed that drawn by himfrom the business. Would he, at his time of life, take that for doingnothing which he now got for working hard? That was the meaning ofit. And then, too, as far as the portion of the property went, --andit extended to the houses owned by Miss Stanbury on the bank sideof the Close, --it would belong altogether to Barty Burgess for hislife. "It will simply be this, Mr. Burgess;--that Brooke will be yourheir, --as would be natural. "

"I don't know that it would be at all natural, " said he. "I shouldprefer to choose my own heir. "

"No doubt, Mr. Burgess, --in respect to your own property, " said MissStanbury. 

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 MissStanbury, "I would wish that all animosities might be buried. "

"We can say that they are buried, " said the grim old man, --"butnobody 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 fromtalking of such things, Miss Stanbury. You and I have grown too oldto swear a friendship. I will think of this thing, and if I findthat it can be made to suit without much difficulty, I will perhapsentertain it. " Then the interview was over, and old Barty madehis way down-stairs, and out of the house. He looked over to thetenements in the Close which were offered to him, every circumstanceof each one of which he knew, and felt that he might do worse. Werehe to leave the bank, he could not take his entire income with him, and it had been long said of him that he ought to leave it. TheCroppers, who were his partners, --and whom he had never loved, --wouldbe glad to welcome in his place one of the old family who would havemoney; and then the name would be perpetuated in Exeter, which, evento Barty Burgess, was something. 

On that night the scheme was divulged to Dorothy, and she was inecstasies. London had always sounded bleak and distant and terribleto her; and her heart had misgiven her at the idea of leaving heraunt. If only this thing might be arranged! When Brooke spoke thenext morning of returning at once to his office, he was rebuked byboth the ladies. What was the Ecclesiastical Commission Office to anyof them, when matters of such importance were concerned? But Brookewould not be talked out of his prudence. He was very willing to bemade a banker at Exeter, and to go to school again and learn bankingbusiness; but he would not throw up his occupation in London till heknew that there was another ready for him in the country. One daylonger he spent in Exeter, and during that day he was more than oncewith his uncle. He saw also the Messrs. Cropper, and was considerablychilled by the manner in which they at first seemed to entertain theproposition. Indeed, for a couple of hours he thought that the schememust be abandoned. It was pointed out to him that Mr. Barty Burgess'slife would probably be short, and that he--Barty--had but a smallpart of the business at his disposal. But gradually a way to termswas seen, --not quite so simple as that which Miss Stanbury hadsuggested; and Brooke, when he left Exeter, did believe it possiblethat he, after all, might become the family representative in the oldbanking-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 andPriscilla. 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 be likely to have anopinion 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 Iwould 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. "

"Of course you will be mistress. "

"I believe, Dolly, that it would be better that I should die. I havecome to feel that I can do more good by going out of the world thanby remaining in it. " Dorothy hardly answered this in words, but satclose by her aunt, holding the old woman's hand and caressing it, andadministering that love of which Miss Stanbury had enjoyed so littleduring her life and which had become so necessary to her. 

The news about the bank arrangements, though kept of course as agreat secret, soon became common in Exeter. It was known to be a goodthing for the firm in general that Barty Burgess should be removedfrom his share of the management. He was old-fashioned, unpopular, and very stubborn; and he and a certain Mr. Julius Cropper, who wasthe leading man among the Croppers, had not always been comfortabletogether. It was at first hinted that old Miss Stanbury had beensoftened by sudden twinges of conscience, and that she had confessedto some terrible crime in the way of forgery, perjury, or perhapsworse, 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 Mancrudy and Mrs. MacHugh, they laughed it to scorn, --and it did not exist even in thevague form of an undivulged mystery for above three days. Then itwas asserted that old Barty had been found to have no real claimto any share in the bank, and that he was to be turned out at MissStanbury's instance;--that he was to be turned out, and that Brookehad been acknowledged to be the owner of the Burgess share of herbusiness. Then came the fact that old Barty had been bought out, andthat the future husband of Miss Stanbury's niece was to be the juniorpartner. A general feeling prevailed at last that there had beenanother great battle between Miss Stanbury and old Barty, and thatthe 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, andall the terms had been fixed. Brooke came down again and again, toDorothy's great delight, and displayed considerable firmness in themanagement of his own interest. If Fate intended to make him a bankerin Exeter instead of a clerk in the Ecclesiastical Commission Office, he would be a banker after a respectable fashion. There was morethan one little struggle between him and Mr. Julius Cropper, whichended in accession of respect on the part of Mr. Cropper for his newpartner. Mr. Cropper had thought that the establishment might bestbe known to the commercial world of the West of England as "Croppers'Bank;" but Brooke had been very firm in asserting that if he was tohave anything to do with it the old name should be maintained. 

"It's to be 'Cropper and Burgess, '" he said to Dorothy one afternoon. "They fought hard for 'Cropper, Cropper, and Burgess;'--but Iwouldn't stand more than one Cropper. "

"Of course not, " said Dorothy, with something almost of scorn inher voice. By this time Dorothy had gone very deeply into bankingbusiness. 

CHAPTER LXXXIX. 

"I WOULDN'T DO IT, IF I WAS YOU. "

Miss Stanbury at this time was known all through Exeter to be verymuch altered from the Miss Stanbury of old;--or even from the MissStanbury of two years since. The Miss Stanbury of old was a stalwartlady who would play her rubber of whist five nights a week, and couldhold her own in conversation against the best woman in Exeter, --notto speak of her acknowledged superiority over every man in that city. Now she cared little for the glories of debate; and though she stillliked her rubber, and could wake herself up to the old fire in thedetection of a revoke or the claim for a second trick, her rubberswere few and far between, and she would leave her own house on anevening only when all circumstances were favourable, and with manyprecautions against wind and water. Some said that she was becomingold, and that she was going out like the snuff of a candle. But SirPeter Mancrudy declared that she might live for the next fifteenyears, if she would only think so herself. "It was true, " Sir Petersaid, "that in the winter she had been ill, and that there had beendanger as to her throat during the east winds of the spring;--butthose 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 Peterwas not a man of many words, or given to talk frequently of hispatients; but it was clearly Sir Peter's opinion that Miss Stanbury'smind was ill at ease. She had become discontented with life, andtherefore it was that she cared 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 more innocent, and few had struggled harder to be just in their dealings andgenerous in their thoughts. 

There was ever present to her mind an idea of failure and a fear lestshe had been mistaken in her views throughout her life. No one hadever been more devoted to peculiar opinions, or more strong in theuse of language for their expression; and she was so far true toherself, that she would never seem to retreat from the position shehad taken. She would still scorn the new fangles of the world aroundher, and speak of the changes which she saw as all tending to evil. But, through it all, there was an idea present to herself thatit could not be God's intention that things should really changefor the worse, and that the fault must be in her, because she hadbeen unable to move as others had moved. She would sit thinking ofthe circumstances of her own life and tell herself that with hereverything had failed. She had loved, but had quarrelled with herlover; and her love had come to nothing--but barren wealth. She hadfought for her wealth and had conquered;--and had become hard in thefight, and was conscious of her own hardness. In the early days ofher riches and power she had taken her nephew by the hand, --and hadthrown him away from her because he would not dress himself in hermirror. She had believed herself to be right, and would not, evennow, tell herself that she had been wrong; but there were doubts, andqualms of conscience, and an uneasiness, --because her life had beena failure. Now she was seeking to appease her self-accusations bysacrificing everything for the happiness of her niece and her chosenhero; but as she went on with the work she felt that all would be invain, unless she could sweep herself altogether from off the scene. She had told herself that if she could bring Brooke to Exeter, hisprospects would be made infinitely brighter than they would be inLondon, and that she in her last days would not be left utterlyalone. But as the prospect of her future life came nearer to her, shesaw, or thought that she saw, that there was still failure beforeher. Young people would not want an old woman in the house withthem;--even though the old woman would declare that she would be nomore in the house than a tame cat. And she knew herself also too wellto believe that she could make herself a tame cat in the home thathad so long been subject to her dominion. Would it not be better thatshe should go away somewhere, --and die?

"If Mr. Brooke is to come here, " Martha said to her one day, "weought to begin and make the changes, ma'am. "

"What changes? You are always wanting to make changes. "

"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 thingsproper. Anyways, ma'am, we ought to know;--oughtn't we?"

The truth of this statement was so evident that Miss Stanbury couldnot contradict it. But she had not even yet made up her mind. Ideaswere running through her head which she knew to be very wild, butof which she could not divest herself. "Martha, " she said, after awhile, "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 oldwoman 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 wasever so. Sure the house is big enough for Mr. Brooke and Miss Dorothyalong with you. I wouldn't go and make such change as that;--Iwouldn't indeed, ma'am. " Martha spoke out almost with eloquence, somuch expression was there in her face. Miss Stanbury said nothingmore at the moment, beyond signifying her indisposition to make upher mind to anything at the present moment. Yes;--the house was bigenough as far as rooms were concerned; but how often had she heardthat an old woman must always be in the way, if attempting to livewith a newly-married couple? If a mother-in-law be unendurable, howmuch more so one whose connection would be less near? She could keepher own house no doubt, and let them go elsewhere; but what thenwould come of her old dream, that Burgess, the new banker in thecity, should live in the very house that had been inhabited by theBurgesses, the bankers of old? There was certainly only one way outof all these troubles, and that way would be that she should--go fromthem and be at rest. 

Her will had now been drawn out and completed for the third or fourthtime, and she had made no secret of its contents either with Brookeor Dorothy. The whole estate she left to Brooke, including the houseswhich were to become his after his uncle's death; and in regard tothe property she had made no further stipulation. "I might havesettled it on your children, " she said to him, "but in doing so Ishould have settled it on hers. I don't know why an old woman shouldtry to interfere with things after she has gone. I hope you won'tsquander it, Brooke. "

"I shall be a steady old man by that time, " he said. 

"I hope you'll be steady at any rate. But there it is, and God mustdirect you in the use of it, if He will. It has been a burthen tome; but then I have been a solitary old woman. " Half of what she hadsaved she proposed to give Dorothy on her marriage, and for doingthis arrangements had already been made. There were various otherlegacies, and the last she announced was one to her nephew, Hugh. "Ihave left him a thousand pounds, " she said to Dorothy, --"so that hemay remember me kindly at last. " As to this, however, she exacted apledge that no intimation of the legacy was to be made to Hugh. Thenit was that Dorothy told her aunt that Hugh intended to marry NoraRowley, one of the ladies who had been at the Clock House during thedays in which her mother had lived in grandeur; and then it was alsothat Dorothy obtained leave to invite Hugh to her own wedding. "Ihope she will be happier than her sister, " Miss Stanbury said, whenshe heard of the intended marriage. 

"It wasn't Mrs. Trevelyan's fault, you know, aunt. "

"I say nothing about anybody's fault; but this I do say, that it wasa very great misfortune. I fought all that battle with your sisterPriscilla, and I don't mean to fight it again, my dear. If Hughmarries the young lady, I hope she will be more happy than hersister. There can be no harm in saying that. "

Dorothy's letter to her brother shall be given, because it willinform the reader of all the arrangements as they were made up tothat time, and will convey the Exeter news respecting various personswith whom our story is concerned. 

 The Close, July 20th, 186--. 

 DEAR HUGH, --

 The day for my marriage is now fixed, and I wish with all my heart that it was the same with you. Pray give my love to Nora. It seems so odd that, though she was living for a while with mamma at Nuncombe Putney, I never should have seen her yet. I am very glad that Brooke has seen her, and he declares that she is quite _magnificently beautiful_. Those are his own words. 

 We are to be married on the 10th 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 me tell you so with her love; and that you can have a room as long as you like. _Of course you must come. _ In the first place, you must because you are to give me away, 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 should 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 are to be two clergymen, but I don't yet know who they will 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, DOROTHY STANBURY. 

 Give my best, best love to Nora. 

CHAPTER XC. 

LADY ROWLEY CONQUERED. 

 [Illustration]

When the Rowleys were back in London, and began to employ themselveson the terrible work of making ready for their journey to theIslands, Lady Rowley gradually gave way about Hugh Stanbury. She hadbecome aware that Nora would not go back with them, --unless under anamount of pressure which she would find it impossible to use. And ifNora did not go out to the Islands, what was to become of her unlessshe married this man? Sir Marmaduke, when all was explained to him, declared that a girl must do what her parents ordered her to do. "Other girls live with their fathers and mothers, and so must she. "Lady Rowley endeavoured to explain that other girls lived with theirfathers and mothers, because they found themselves in establishedhomes from which they are not disposed to run away; but Nora'sposition was, as she alleged, very different. Nora's home hadlatterly been with her sister, and it was hardly to be expectedthat the parental authority should not find itself impaired by theinterregnum which had taken place. Sir Marmaduke would not see thething in the same light, and was disposed to treat his daughter witha high hand. If she would not do as she was bidden, she should nolonger be daughter of his. In answer to this Lady Rowley could onlyrepeat her conviction that Nora would not go out to the Mandarins;and that as for disinheriting her, casting her off, cursing her, andthe rest, --she had no belief in such doings at all. "On the stagethey do such things as that, " she said; "and, perhaps, they used todo it once in reality. But you know that it's out of the question, now. Fancy your standing up and cursing at the dear girl, just as weare all starting from Southampton!" Sir Marmaduke knew as well as hiswife that it would be impossible, and only muttered something aboutthe "dear girl" behaving herself with great impropriety. 

They were all aware that Nora was not going to leave England, becauseno berth had been taken for her on board the ship, and because, whilethe other girls were preparing for their long voyage, no preparationswere made for her. Of course she was not going. Sir Marmaduke wouldprobably have given way altogether immediately on his return toLondon, had he not discussed the matter with his friend ColonelOsborne. It became, of course, his duty to make some inquiry asto the Stanbury family, and he knew that Osborne had visited Mrs. Stanbury when he made his unfortunate pilgrimage to the porch ofCockchaffington Church. He told Osborne the whole story of Nora'sengagement, telling also that other most heart-breaking tale ofher conduct in regard to Mr. Glascock, and asked the Colonel whathe thought about the Stanburys. Now the Colonel did not hold theStanburys in high esteem. He had met Hugh, as the reader may perhapsremember, and had had some intercourse with the young man, whichhad not been quite agreeable to him, on the platform of the railwaystation at Exeter. And he had also heard something of the ladiesat 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 Emily, --that time I was atCockchaffington, you know, when Trevelyan made himself such a d----fool, --I found the mother and sister living in a decentish houseenough; but it wasn't their house. "

"Not their own, you mean?"

"It was a place that Trevelyan had got this young man to take forEmily, and they had merely gone there to be with her. They had beenliving in a little bit of a cottage; a sort of a place that any--anyploughman 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 SirMarmaduke. 

"I know nothing about him. I have met him, you know. He used to bewith Trevelyan;--that was when Nora took a fancy for him, of course. And I saw him once down in Devonshire, when I must say he behaveduncommonly badly, --doing all he could to foster Trevelyan's stupidjealousy. "

"He has changed his mind about that, I think. "

"Perhaps he has; but he behaved very badly then. Let him shew up hisincome;--that, I take it, is the question in such a case as this. Hisfather was a clergyman, and therefore I suppose he must be consideredto be a gentleman. But has he means to support a wife, and keep up ahouse in London? 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 wifeof his determination to stand no contumacy, and hinted at cursing, disinheriting, and the like, he began to perceive that Nora wouldhave her own way. In his unhappiness he regretted this visit toEngland, and almost thought that the Mandarins were a pleasanterresidence than London. He could do pretty much as he pleased there, and could live quietly, without the trouble which encountered him nowon every side. 

Nora, immediately on her return to London, had written a note toHugh, simply telling him of her arrival and begging him to come andsee her. "Mamma, " she said, "I must see him, and it would be nonsenseto say that he must not come here. I have done what I have saidI would do, and you ought not to make difficulties. " Lady Rowleydeclared that Sir Marmaduke would be very angry if Hugh were admittedwithout his express permission. "I don't want to do anything in thedark, " continued Nora, "but of course I must see him. I suppose itwill be better that he should come to me than that I should go tohim?" Lady Rowley quite understood the threat that was conveyed inthis. It would be much better that Hugh should come to the hotel, andthat he should be treated then as an accepted lover. She had come tothat conclusion. But she was obliged to vacillate for awhile betweenher husband and her daughter. Hugh came of course, and Sir Marmaduke, by his wife's advice, kept out of the way. Lady Rowley, though shewas at home, kept herself also out of the way, remaining above withher two other daughters. Nora thus achieved the glory and happinessof receiving her lover alone. 

"My own true girl!" he said, speaking with his arms still round herwaist. 

"I am true enough; but whether I am your own, --that is anotherquestion. "

"You mean to be?"

"But papa doesn't mean it. Papa says that you are nobody, and thatyou haven't got an income; and thinks that I had better go back andbe 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 notallowed to think at all. They have to do what their papas tell them. That will do, Hugh. You can talk without taking hold of me. "

"It is such a time since I have had a hold of you, --as you call it. "

"It will be much longer before you can do so again, if I go backto the Islands with papa. I shall expect you to be true, you know;and it will be ten years at the least before I can hope to be homeagain. "

"I don't think you mean to go, Nora. "

"But what am I to do? That idea of yours of walking out to thenext church and getting ourselves married sounds very nice andindependent, 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 Idon't want to be a Lydia. I won't do anything that anybody shall eversay that your wife ought not to have done. Young women when they aremarried ought to have their papas' and mammas' consent. I have beenthinking about it a great deal for the last month or two, and I havemade 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. When the time for going comes, he'llyield then. "

"But you will not go with them?" As he asked this he came to her andtried again to take her by the waist; but she retreated from him, andgot herself clear from his arm. "If you are afraid of me, I shallknow 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 muchbefore. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but Ido not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do. "

"You mean to be my wife?"

"Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs andtables can settle itself. The real question now is, --what am I to dowith myself when papa and mamma are gone?"

"Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall havechairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to livein lodgings for a few months?"

"There must be preliminaries, Hugh, --even for lodgings, though theymay be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, andmamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficultiesand others, out of which I don't see my way yet. " Hugh began toasseverate that it was his business to help her through all moneydifficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burdenlike a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't havecome over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had Inot thought that I was bound to see you. "

"My own darling!"

"When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her. "

"I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures ofsuch a tour together over the Alps. 

"No you won't, because that would be improper. When we traveltogether we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I thinkI had better go back to Emily, because her position there is soterrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will bebetter, or he will become so bad that, --that medical interferencewill be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. Shegave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember thatI met you there. " After this there was of course another attemptwith Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogetherunsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visitthem at Monkhams. 

 [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there. "]

"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 youare to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. Therewas a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friendsand shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noblefortune, --and an obedient, good girl. "

"And why didn't you?"

"I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because, --because, --because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to meafterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak tome!"

"And why didn't I speak to you?"

"I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking ofnothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked toNiddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?"

"I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and youwouldn't go. "

"You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do youremember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I sawit now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, ifwe are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on thosestones. "

"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 sostrange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly, --andthat for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself verycharming 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 you. Andyou 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 saying onenice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand. "

"Why was it?"

"Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I wouldgive myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river withyou. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together likedear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we comeback. "

They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and LadyRowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in suchemergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and thereshe remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that asthe thing was to be, it was well that the young people should betogether. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock wouldhave been, --a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, andbe proud of, --whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself havebeen a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side ofthe world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-heartedloving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dearto her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believein Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, toremember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honestfellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kindbrother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily andTrevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, andshe sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waitingpatiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mammafor a moment, " Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself agood boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you oughtto be in her good graces. " Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. 

Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" inLady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, feltvery strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formallyrecognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and wasnot yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke;but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alonetogether, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensablethat she should in some way signify her parental adherence to thearrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan'scondition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley saidsomething about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that maybe, " said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back withus. "

"Mamma, you know that that is impossible, " said Nora. 

"Not impossible, my love. "

"But she will not go back, " said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would notpropose to separate us by such a distance as that?"

"It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask. "

"Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it isnot papa that we must ask, --not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, ofcourse, papa will come round. "

"My dear Nora!"

"You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good andkind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. Howcould I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozenwives 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 benecessary that he also should press forward his argument. 

"I can trust him as far as I can see him, " said Nora, "and thereforeI do not want to lose sight of him altogether. "

Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that beforelong he would do better than that. He proposed that they should bemarried some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge thatmuch must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He wouldhold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, andwould do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gavehim her blessing, and kissed him again, --and Nora kissed him too, andhung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm creptround her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely beacknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselvesencouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they havehitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternaleyes, --that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbonsfor a sacrifice. 

CHAPTER XCI. 

FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. 

Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. And Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in orderto secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhousedid not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to makeit almost equal to a refusal. "He was, " he said, "much attached tohis niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair. " SirMarmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There wascertainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, asthe gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understandno fixed profession. "Such a love affair, " thought Mr. Outhouse, "wasa sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Noracame to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was henot?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of ananti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found thatthat scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written fromFlorence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had saidthat she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at thattime living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She sawher husband every other day; but nevertheless, --according to herstatements, --her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to hiswishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Sienaand return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if shewould do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believehim, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could notregard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken herchild with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasionTrevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professedthat in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that hehad not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thoughtthat perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of hissolitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, neverasked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which mustbe taken soon, --and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish thatshe should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that heheld out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of herpresence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be amadman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, andwould face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctorsin Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he wouldundoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should havesailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would beso keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for hishealth, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed, " she said, "tobe withering away. " His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair andbeard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing leftof his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs hadbecome so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as hewalked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw asideall that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose abouthim that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she hadventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had beenrecommended 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 offence in having sentsuch a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to takesuch a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse herpermission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you, " Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to hersister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, makehim feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get himto return with me. If you were here, I think this would be lesslikely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterablesadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My healthstands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It iscooler at Casalunga than in the town, --of which I am glad for hissake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot standthe waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long aspapa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slowstages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me anewspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa hassailed. "

It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence thatNora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing hertime till some house should be open for her reception. She hadsuggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to NuncombePutney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother'scottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which shecould lay her head. "There never was 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 signedCaroline Glascock, though another name might have been used, --datedfrom Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even atthat season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "Andshe is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress theexpression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so signherself. " "We think, " said the American peeress, "that we shall beat Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you areto come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death. " "I saw it in the paper, " saidSir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it. "

That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora'sprospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room atGregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies hadbegun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursingand of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, ofcourse with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and thedifficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. Itwanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sailfrom Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allowme something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone inlodgings, " 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, " saidSophie. 

"Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well, " said Nora. "I don't see why ayoung woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as allthat comes to. Of course it won't be very nice, --but it need not befor long. "

"Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. 

"Not for very long, " said Nora. 

"It does not seem to me, " said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerablepause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious forthe match. I have heard no day named, and no rational propositionmade. "

"Papa, that is unfair, most unfair, --and ungenerous. "

"Nora, " said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father. "

"Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being, --beinglukewarm and untrue, --of not being in earnest. "

"I would rather that he were not in earnest, " said Sir Marmaduke. 

"Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time, " continued Nora. "He would havethe banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks, --if I would lethim. "

"Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. 

"But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take aroom till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged fromthere. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her. "

"I suppose your papa will make you some allowance, " said Lady Rowley. 

"She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her properhome, " said Sir Marmaduke. 

The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, wasnot allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should beinterrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought roundby degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as wasprudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly endedfor this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with tremblinghands, --as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from EmilyTrevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. HughStanbury would be the best. "

In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knewwhat should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that shewould go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this wasimpossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professedherself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped bya proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanburywould of course go with her. Lady Rowley 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. R. Say what theymight. According to her there was always somebody at the call of theeditor of the D. R. To do the work of anybody else, when anybody elsewanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, thatif Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must bean end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour wasover Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cabto the office of the D. R. With a note from Lady Rowley. "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 docome. --E. R. "

It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what itmight, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be withthem before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the questionthat they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to startby the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Sienatill the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be whatit might when he arrived there, it would be out of the questionthat Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that sheshould travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again bytelegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have anyhand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have comewith us, " said Lady Rowley. 

"It is out of the question, " said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I couldnot 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 shewould not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't supposehe is so ill as that. "

"There is no saying, " said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evidentthat, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had nostrongly-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 thatnight. No other address had been given to the man, and the note hadtherefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke becamevery fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from hisnight watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatienceby endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied forherself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofaall night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in hercorner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious inrefusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, andremain there, " she said. "Of course I must speak to him before hegoes. " Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to situp as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by theirfather. 

Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, andhad just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, whenthere came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had alsoremained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. Hehad to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When hereached the D. R. Office between ten and eleven, it was absolutelyincumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. Hehad been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainlybetter that we should remain up, than that the whole town should bedisappointed, " said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. 

"It is so very, very good of you to come, " said Nora. 

"Indeed, it is, " said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you wouldcome. " Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowleywas now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had beenLord Peterborough. 

"Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram, " saidSir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in hishand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the messageand read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mentionyour name, " continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and asperhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, wethought 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 thatwe should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sailson Saturday. "

"I will go as a matter of course, " said Hugh. "I will start atonce, --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 atone time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure. "

There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty inthe discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in theminds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meetagain, --probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms ofclose affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucyand Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced thedifficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father tosanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she couldnot do it before so many persons, even though the persons were herown nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanburywas so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in hispocket, --although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richerman of the two, --said something about defraying the cost of thejourney. "It is taken altogether on our behalf, " said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or twoabout Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world, --"evenif there were nothing else. " Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed ofhimself, --without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural, --saidnothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainlythan ever. 

The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hourwas spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashionto abuse Bradshaw, --we speak now especially of Bradshaw theContinental, --because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patentto him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. Aftermuch experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, andwill divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode ofgetting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fiftymiles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a singlemorning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, andall the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw washad out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gainedin 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 mailtrain, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, thencame the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commissioncould be given to him. A telegram should be sent to Emily the nextmorning to say that he was coming; and then he would hurry on andtake his orders from her. 

They were all in doubt, terribly in doubt, whether the aggravatedmalady of which the telegram spoke was malady of the mind or of thebody. If of the former nature then the difficulty might be very greatindeed; and it would be highly expedient that Stanbury should havesome one in Italy to assist him. It was Nora who suggested that heshould carry a letter of introduction to Mr. Spalding, and it was shewho wrote it. Sir Marmaduke had not foregathered very closely withthe English Minister, and nothing was said of assistance that shouldbe peculiarly British. Then, at last, about three or four in themorning came the moment for parting. Sir Marmaduke had suggested thatStanbury should dine with them on the next day before he started, butHugh had declined, alleging that as the day was at his command itmust be devoted to the work of providing for his absence. In truth, Sir Marmaduke had given the invitation with a surly voice, and Hugh, though he was ready to go to the North Pole for any others of thefamily, was at the moment in an aggressive mood of mind towards SirMarmaduke. 

"I will send a message directly I get there, " he said, holding LadyRowley 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 withher hands clasped together. She had prepared nothing, --not a word, oran attitude, not a thought, for his farewell. But she had felt thatit was coming, and had known that she must trust to him for a cuefor her own demeanour. If he could say adieu with a quiet voice, andsimply with a touch of the hand, then would she do the same, --andendeavour to think no worse of him. Nor had he prepared anything; butwhen the moment came he could not leave her after that fashion. Hestood a moment hesitating, not approaching her, and merely called herby her name, --"Nora!" For a moment she was still; for a moment sheheld by her chair; and then she rushed into his arms. He did not muchcare for her father now, but kissed her hair and her forehead, andheld her closely to his bosom. "My own, own Nora!"

It was necessary that Sir Marmaduke should say something. Therewas at first a little scene between all the women, during which hearranged his deportment. "Mr. Stanbury, " he said, "let it be so. I could wish for my child's sake, and also for your own, that yourmeans of living were less precarious. " Hugh accepted this simply asan authority for another embrace, and then he allowed them all to goto bed. 

CHAPTER XCII. 

TREVELYAN DISCOURSES ON LIFE. 

Stanbury made his journey without pause or hindrance till he reachedFlorence, and as the train for Siena made it necessary that he shouldremain there for four or five hours, he went to an inn, and dressedand washed himself, and had a meal, and was then driven to Mr. Spalding's house. He found the American Minister at home, and wasreceived with cordiality; but Mr. Spalding could tell him little ornothing about Trevelyan. They went up to Mrs. Spalding's room, andHugh was told by her that she had seen Mrs. Trevelyan once since herniece's marriage, and that then she had represented her husband asbeing very feeble. Hugh, in the midst of his troubles, was amusedby a second and a third, perhaps by a fourth, reference to "LadyPeterborough. " Mrs. Spalding's latest tidings as to the Trevelyanshad been received through "Lady Peterborough" from Nora Rowley. "LadyPeterborough" was at the present moment at Naples, but was expectedto pass north through Florence in a day or two. They, the Spaldingsthemselves, were kept in Florence in this very hot weather by thiscircumstance. They were going up to the Tyrolese mountains for afew weeks as soon as "Lady Peterborough" should have left them forEngland. "Lady Peterborough" would have been so happy to make Mr. Stanbury's acquaintance, and to have heard something direct fromher friend Nora. Then Mrs. Spalding smiled archly, showing therebythat she knew all about Hugh Stanbury and his relation to NoraRowley. From all which, and in accordance with the teaching whichwe got, --alas, now many years ago, --from a great master on thesubject, we must conclude that poor, dear Mrs. Spalding 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 lifeachieved by her niece were natural and altogether pardonable; andthat reticence on the subject, --a calculated determination toabstain from mentioning a triumph which must have been very dear toher, --would have betrayed on the whole a condition of mind lower thanthat which she exhibited. While rank, wealth, and money are held tobe good things by all around us, let them be acknowledged as such. Itis natural that a mother should be as proud when her daughter marriesan Earl's heir as when her son becomes Senior Wrangler; and when wemeet a lady in Mrs. Spalding's condition who purposely abstains frommentioning the name of her titled daughter, we shall be disposed tojudge harshly of the secret workings of that lady's thoughts on thesubject. We prefer the exhibition, which we feel to be natural. Mr. Spalding got our friend by the button-hole, and was making him aspeech on the perilous condition in which Mrs. Trevelyan was placed;but Stanbury, urged by the circumstances of his position, pulled outhis 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 wasphysically personal to herself, not that she had become older inface, or thin, or grey, or sickly, --but that the trouble of herlife had robbed her for the time of that brightness of apparel, ofthat pride of feminine gear, of that sheen of high-bred womanlybearing with which our wives and daughters are so careful to investthemselves. She knew herself to be a wretched woman, whose work inlife now was to watch over a poor prostrate wretch, and who hadthrown behind her all ideas of grace and beauty. It was not quicklythat this condition had come upon her. She had been unhappy atNuncombe Putney; but unhappiness had not then told upon the outwardwoman. She had been more wretched still at St. Diddulph's, and allthe outward circumstances of life in her uncle's parsonage had beenvery wearisome to her; but she had striven against it all, and thesheen and outward brightness had still been there. After that herchild had been taken from her, and the days which she had passed inManchester Street had been very grievous;--but even yet she had notgiven 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 heranger, --hot anger, --had been changed to pity, and that with pity lovehad returned, it was not till this point had come in her sad lifethat her dress became always black and sombre, that a veil habituallycovered her face, that a bonnet took the place of the jaunty hat thatshe 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 knewwhat to do, I was so wretched. On the day that I sent he was so badthat I was obliged to do something. " Stanbury, of course, inquiredafter Trevelyan's health, as they were being driven up to Mrs. Trevelyan's lodgings. On the day on which she had sent the telegramher husband had again been furiously angry with her. She hadinterfered, or had endeavoured to interfere, in some arrangements asto his health and comfort, and he had turned upon her with an orderthat the child should be at once sent back to him, and that sheshould immediately quit Siena. "When I said that Louey could not besent, --and who could send a child into such keeping, --he told methat I was the basest liar that ever broke a promise, and the vilesttraitor that had ever returned evil for good. I was never to come tohim again, --never; and the gate of the house would be closed againstme if I appeared there. "

On the next day she had gone again, however, and had seen him, andhad visited him on every day since. Nothing further had been saidabout the child, and he had now become almost too weak for violentanger. "I told him you were coming, and though he would not say so, I think he is glad of it. He expects you to-morrow. "

"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 amnever there myself after four or five in the afternoon. I told himthat you should be there to-morrow, --alone. I have hired a littlecarriage, and you can take it. He said specially that I was notto come with you. Papa goes certainly on next Saturday?" It was aSaturday 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 bringit in by degrees. He thinks that I am deceiving him. He would go backif he knew that papa were gone. "

They spent a long evening together, and Stanbury learned all thatMrs. Trevelyan could tell him of her husband's state. There was nodoubt, she said, that his reason was affected; but she thought thestate of his mind was diseased in a ratio the reverse of that of hisbody, and that when he was weakest in health, then were his ideas themost clear and rational. He never now mentioned Colonel Osborne'sname, but would refer to the affairs of the last two years as thoughthey had been governed by an inexorable Fate which had utterlydestroyed his happiness without any fault on his part. "You may besure, " she said, "that I never accuse him. Even when he says terriblethings of me, --which he does, --I never excuse myself. I do not thinkI should answer a word, if he called me the vilest thing on earth. "Before they parted for the night many questions were of course askedabout Nora, and Hugh described the condition in which he and shestood to each other. "Papa has consented, then?"

"Yes, --at four o'clock in the morning, --just as I was leaving them. "

"And when is it to be?"

"Nothing has been settled, and I do not as yet know where she will goto when they leave London. I think she will visit Monkhams when theGlascock people return to England. "

"What an episode in life, --to go and see the place, when it might allnow have been hers!"

"I suppose I ought to feel dreadfully ashamed of myself for havingmarred such promotion, " said Hugh. 

"Nora is such a singular girl;--so firm, so headstrong, so good, andso self-reliant that she will do as well with a poor man as she wouldhave done with a rich. Shall I confess to you that I did wish thatshe should accept Mr. Glascock, and that I pressed it on her verystrongly? You will not be 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 wealthand rank, she took the bit between her teeth and would not be turnedan 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 Monkhamswill make her stronger in her choice. With all her girlish ways, sheis like a rock;--nothing can move her. "

Early on the next morning Hugh started alone for Casalunga, havingfirst, however, seen Mrs. Trevelyan. He took out with him certainlittle things for the sick man's table;--as to which, however, hewas cautioned to say not a word to the sick man himself. And it wasarranged that he should endeavour to fix a day for Trevelyan's returnto England. That was to be the one object in view. "If we could gethim to England, " she said, "he and I would, at any rate, be together, and gradually he would be taught to submit himself to advice. " Beforeten in the morning, Stanbury was walking up the hill to the house, and wondering at the dreary, hot, hopeless desolation of the spot. It seemed to him that no one could live alone in such a place, insuch weather, without being driven to madness. The soil was parchedand dusty, as though no drop of rain had fallen there for months. The lizards, glancing in and out of the broken walls, added to theappearance of heat. The vegetation itself was of a faded yellowishgreen, as though the glare of the sun had taken the fresh colour outof it. There was a noise of grasshoppers and a hum of flies in theair, hardly audible, but all giving evidence of the heat. Not a humanvoice was to be heard, nor the sound of a human foot, and there wasno shelter; but the sun blazed down full upon everything. He tookoff his hat, and rubbed his head with his handkerchief as he struckthe door with his stick. Oh God, to what misery had a little follybrought two human beings who had had every blessing that the worldcould give within their reach!

In a few minutes he was conducted through the house, and foundTrevelyan seated in a chair under the verandah which looked downupon the olive trees. He did not even get up from his seat, but putout his left hand and welcomed his old friend. "Stanbury, " he said, "I am glad to see you, --for auld lang syne's sake. When I foundout this retreat, I did not mean to have friends round me here. I wanted to try what solitude was;--and, by heaven, I've triedit!" He was dressed in a bright Italian dressing-gown or woollenpaletot, --Italian, as having been bought in Italy, though, doubtless, it had come from France, --and on his feet he had green workedslippers, and on his head a brocaded cap. He had made but littleother preparation for his friend in the way of dressing. His longdishevelled hair came down over his neck, and his beard covered hisface. Beneath his dressing-gown he had on a night-shirt and drawers, and was as dirty in appearance as he was gaudy in colours. "Sitdown and let us two moralise, " he said. "I spend my life here doingnothing, --nothing, --nothing; while you cudgel your brain from dayto day to mislead the British public. Which of us two is taking thenearest road to the devil?"

Stanbury seated himself in a second arm-chair, which there was therein the verandah, and looked as carefully as he dared to do at hisfriend. There could be no mistake as to the restless gleam of thateye. And then the affected air of ease, and the would-be cynicism, and the pretence of false motives, all told the same story. "Theyused to tell us, " said Stanbury, "that idleness is the root of allevil. "

"They have been telling us since the world began so many lies, that Ifor one have determined never to believe anything again. Labour leadsto greed, and greed to selfishness, and selfishness to treachery, and treachery straight to the devil, --straight to the devil. Ha, myfriend, all your leading articles won't lead you out of that. What'sthe news? Who's alive? Who dead? Who in? Who out? What think you ofa man who has not seen a newspaper for two months; and who holds noconversation with the world further than is needed for the cooking ofhis polenta and the cooling of his modest wine-flask?"

"You see your wife sometimes, " said Stanbury. 

"My wife! Now, my friend, let us drop that subject. Of all topics oftalk it is the most distressing to man in general, and I own thatI am no exception to the lot. Wives, Stanbury, are an evil, moreor less necessary to humanity, and I own to being one who has notescaped. The world must be populated, though for what reason one doesnot see. I have helped, --to the extent of one male bantling; and ifyou are one who consider population desirable, I will express myregret that I should have done no more. "

It was very difficult to force Trevelyan out of this humour, and itwas not till Stanbury had risen apparently to take his leave that hefound it possible to say a word as to his mission there. "Don't youthink you would be happier at home?" he asked. 

"Where is my home, Sir Knight of the midnight pen?"

"England is your home, Trevelyan. "

"No, sir; England was my home once; but I have taken the libertyaccorded to me by my Creator of choosing a new country. Italy is nowmy 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 untieall the ties; and, by Jove, I have succeeded. Look at me here. I havegot rid of the trammels pretty well, --haven't I?--have unshackledmyself, and thrown off the paddings, and the wrappings, and theswaddling clothes. I have got rid of the conventionalities, and canlook 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 amoment down under the blaze of the sun, in order that he might thinkhow 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 will 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 itdo you. "

"Let him be what he may, I was glad to have it. Most probably I shallnever see him again. He sails from Southampton for the Mandarins onthis day week. "

"He does, --does he? May the devil sail along with him!--that is all Isay. And does my much-respected and ever-to-be-beloved mother-in-lawsail with him?"

"They all return together, --except Nora. "

"Who remains to comfort you? I hope you may be comforted;--that isall. Don't be too particular. Let her choose her own friends, and goher own gait, and have her own way, and do you be blind and deaf anddumb and properly submissive; and it may be that she'll give you yourbreakfast and dinner in your own house, --so long as your hours don'tinterfere with her pleasures. If she should even urge you besideyourself by her vanity, folly, and disobedience, --so that at last youare driven to express your feeling, --no doubt she will come to youafter a while and tell you with the sweetest condescension that sheforgives you. When she has been out of your house for a twelvemonthor more, she will offer to come back to you, and to forgeteverything, --on condition that you will do exactly as she bids youfor the future. "

This attempt at satire, so fatuous, so plain, so false, togetherwith the would-be jaunty manner of the speaker, who, however, failedrepeatedly in his utterances from sheer physical exhaustion, wasexcessively painful to Stanbury. What can one do at any time with amadman? "I mentioned my marriage, " said he, "to prove my right tohave an additional interest in your wife's happiness. "

"You are quite welcome, whether you marry the other one ornot;--welcome to take any interest you please. I have got beyond allthat, Stanbury;--yes, by Jove, a long way beyond all that. "

"You have not got beyond loving your wife, and your child, Trevelyan?"

"Upon my word, yes;--I think I have. There may be a grain of weaknessleft, 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 atSiena. 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 becauseshe wishes it, --or simply because England is the most damnable, puritanical, God-forgotten, and stupid country on the face of theglobe? I know no other reason for going to England. Will you take aglass of wine, Stanbury?" Hugh declined the offer. "You will excuseme, " continued Trevelyan; "I always take a glass of wine at thishour. " Then he rose from his chair, and helped himself from acupboard that was near at hand. Stanbury, watching him as he filledhis glass, could see that his legs were hardly strong enough to carryhim. And Stanbury saw, moreover, that the unfortunate man took twoglasses out of the bottle. "Go to England indeed. I do not think muchof this country; but it is, at any rate, better than England. "

Hugh perceived that he could do nothing more on the present occasion. Having heard so much of Trevelyan's debility, he had been astonishedto hear the man speak with so much volubility and attempts athigh-flown spirit. Before he had taken the wine he had almost sunkinto his chair, but still he had continued to speak with the samefluent would-be cynicism. "I will come and see you again, " said Hugh, getting up to take his departure. 

"You might as well save your trouble, Stanbury; but you can come ifyou please, you know. If you should find yourself locked out, youwon'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 mywife want to take me away from here among you, and I think it best tostay here. I don't want much for myself, and why should I not livehere? My wife can remain at Siena if she pleases, or she can go toEngland if she pleases. She must give me the same liberty;--the sameliberty, --the same liberty. " After this he fell a-coughing violently, and Stanbury thought it better to leave him. He had been at Casalungaabout two hours, and did not seem as yet to have done any good. He had been astonished both by Trevelyan's weakness, and by hisstrength; by his folly, and by his sharpness. Hitherto he could seeno way for his future sister-in-law out of her troubles. 

When he was with her at Siena, he described what had taken placewith all the accuracy in his power. "He has intermittent days, "said Emily. "To-morrow he will be in quite another frame ofmind, --melancholy, silent perhaps, and self-reproachful. We willboth go to-morrow, and we shall find probably that he has forgottenaltogether what has passed to-day between you and him. "

So their plans for the morrow were formed. 

CHAPTER XCIII. 

"SAY THAT YOU FORGIVE ME. "

 [Illustration]

On the following day, again early in the morning, Mrs. Trevelyan andStanbury were driven out to Casalunga. The country people along theroad knew the carriage well, and the lady who occupied it, and wouldsay that the English wife was going to see her mad husband. Mrs. Trevelyan knew that these words were common in the people's mouths, and explained to her companion how necessary it would be to use theserumours, to aid her in putting some restraint over her husband evenin this country, should they fail in their effort to take him toEngland. She saw the doctor in Siena constantly, and had learned fromhim how such steps might be taken. The measure proposed would beslow, difficult, inefficient, and very hard to set aside, if oncetaken;--but still it might be indispensable that something should bedone. "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 would beso. " Then Stanbury asked about the wine. It seemed that of lateTrevelyan had taken to drink freely, but only of the wine of thecountry. But the wine of the country in these parts is sufficientlystimulating, and Mrs. Trevelyan acknowledged that hence had arisen afurther cause of fear. 

They walked up the hill together, and Mrs. Trevelyan, now wellknowing the ways of the place, went round at once to the frontterrace. There he was, seated in his arm-chair, dressed in the sameway as yesterday, dirty, dishevelled, and gaudy with various colours;but Stanbury could see at once that his mood had greatly changed. Herose slowly, dragging himself up out of his chair, as they came up tohim, but shewing as he did so, --and perhaps somewhat assuming, --theimpotency of querulous sickness. His wife went to him, and took himby the hand, and placed him back in his chair. He was weak, he said, and had not slept, and suffered from the heat; and then he begged herto give him wine. This she did, half filling for him a tumbler, ofwhich he swallowed the contents greedily. "You see me very poorly, Stanbury, --very poorly, " he said, seeming to ignore all that hadtaken place on the previous day. 

"You want change of climate, old fellow, " said Stanbury. 

"Change of everything;--I want change of everything, " he said. "IfI 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 uslook after the body, " said his wife, seating herself on a stool nearhis feet. Stanbury, who had settled beforehand how he would conducthimself, took out a cigar and lighted it;--and then they sat togethersilent, or nearly silent, for half an hour. She had said that if Hughwould do so, Trevelyan would soon become used to the presence of hisold friend, and it seemed that he had already done so. More thanonce, 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 onsmoking in silence. 

"You have heard, Louis, " she said at last, "that, after all, Nora andMr. 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, butneither of the visitors winced, or said a word. 

"It will be a pity that papa and mamma cannot be present at thewedding, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"If I had to do it again, I should not regret your father's absence;I must say that. He has been my enemy. Yes, Stanbury, --my enemy. Idon't care who hears me say so. I am obliged to stay here, becausethat man would swear every shilling I have away from me if I were inEngland. He would strive to do so, and the struggle in my state ofhealth would be too much for me. "

"But Sir Marmaduke sails from Southampton this very week, " saidStanbury. 

"I don't know. He is always sailing, and always coming back again. Inever asked him for a shilling in my life, and yet he has treated meas though I were his bitterest enemy. "

"He will trouble you no more now, Louis, " said Mrs. Trevelyan. 

"He cannot trouble you again. He will have left England before youcan possibly reach it. "

"He will have left other traitors behind him, --though none as bad ashimself, " said Trevelyan. 

Stanbury, when his cigar was finished, rose and left the husband andwife together on the terrace. There was little enough to be seen atCasalunga, but he strolled about looking at the place. He went intothe huge granary, and then down among the olive trees, and up intothe sheds which had been built for beasts. He stood and teased thelizards, and listened to the hum of the insects, and wiped away theperspiration which rose to his brow even as he was standing. And allthe while he was thinking what he would do next, or what say next, with the view of getting Trevelyan away from the place. Hitherto hehad been very tender with him, contradicting him in nothing, takingfrom him good humouredly any absurd insult which he chose to offer, pressing upon him none of the evil which he had himself occasioned, saying to him no word that could hurt either his pride or hiscomfort. But he could not see that this would be efficacious for thepurpose desired. He had come thither to help Nora's sister in herterrible distress, and he must take upon himself to make some planfor giving this aid. When he had thought of all this and made hisplan, he sauntered back round the house on to the terrace. She wasstill there, sitting at her husband's feet, and holding one of hishands in hers. It was well that the wife should be tender, but hedoubted 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 toEngland. If you remain here, the climate and solitude together willkill you. "

"As for the climate, I like it;--and as for solitude, I have got usedeven 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 hishand, and he did not at once attempt to withdraw it; but he raisedhimself in his chair, and fixed his eyes fiercely on Stanbury. "Theywill not let you remain here quietly, " said Stanbury. 

"Who will not?"

"The Italians. They are already saying that you are not fit to bealone; and if once they get you into their hands, --under some Italianmedical board, perhaps into some Italian asylum, it might be yearsbefore you could get out, --if ever. I have come to tell you what thedanger 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 hishand had been withdrawn. "My God, am I to be followed here too withsuch 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 thatcould injure you. "

"Trevelyan, do not be so unjust, and so foolish, " said Stanbury. "Itis not her doing. Do you suppose that you can live here like thisand give rise to no remarks? Do you think that people's eyes are notopen, and that their tongues will not speak? I tell you, you are indanger here. "

"What am I to do? Where am I to go? Can not they let me stay till Idie? Whom am I hurting here? She may have all my money, if she wantsit. She has got my child. "

"I want nothing, Louis, but to take you where you may be safe andwell. "

"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 wife. 

"Your father did, --and your mother. They told me so. "

"Look here, Trevelyan. Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley are gone. Theywill have sailed, at least, before we can reach England. Whatever mayhave been either their wishes or their power, they can do nothingnow. Here something would be done, --very soon; you may take my wordfor that. If you will return with me and your wife, you shall chooseyour own place of abode. Is not that so, Emily?"

"He shall choose everything. His boy will be with him, and I will bewith him, and he shall be contradicted in nothing. If he only knew myheart towards him!"

"You hear what she says, Trevelyan?"

"Yes; I hear her. "

"And you believe her?"

"I'm not so sure of that. Stanbury, how should you like to be lockedup in a madhouse and grin through the bars till your heart wasbroken? It would not take long with me, I know. "

"You shall never be locked up;--never be touched, " said his wife. 

"I am very harmless here, " he said, almost crying; "very harmless. Ido not think anybody here will touch me, " he added, afterwards. "Andthere are other places. There are other places. My God, that I shouldbe driven about the world like this!" The conference was ended by hissaying that he would take two days to think of it, and by his thendesiring that they would both leave him. They did so, and descendedthe hill together, knowing that he was watching them, --that he wouldwatch them till they were out of sight from the gate;--for, as Mrs. Trevelyan said, he never came down the hill now, knowing that thelabour of ascending it was too much for him. When they were at thecarriage they were met by one of the women of the house, and strictinjunctions were given to her by Mrs. Trevelyan to send on wordto Siena if the Signore should prepare to move. "He cannot go farwithout my knowing it, " said she, "because he draws his money inSiena, and lately I have taken to him what he wants. He has notenough with him for a long journey. " For Stanbury had suggested thathe might be off to seek another residence in another country, andthat they would find Casalunga vacant when they reached it on thefollowing Tuesday. But he told himself almost immediately, --notcaring to express such an opinion to Emily, --that Trevelyan wouldhardly have strength even to prepare for such a journey by himself. 

On the intervening day, the Monday, Stanbury had no occupationwhatever, and he thought that since he was born no day had ever beenso long. Siena contains many monuments of interest, and much that isvaluable in art, --having had a school of painting of its own, andstill retaining in its public gallery specimens of its school, ofwhich as a city it is justly proud. There are palaces there to bebeaten for gloomy majesty by none in Italy. There is a cathedralwhich was to have been the largest in the world, and than which feware more worthy of prolonged inspection. The town is old, and quaint, and picturesque, and dirty, and attractive, --as it becomes a town inItaly to be. But in July all such charms are thrown away. In JulyItaly is not a land of charms to an Englishman. Poor Stanbury didwander into the cathedral, and finding it the coolest place in thetown, went to sleep on a stone step. He was awoke by the voice of thepriests as they began to chant the vespers. The good-natured Italianshad let him sleep, and would have let him sleep till the doors wereclosed for the night. At five he dined with Mrs. Trevelyan, and thenendeavoured to while away the evening thinking of Nora with a pipe inhis mouth. He was standing in this way at the hotel gateway, when, ona sudden, all Siena was made alive by the clatter of an open carriageand four on its way through the town to the railway. On looking up, Stanbury saw Lord Peterborough in the carriage, --with a lady whomhe did not doubt to be Lord Peterborough's wife. He himself had notbeen recognised, but he slowly followed the carriage to the railwaystation. After the Italian fashion, the arrival was three-quartersof an hour before the proper time, and Stanbury had full opportunityof learning their news and telling his own. They were coming up fromRome, and thought it preferable to take the route by Siena than touse the railway through the Maremma; and they intended to reachFlorence 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 forhimself, but he is not in such a condition that any one would wish tosee him put into confinement. If he were raving mad there would beless difficulty, though there might be more distress. "

A great deal was said about Nora, and both Lord Peterborough and hiswife insisted that the marriage should take place at Monkhams. "Weshall be home now in less than three weeks, " said Caroline, "and shemust come to us at once. But I will write to her from Florence, andtell her how we saw you smoking your pipe under the archway. Not thatmy husband knew you in the least. "

"Upon my word no, " said the husband, --"one didn't expect to find youhere. Good-bye. I hope you may succeed in getting him home. I wentto him once, but could do very little. " Then the train started, andStanbury went back to Mrs. Trevelyan. 

On the next day Stanbury went out to Casalunga alone. He hadcalculated, on leaving England, that if any good might be doneat Siena it could be done in three days, and that he would havebeen able to start on his return on the Wednesday morning, --or onWednesday evening at the latest. But now there did not seem to be anychance of that;--and he hardly knew how to guess when he might getaway. 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 atCasalunga, and he had written to Nora each day since his arrival. Hisstay was prolonged at great expense and inconvenience to himself;and yet it was impossible that he should go and leave his work halffinished. As he walked up the hill to the house he felt very angrywith Trevelyan, and prepared himself to use hard words and dreadfulthreats. But at the very moment of his entrance on the terrace, Trevelyan professed himself ready to go to England. "That's right, old fellow, " said Hugh. "I am so glad. " But in expressing his joy hehad hardly noticed Trevelyan's voice and appearance. 

"I might as well go, " he said. "It matters little where I am, orwhether they say that I am mad or sane. "

"When we have you over there, nobody shall say a word that isdisagreeable. "

"I only hope that you may not have the trouble of burying me on theroad. You don't know, Stanbury, how ill I am. I cannot eat. If Iwere at the bottom of that hill, I could no more walk up it than Icould fly. I cannot sleep, and at night my bed is wet through withperspiration. I can remember nothing, --nothing but what I ought toforget. "

"We'll put you on to your legs again when we get you to your ownclimate. "

"I shall be a poor traveller, --a poor traveller; but I will do mybest. "

When would he start? That was the next question. Trevelyan asked fora week, and Stanbury brought him down at last to three days. Theywould go to Florence by the evening train on Friday, and sleep there. Emily should come out and assist him to arrange his things on themorrow. Having finished so much of his business, Stanbury returned toSiena. 

They both feared that he might be found on the next day to havedeparted from his intention; but no such idea seemed to have occurredto him. He gave instructions as to the notice to be served on theagent from the Hospital as to his house, and allowed Emily to goamong his things and make preparations for the journey. He did notsay much to her; and when she attempted, with a soft half-utteredword, to assure him that the threat of Italian interference, whichhad come from Stanbury, had not reached Stanbury from her, he simplyshook his head sadly. She could not understand whether he did notbelieve her, or whether he simply wished that the subject should bedropped. She could elicit no sign of affection from him, nor would hewillingly accept such from her;--but he allowed her to prepare forthe journey, and never hinted that his purpose might again be liableto change. On the Friday, Emily with her child, and Hugh with alltheir baggage, travelled out on the road to Casalunga, thinking itbetter that there should be no halt in the town on their return. At Casalunga, Hugh went up the hill with the driver, leaving Mrs. Trevelyan in the carriage. He had been out at the house before in themorning, and had given all necessary orders;--but still at the lastmoment he thought that there might be failure. But Trevelyan wasready, having dressed himself up with a laced shirt, and changed hisdressing-gown for a blue frock-coat, and his brocaded cap for a Parishat, very pointed before and behind, and closely turned up at thesides. But Stanbury did not in the least care for his friend's dress. "Take my arm, " he said, "and we will go down, fair and easy. Emilywould not come up because of the heat. " He suffered himself to beled, or almost carried down the hill; and three women, and thecoachman, and an old countryman who worked on the farm, followed withthe luggage. It took about an hour and a half to pack the things; butat last they were all packed, and corded, and bound together withsticks, as though it were intended that they should travel in thatform to Moscow. Trevelyan the meanwhile sat on a chair which had beenbrought out for him from one of the cottages, and his wife stoodbeside him with her boy. "Now then we are ready, " said Stanbury. Andin that way they bade farewell to Casalunga. Trevelyan sat speechlessin the carriage, and would not even notice the child. He seemed to behalf dreaming and to fix his eyes on vacancy. "He appears to think ofnothing now, " Emily said that evening to Stanbury. But who can tellhow busy and how troubled are the thoughts of a madman!

They had now succeeded in their object of inducing their patient toreturn with them to England; but what were they to do with him whenthey had reached home with him? They rested only a night at Florence;but they found their fellow-traveller so weary, that they were unableto get beyond Bologna on the second day. Many questions were askedof him as to where he himself would wish to take up his residence inEngland; but it was found almost impossible to get an answer. Oncehe suggested that he would like to go back to Mrs. Fuller's cottageat Willesden, from whence they concluded that he would wish to livesomewhere out of London. On his first day's journey, he was moodyand silent, --wilfully assuming the airs of a much-injured person. Hespoke hardly at all, and would notice nothing that was said to him byhis wife. He declared once that he regarded Stanbury as his keeper, and endeavoured to be disagreeable and sullenly combative; but onthe second day, he was too weak for this, and accepted, withoutremonstrance, the attentions that were paid to him. At Bologna theyrested a day, and from thence both Stanbury and Mrs. Trevelyan wroteto Nora. They did not know where she might be now staying, but theletters, by agreement, were addressed to Gregg's Hotel. It wassuggested that lodgings, or, if possible, a small furnished house, should be taken in the neighbourhood of Mortlake, Richmond, orTeddington, and that a telegram as well as a letter should be sent tothem at the Paris hotel. As they could not travel quick, there mightbe time enough for them in this way to know whither they should go ontheir reaching London. 

They stayed a day at Bologna, and then they went on again, --to Turin, over the mountains to Chambery, thence to Dijon, and on to Paris. AtChambery they remained a couple of days, fancying that the air therewas cool, and that the delay would be salutary to the sick man. AtTurin, finding that they wanted further assistance, they had hireda courier, and at last Trevelyan allowed himself to be carried inand out of the carriages and up and down the hotel stairs almost asthough he were a child. The delay was terribly grievous to Stanbury, and Mrs. Trevelyan, perceiving this more than once, begged him toleave them, and to allow her to finish the journey with the aidof the courier. But this he could not do. He wrote letters tohis friends at the D. R. Office, explaining his position as wellas he could, and suggesting that this and that able assistantshould enlighten the British people on this and that subject, which would, --in the course of nature, as arranged at the D. R. Office, --have fallen into his hands. He and Mrs. Trevelyan becameas brother and sister to each other on their way home, --as, indeed, it was natural that they should do. Were they doing right or wrongin this journey that they were taking? They could not conceal fromthemselves that the labour was almost more than the poor wretch couldendure; and that it might be, as he himself had suggested, that theywould be called on to bury him on the road. But that residence atCasalunga had been so terrible, --the circumstances of it, includingthe solitude, sickness, madness, and habits of life of the wretchedhermit, had been so dangerous, --the probability of interference onthe part of some native authority so great, and the chance of thehouse being left in Trevelyan's possession so small, that it hadseemed to him that they had no other alternative; and yet, how wouldit be if they were killing him by the toil of travelling? FromChambery, they made the journey to Paris in two days, and during thattime Trevelyan hardly opened his mouth. He slept much, and ate betterthan he had done in the hotter climate on the other side of the Alps. 

They found a telegram at Paris, which simply contained the promiseof a letter for the next day. It had been sent by Nora, before shehad gone out on her search. But it contained one morsel of strangeinformation; "Lady Milborough is going with me. " On the next daythey got a letter, saying that a cottage had been taken, furnished, between Richmond and Twickenham. Lady Milborough had known of thecottage, and everything would be ready then. Nora would herself meetthem at the station in London, if they would, as she proposed, staya night at Dover. They were to address to her at Lady Milborough'shouse, in Eccleston Square. In that case, she would have a carriagefor them at the Victoria Station, and would go down with them at onceto the cottage. 

There were to be two days more of weary travelling, and then theywere to be at home again. She and he would have a house together ashusband and wife, and the curse of their separation would, at anyrate, be over. Her mind towards him had changed altogether sincethe days in which she had been so indignant, because he had set apoliceman to watch over her. All feeling of anger was over with hernow. There is nothing that a woman will not forgive a man, when he isweaker than she is herself. 

The journey was made first to Dover, and then to London. Once, asthey were making their way through the Kentish hop-fields, he putout his hand feebly, and touched hers. They had the carriage tothemselves, and she was down on her knees before him instantly. "Oh, Louis! Oh, Louis! say that you forgive me!" What could a woman domore than that in her mercy to a man?

"Yes;--yes; yes, " he said; "but do not talk now; I am so tired. "

CHAPTER XCIV. 

A REAL CHRISTIAN. 

In the meantime the Rowleys were gone. On the Monday after thedeparture of Stanbury for Italy, Lady Rowley had begun to look thedifficulty about Nora in the face, and to feel that she must dosomething towards providing the poor girl with a temporary home. Everybody had now agreed that she was to marry Hugh Stanbury as soonas Hugh Stanbury could be ready, and it was not to be thought of thatshe should be left out in the world as one in disgrace or under acloud. But what was to be done? Sir Marmaduke was quite incapable ofsuggesting anything. He would make her an allowance, and leave her asmall sum of ready money;--but as to residence, he could only suggestagain and again that she should be sent to Mrs. Outhouse. Now LadyRowley was herself not very fond of Mrs. Outhouse, and she was awarethat Nora herself was almost as averse to St. Diddulph's as she wasto the Mandarins. Nora already knew that she had the game in herown hands. Once when in her presence her father suggested the nearrelationship and prudent character and intense respectability of Mrs. Outhouse, Nora, who was sitting behind Sir Marmaduke, shook her headat her mother, and Lady Rowley knew that Nora would not go to St. Diddulph's. This was the last occasion on which that proposition wasdiscussed. 

Throughout all the Trevelyan troubles Lady Milborough had continuedto shew a friendly anxiety on behalf of Emily Trevelyan. She hadcalled once or twice on Lady Rowley, and Lady Rowley had of coursereturned the visits. She had been forward in expressing her beliefthat in truth the wife had been but little if at all to blame, and had won her way with Lady Rowley, though she had never beena favourite with either of Lady Rowley's daughters. Now, in herdifficulty, Lady Rowley went to Lady Milborough, and returned withan invitation that Nora should come to Eccleston Square, either tillsuch time as she might think fit to go to Monkhams, or till Mrs. Trevelyan should have returned, and should be desirous of having hersister with her. When Nora first heard of this she almost screamedwith surprise, and, if the truth must be told, with disappointmentalso. 

"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-naturedenough to receive a person she dislikes. I know she is very good. Iknow she would sacrifice herself for anything she thought right. But, mamma, she is such a bore!"

But Lady Rowley would not be talked down, even by Nora, in thisfashion. Nora was somewhat touched with an idea that it would be afine independent thing to live alone, if it were only for a week ortwo, just because other young ladies never lived alone. Perhaps therewas some half-formed notion in her mind that permission to do so waspart of the reward due to her for having refused to marry a lord. Stanbury was in some respects a Bohemian, and it would become her, she thought, to have a little practice herself in the Bohemianline. She had, indeed, declined a Bohemian marriage, feelingstrongly averse to encounter the loud displeasure of her father andmother;--but as long as everything was quite proper, as long as thereshould be no running away, or subjection of her name to scandal, sheconsidered that a little independence would be useful and agreeable. She had looked forward to sitting up at night alone by a singletallow candle, to stretching a beefsteak so as to last her for twodays' dinners, and perhaps to making her own bed. Now, there wouldnot be the slightest touch of romance in a visit to Lady Milborough'shouse in Eccleston Square, at the end of July. Lady Rowley, however, was of a different opinion, and spoke her mind plainly. "Nora, mydear, don't be a fool. A young lady like you can't go and live inlodgings by herself. All manner of things would be said. And this issuch a very kind offer! You must accept it, --for Hugh's sake. I havealready 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 backbefore then. She knows all about Emily's affairs; and if she doescome back, --which I doubt, poor thing, --Lady Milborough and you willbe 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 passedquickly, but yet sadly. Sir Marmaduke had come to England expectingpleasure, --and with that undefined idea which men so employed alwayshave on their return home that something will turn up which will maketheir going back to that same banishment unnecessary. What Governorof Hong-Kong, what Minister to Bogota, what General of the Forcesat the Gold Coast, ever left the scene of his official or militarylabours without a hope, which was almost an expectation, that agrateful country would do something better for him before the periodof his return should have arrived? But a grateful country was doingnothing better for Sir Marmaduke, and an ungrateful Secretary ofState at the Colonial Office would not extend the term during whichhe could regard himself as absent on special service. How thankful hehad been when first the tidings reached him that he was to come homeat the expense of the Crown, and without diminution of his officialincome! He had now been in England for five months, with a per diemallowance, with his very cabs paid for him, and he was discontented, sullen, and with nothing to comfort him but his official grievance, because he could not be allowed to extend his period of specialservice more than two months beyond the time at which those specialservices were in truth ended! There had been a change of Ministry inthe last month, and he had thought that a Conservative Secretary ofState would have been kinder to him. "The Duke says I can stay threemonths with leave of absence;--and have half my pay stopped. I wonderwhether it ever enters into his august mind that even a ColonialGovernor must eat and drink. " It was thus he expressed his greatgrievance to his wife. "The Duke, " however, had been as inexorableas his predecessor, and Sir Rowley, with his large family, was toowise to remain to the detriment of his pocket. In the meantime theclerks in the office, who had groaned in spirit over the ignorancedisplayed in his evidence before the committee, were whisperingamong themselves that he ought not to be sent back to his seat ofgovernment at all. 

Lady Rowley also was disappointed and unhappy. She had expected somuch pleasure from her visit to her daughter, and she had received solittle! Emily's condition was very sad, but in her heart of heartsperhaps she groaned more bitterly over all that Nora had lost, thanshe did over the real sorrows of her elder child. To have had the cupat her lip, and then not to have tasted it! And she had the solace ofno communion in this sorrow. She had accepted Hugh Stanbury as herson-in-law, and not for worlds would she now say a word against himto any one. She had already taken him to her heart, and she lovedhim. 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 dullbanishment without any realisation of their probable but unexpressedambition. They made no complaint, but yet it was hard on themthat their sister's misfortune should have prevented them fromgoing, --almost to a single dance. Poor Sophie and poor Lucy! Theymust go, and we shall hear no more about them. It was thought wellthat Nora should not go down with them to Southampton. What goodwould her going do? "God bless you, my darling, " said the mother, asshe held her child in her arms. 

"Good-bye, dear mamma. "

"Give my best love to Hugh, and tell him that I pray him with mylast word to be good to you. " Even then she was thinking of LordPeterborough, but the memory of what might have been was buried deepin her mind. 

"Nora, tell me all about it, " said Lucy. 

"There will be nothing to tell, " said Nora. 

"Tell it all the same, " said Lucy. "And bring Hugh out to write abook of travels about the Mandarins. Nobody has ever written a bookabout the Mandarins. " So they parted; and when Sir Marmaduke and hisparty were taken off in two cabs to the Waterloo Station, Nora wastaken in one cab to Eccleston Square. 

It may be doubted whether any old lady since the world began ever dida more thoroughly Christian and friendly act than this which was nowbeing done by Lady Milborough. It was the end of July, and she wouldalready have been down in Dorsetshire, but for her devotion to thisgood deed. For, in truth, what she was doing was not occasioned byany express love for Nora Rowley. Nora Rowley was all very well, butNora Rowley towards her had been flippant, impatient, and, indeed, not always so civil as a young lady should be to the elderly friendsof her married sister. But to Lady Milborough it had seemed to bequite terrible that a young girl should be left alone in the world, without anybody to take care of her. Young ladies, according to herviews of life, were fragile plants that wanted much nursing beforethey could be allowed to be planted out in the gardens of theworld as married women. When she heard from Lady Rowley that Norawas engaged to marry Hugh Stanbury, --"You know all about LordPeterborough, Lady Milborough; but it is no use going back to thatnow, --is it? And Mr. Stanbury has behaved so exceedingly wellin regard to poor Louis, "--when Lady Milborough heard this, andheard also that Nora was talking of going to live by herself--inlodgings--she swore to herself, like a goodly Christian woman, asshe was, that such a thing must not be. Eccleston Square in Julyand August is not pleasant, unless it be to an inhabitant whois interested in the fag-end of the parliamentary session. LadyMilborough had no interest in politics, --had not much interest evenin seeing the social season out to its dregs. She ordinarily remainedin London till the beginning or middle of July, because the peoplewith whom she lived were in the habit of doing so;--but as soon asever she had fixed the date of her departure, that day to her wasa day of release. On this occasion the day had been fixed, --and itwas unfixed, and changed, and postponed, because it was manifestto Lady Milborough that she could do good by remaining for anotherfortnight. When she made the offer she said nothing of her previousarrangements. "Lady Rowley, let her come to me. As soon as her friendLady Peterborough is at Monkhams, she can go there. "

Thus it was that Nora found herself established in Eccleston Square. As she took her place in Lady Milborough's drawing-rooms, sheremembered well a certain day, now two years ago, when she had firstheard of the glories of Monkhams in that very house. Lady Milborough, as good-natured then as she was now, had brought Mr. Glascock andNora together, simply because she had heard that the gentlemanadmired the young lady. Nora, in her pride, had resented this asinterference, --had felt that the thing had been done, and, though shehad valued the admiration of the man, had ridiculed the action of thewoman. As she thought of it now she was softened by gratitude. Shehad not on that occasion been suited with a husband, but she hadgained a friend. "My dear, " said Lady Milborough, as at her requestNora took off her hat, "I am afraid that the parties are mostlyover, --that is, those I go to; but we will drive out every day, andthe time won't be so very long. "

"It won't be long for me, Lady Milborough;--but I cannot but know howterribly I am putting you out. "

"I am never put out, Miss Rowley, " said the old lady, "as long as Iam made to think that what I do is taken in good part. "

"Indeed, indeed it shall be taken in good part, " said Nora, --"indeedit shall. " And she swore a solemn silent vow of friendship for thedear old woman. 

Then there came letters and telegrams from Chambery, Dijon, andParis, and the joint expedition in search of the cottage was madeto Twickenham. It was astonishing how enthusiastic and how lovingthe elder and the younger lady were together before the party fromItaly had arrived in England. Nora had explained everything aboutherself, --how impossible it had been for her not to love HughStanbury; how essential it had been for her happiness and self-esteemthat she should refuse Mr. Glascock; how terrible had been thetragedy of her sister's marriage. Lady Milborough spoke of the formersubject with none of Lady Rowley's enthusiasm, but still with anevident partiality for her own rank, which almost aroused Nora toindignant eloquence. Lady Milborough was contented to acknowledgethat 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 couldhave belonged to any man who had no recognised position in the world. Seeing that her heart had been given away, Nora was no doubt rightnot to separate her hand from her heart; but Lady Milborough was ofopinion that young ladies ought to have their hearts under bettercontrol, so that the men entitled to the prizes should get them. Itwas for the welfare of England at large that the eldest sons of goodfamilies should marry the sweetest, prettiest, brightest, and mostlovable girls of their age. It is a doctrine on behalf of which verymuch may be said. 

On that other matter, touching Emily Trevelyan, Lady Milboroughfrankly owned that she had seen early in the day that he was the onemost in fault. "I must say, my dear, " she said, "that I very greatlydislike your friend, Colonel Osborne. "

"I am sure that he meant not the slightest harm, --no more than shedid. "

"He was old enough, and ought to have known better. And when thefirst hint of an uneasiness in the mind of Louis was suggested tohim, his feelings as a gentleman should have prompted him to removehimself. Let the suspicion have been ever so absurd, he shouldhave removed himself. Instead of that, he went after her, --intoDevonshire. "

"He went to see other friends, Lady Milborough. "

"I hope it may have been so;--I hope it may have been so. But heshould have cut off his hand before he rang at the door of the housein which she was living. You will understand, my dear, that I acquityour sister altogether. I did so all through, and said the same topoor Louis when he came to me. But Colonel Osborne should have knownbetter. Why did he write to her? Why did he go to St. Diddulph's? Whydid 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 onlydone what I told him at first, all might have been well. 'Go toNaples, with your wife, ' I said. 'Go to Naples. ' If he had gone toNaples, there would have been no journeys to Siena, no living atCasalunga, no separation. But he didn't seem to see it in the samelight. Poor dear Louis. I wish he had gone to Naples when I toldhim. "

While they were going backwards and forwards, looking at the cottageat Twickenham and trying to make things comfortable there for thesick man, Lady Milborough hinted to Nora that it might be distastefulto Trevelyan, in his present condition, to have even a sister-in-lawstaying in the house with him. There was a little chamber which Norahad appropriated to herself, and at first it seemed to be takenfor granted that she should remain there at least till the 10th ofAugust, on which day Lady Peterborough had signified that she and herhusband would be ready to receive their visitor. But Lady Milboroughslept on the suggestion, and on the next morning hinted herdisapprobation. "You shall take them down in the carriage, and theirluggage can follow in a cab;--but the carriage can bring you back. You will see how things are then. "

"Dear Lady Milborough, you would go out of town at once if I leftyou. "

"And I shall not go out of town if you don't leave me. Whatdifference does it make to an old woman like me? I have got nolover coming to look for me, and all I have to do is to tell mydaughter-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 theworld, 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 yourposition often do want assistance. I dare say you think me verystraight-laced, but I am quite sure Mr. Stanbury will be grateful tome. As you are to be married from Monkhams, it will be quite wellthat you should pass thither through my house as an intermediateresting-place, after leaving your father and mother. " By all whichLady Milborough intended to express an opinion that the value ofthe article which Hugh Stanbury would receive at the altar would beenhanced by the distinguished purity of the hands through which ithad passed before it came into his possession;--in which opinion shewas probably right as regarded the price put upon the article bythe world at large, though it may perhaps be doubted whether therecipient 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 me quitecomfortable. "

"Lady Milborough, I shall love you for ever and ever. I don't think Iever knew anybody so good as you are, --or so nice. "

"Then I shall be more than comfortable, " said Lady Milborough. Afterthat there was an embrace, and the thing was settled. 

CHAPTER XCV. 

TREVELYAN BACK IN ENGLAND. 

Nora, with Lady Milborough's carriage, and Lady Milborough's coachand footman, and with a cab ready for the luggage close behind thecarriage, was waiting at the railway station when the party fromDover arrived. She soon saw Hugh upon the platform, and ran tohim with her news. They had not a word to say to each other ofthemselves, so anxious were they both respecting Trevelyan. "We got abed-carriage for him at Dover, " said Hugh; "and I think he has bornethe journey pretty well;--but he feels the heat almost as badly asin Italy. You will hardly know him when you see him. " Then, when therush of passengers was gone, Trevelyan was brought out by Hugh andthe courier, and placed in Lady Milborough's carriage. He just smiledas his eye fell upon Nora, but he did not even put out his hand togreet her. 

"I am to go in the carriage with him, " said his wife. 

"Of course you are, --and so will I and Louey. I think there will beroom: 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-by, but youmust not be angry with me now. How good you have been. "

"Has not she been good? I don't understand about the cottage. Itbelongs to some friend of hers; and I have not been able to say aword about the rent. It is so nice;--and looks upon the river. I hopethat he will like it. "

"You will be with us?"

"Not just at first. Lady Milborough thinks I had better not, --that hewill like it better. I will come down almost every day, and will stayif you think he will like it. "

These few words were said while the men were putting Trevelyaninto the carriage. And then another arrangement was made. Hughhired a second cab, in which he and the courier made a part of theprocession; and so they all went to Twickenham together. Hugh had notyet learned that he would be rewarded by coming back alone with Norain the carriage. 

The cottage by the River Thames, which, as far as the party knew, wasnameless, was certainly very much better than the house on the top ofthe hill at Casalunga. And now, at last, the wife would sleep oncemore under the same roof with her husband, and the separation wouldbe over. "I suppose that is the Thames, " said Trevelyan; and theywere nearly the only words he spoke in Nora's hearing that evening. Before she started on her return journey, the two sisters weretogether for a few minutes, and each told her own budget of news inshort, broken fragments. There was not much to tell. "He is so weak, "said Mrs. Trevelyan, "that he can do literally nothing. He can hardlyspeak. When we give him wine, he will say a few words, and his mindseems then to be less astray than it was. I have told him just simplythat it was all my doing, --that I have been in fault all through, andevery now and then he will say a word, to shew me that he remembersthat I have confessed. "

"My poor Emily!"

"It was better so. What does it all matter? He had suffered so, thatI would have said worse than that to give him relief. The pride hasgone out of me so, that I do not regard what anybody may say. Ofcourse, it will be said that I--went astray, and that he forgave me. "

"Nobody will say that, dearest; nobody. Lady Milborough is quiteaware how it all was. "

"What does it signify? There are things in life worse even than a badname. "

"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 have been forgotten, and that hemerely wants the childish gratification of being assured that he isthe master. Then, again, there come moments, in which I feel surethat suspicion is lurking within him, that he is remembering thepast, and guarding against the future. When he came into this house, a quarter of an hour ago, he was fearful lest there was a mad doctorlurking about to pounce on him. I can see in his eye that he had somesuch idea. He hardly notices Louey, --though there was a time, even atCasalunga, when he would not let the child out of his sight. "

"What will you do now?"

"I will 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 notlet me be present. Hugh saw the gentleman afterwards, and he seemedto think that the body was worse than the mind. " Then Nora told herthe name of a doctor whom Lady Milborough had suggested, and took herdeparture along with Hugh in the carriage. 

In spite of all the sorrow that they had witnessed and just left, their journey up to London was very pleasant. Perhaps there is noperiod so pleasant among all the pleasant periods of love-making asthat in which the intimacy between the lovers is so assured, and thecoming event so near, as to produce and to endure conversation aboutthe ordinary little matters of life;--what can be done with thelimited means at their mutual disposal; how that life shall be begunwhich they are to lead together; what idea each has of the other'sduties; what each can do for the other; what each will renounce forthe other. There was a true sense of the delight of intimacy in thegirl who declared that she had never loved her lover so well as whenshe told him how many pairs of stockings she had got. It is verysweet to gaze at the stars together; and it is sweet to sit outamong the haycocks. The reading of poetry together, out of the samebook, with brows all close, and arms all mingled, is very sweet. Thepouring out of the whole heart in written words, which the writerknows would be held to be ridiculous by any eyes, and any ears, andany sense, but the eyes and ears and sense of the dear one to whomthey are sent, is very sweet;--but for the girl who has made a shirtfor the man that she loves, there has come a moment in the laststitch of it, sweeter than any that stars, haycocks, poetry, orsuperlative epithets have produced. Nora Rowley had never as yetbeen thus useful on behalf of Hugh Stanbury. Had she done so, shemight perhaps have been happier even than she was during thisjourney;--but, without the shirt, it was one of the happiest momentsof her life. There was nothing now to separate them but their ownprudential scruples;--and of them it must be acknowledged that HughStanbury had very few. According to his shewing, he was as wellprovided for matrimony as the gentleman in the song, who came outto woo his bride on a rainy night. In live stock he was not so wellprovided as the Irish gentleman to whom we allude; but in regard toall other provisions for comfortable married life, he had, or at amoment's notice could have, all that was needed. Nora could live justwhere she pleased;--not exactly in Whitehall Gardens or BelgraveSquare; but the New Road, Lupus Street, Montague Place, the NorthBank, or Kennington Oval, with all their surrounding crescents, terraces, and rows, offered, according to him, a choice so wide, either for lodgings or small houses, that their only embarrassmentwas in their riches. He had already insured his life for a thousandpounds, and, after paying yearly for that, and providing a certainsurplus for saving, five hundred a year was the income on which theywere to commence the world. "Of course, I wish it were five thousandfor your sake, " he said; "and I wish I were a Cabinet Minister, or aduke, or a brewer; but, even in heaven, you know all the angels can'tbe archangels. " Nora assured him that she would be quite content withvirtues simply angelic. "I hope you like mutton-chops and potatoes; Ido, " he said. Then she told him of her ambition about the beef-steak, acknowledging that, as it must now be shared between two, theglorious idea of putting a part of it away in a cupboard must beabandoned. "I don't believe in beef-steaks, " he said. "A beef-steakmay mean anything. At our club, a beef-steak is a sumptuous andexpensive luxury. Now, a mutton-chop means something definite, andmust be economical. "

"Then we will have the mutton-chops at home, " said Nora, "and youshall go to your club for the beef-steak. "

When they reached Eccleston Square, Nora insisted on taking HughStanbury up to Lady Milborough. It was in vain that he pleaded thathe had come all the way from Dover on a very dusty day, --all the wayfrom Dover, including a journey in a Hansom cab to Twickenham andback, without washing his hands and face. Nora insisted that LadyMilborough was such a dear, good, considerate creature, that shewould understand all that, and Hugh was taken into her presence. "Iam delighted to see you, Mr. Stanbury, " said the old lady, "and hopeyou will think that Nora is in good keeping. "

"She has been telling me how very kind you have been to her. I do notknow where she could have bestowed herself if you had not receivedher. "

"There, Nora;--I told you he would say so. I won't tell tales, Mr. Stanbury; but she had all manner of wild plans which I knew youwouldn't approve. But she is very amiable, and if she will onlysubmit to you as well as she does to me--"

"I don't mean to submit to him at all, Lady Milborough;--of coursenot. I am going to marry for liberty. "

"My dear, what you say, you say in joke; but a great many young womenof the present day do, I really believe, go up to the altar andpronounce their marriage vows, with the simple idea that as soon asthey have done so, they are to have their own way in everything. Andthen people complain that young men won't marry! Who can wonder atit?"

"I don't think the young men think much about the obedience, " saidNora. "Some marry for money, and some for love. But I don't thinkthey marry to get a slave. "

"What do you say, Mr. Stanbury?" asked the old lady. 

"I can only assure you that I shan't marry for money, " said he. 

Two or three days after this Nora left her friend in EcclestonSquare, and domesticated herself for awhile with her sister. Mrs. Trevelyan declared that such an arrangement would be comfortablefor her, and that it was very desirable now, as Nora would so soonbe beyond her reach. Then Lady Milborough was enabled to go toDorsetshire, which she did not do, however, till she had presentedNora with the veil which she was to wear on the occasion of herwedding. "Of course I cannot see it, my dear, as it is to take placeat Monkhams; but you must write and tell me the day;--and I willthink 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 friend for life. 

 [Illustration: Nora's veil. ]

When she first took her place in the house at Twickenham as aresident, Trevelyan did not take much notice of her;--but, afterawhile, he would say a few words to her, especially when it mightchance that she was with him in her sister's absence. He would speakof dear Emily, and poor Emily, and shake his head slowly, and talk ofthe pity of it. "The pity of it, Iago; oh, the pity of it, " he saidonce. The allusion to her was so terrible that she almost burst outin anger, as she would have done formerly. She almost told him thathe had been as wrong throughout as was the jealous husband in theplay whose words he quoted, and that his jealousy, if continued, waslikely to be as tragical. But she restrained herself, and kept closeto her needle, --making, let us hope, an auspicious garment for HughStanbury. "She has seen it now, " he continued; "she has seen it now. "Still she went on with her hemming in silence. It certainly could notbe her duty to upset at a word all that her sister had achieved. "Youknow 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 andleft the room. She could not stand it, even though he were mad, --eventhough he were dying!

She went to her sister and repeated what had been said. "You hadbetter not notice it, " said Emily. "It is only a proof of what I toldyou. There are times in which 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 aquestion as he did just now? He said that you had confessed. "

"So I have. Do none confess but the guilty? What is all that we haveread about the Inquisition and the old tortures? I have had to learnthat torturing has not gone out of the world;--that is all. "

"I must go away if he says the same thing to me so again. "

"That is nonsense, Nora. If I can bear it, cannot you? Would you haveme drive him into violence again by disputing with him upon such asubject?"

"But he may recover;--and then he will remember what you have said. "

"If he recovers altogether he will suspect nothing. I must take mychance of that. You cannot suppose that I have not thought about it. I have often sworn to myself that though the world should fall aroundme, nothing should make me acknowledge that I had ever been untrueto 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 theircells used to make the same resolutions as to their confessions. Butyet, when their nails were dragged out of them, they would own toanything. My nails have been dragged out, and I have been willing toconfess anything. When he talks of the pity of it, of course I knowwhat he means. There has been something, some remainder of a feeling, which has still kept him from asking me that question. May God, inhis mercy, continue to him that feeling!"

"But you would answer truly?"

"How can I say what I might answer when the torturer is at my nails?If you knew how great was the difficulty to get him away from thatplace in Italy and bring him here; and what it was to feel that onewas bound to stay near him, and that yet one was impotent, --and toknow that even that refuge must soon cease for him, and that he mighthave gone out and died on the road-side, or have done anything whichthe momentary strength of madness might have dictated, --if you couldunderstand all this, you would not be surprised at my submitting toany degradation which would help to bring him here. "

Stanbury was often down at the cottage, and Nora could discuss thematter better with him than with her sister. And Stanbury could learnmore thoroughly from the physician who was now attending Trevelyanwhat was the state of the sick man, than Emily could do. Accordingto the doctor's idea there was more of ailment in the body than inthe mind. He admitted that his patient's thoughts had been forcedto dwell on one subject till they had become distorted, untrue, jaundiced, and perhaps mono-maniacal; but he seemed to doubt whetherthere had ever been a time at which it could have been decided thatTrevelyan was so mad as to make it necessary that the law shouldinterfere to take care of him. A man, --so argued the doctor, --neednot be mad because he is jealous, even though his jealousy be everso absurd. And Trevelyan, in his jealousy, had done nothing cruel, nothing wasteful, nothing infamous. In all this Nora was very littleinclined to agree with the doctor, and thought nothing could be moreinfamous 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 thekind of life which he had led, and possessed by nature stamina soinsufficient to resist such debility, that it was very doubtfulwhether he would not sink altogether before he could be made tobegin to rise. But one thing was clear. He should be contradicted innothing. 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 inthe grave?

"Then, Hugh, the sooner I am at Monkhams the better, " said Nora, whohad again been subjected to inuendoes which had been unendurable toher. This was on the 7th of August, and it still wanted three days tothat 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 Emilyand the doctor are wrong in their treatment, and that it would bebetter to stand up to him and tell him the truth. " But the three dayspassed away, and Nora was not driven to any such vindication of hersister's character towards her sister's husband. 

CHAPTER XCVI. 

MONKHAMS. 

 [Illustration]

On the 10th of August Nora Rowley left the cottage by the river-sideat Twickenham, and went down to Monkhams. The reader need hardly betold that Hugh brought her up from Twickenham and sent her off in therailway carriage. They agreed that no day could be fixed for theirmarriage till something further should be known of Trevelyan's state. While he was in his present condition such a marriage could not havebeen other than very sad. Nora, when she left the cottage, was stillvery bitter against her brother-in-law, quoting the doctor's opinionas to his sanity, and expressing her own as to his conduct under thatsupposition. She also believed that he would rally in health, and wastherefore, on that account, less inclined to pity him than was hiswife. 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 sucha condition as to be neither mad nor sane;--not mad, so that allpower over his own actions need be taken from him; nor sane, sothat he must be held to be accountable for his words and thoughts. Trevelyan did nothing, and attempted to do nothing, that could injurehis wife and child. He submitted himself to medical advice. He didnot 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 outwardthings. He was not violent in rebuke, nor did he often allude totheir past unhappiness. But he still maintained, by a word spokenevery now and then, that he had been right throughout in his contestwith his wife, --and that his wife had at last acknowledged that itwas so. She never contradicted him, and he became bolder and bolderin his assertions, endeavouring on various occasions to obtain someexpression of an assent from Nora. But Nora would not assent, and hewould scowl at her, saying words, both in her presence and behind herback, which implied that she was his enemy. "Why not yield to him?"her sister said the day before she went. "I have yielded, and yourdoing so cannot make it worse. "

"I can't do it. It would be false. It is better that I should goaway. I cannot pretend to agree with him, when I know that his mindis working altogether under a delusion. " When the hour for herdeparture came, and Hugh was waiting for her, she thought that itwould be better that she should go, without seeing Trevelyan. "Therewill only be more anger, " she pleaded. But her sister would not becontented that she should leave the house in this fashion, and urgedat last, with tears running down her cheeks, that this might possiblybe 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, andtold him that she was going, and expressed a hope that he might bestronger when she returned. And as she did so she put her hand uponthe bed-side, intending to press his in token of affection. But hisface was turned from her, and he seemed to take no notice of her. "Louis, " said his wife, "Nora is going to Monkhams. You will saygood-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 certainly I amnot now. "

"She had better go, " he said. "It is very little more that I expectof any one in this world;--but I will recognise no one as my friendwho will not acknowledge that I have been sinned against during thelast two years;--sinned against cruelly and utterly. " Emily, whowas standing at the bed-head, shuddered as she heard this, but madeno reply. Nor did Nora speak again, but crept silently out of theroom;--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 thetrain. 

"Would you have had me act otherwise? It is not that it would havebeen a lie. I would not have minded that to ease the shatteredfeelings of one so infirm and suffering as he. In dealing with madpeople I suppose one must be false. But I should have been accusingher; and it may be that he will get well, and it might be that hewould then remember what I had said. "

At the station near Monkhams she was met by Lady Peterborough in thecarriage. A tall footman in livery came on to the platform to shewher the way and to look after her luggage, and she could not fail toremember that the man might have been her own servant, instead ofbeing the servant of her who now sat in Lord Peterborough's carriage. And when she saw the carriage, 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 ofthese first outward manifestations of the rank and wealth of the manwho had once been her lover. There are men who look as though theywere the owners of bay horses and responsible coachmen and familyblazons, --from whose outward personal appearance, demeanour, and toneof voice, one would expect a following of liveries and a magnificenceof belongings; but Mr. Glascock had by no means been such a man. Ithad suited his taste to keep these things in abeyance, and to placehis pride in the oaks and elms of his park rather than in any ofthose appanages of grandeur which a man may carry about with him. Hecould talk of his breed of sheep on an occasion, but he never talkedof his horses; and though he knew his position and all its glories aswell as any nobleman in England, he was ever inclined to hang back alittle in going out of a room, and to bear himself as though he werea small personage in the world. Some perception of all this cameacross Nora's mind as she saw the equipage, and tried to reflect, ata moment's notice, whether the case might have been different withher, had Mr. Glascock worn a little of his tinsel outside when shefirst met him. Of course she told herself that had he worn it all onthe outside, and carried it ever so gracefully, it could have made nodifference. 

It was very plain, however, that, though Mr. Glascock did not likebright feathers for himself, he chose that his wife should wear them. Nothing could be prettier than the way in which Caroline Spalding, whom we first saw as she was about to be stuck into the interiorof the diligence, at St. Michel, now filled her carriage as LadyPeterborough. The greeting between them was very affectionate, andthere was a kiss in the carriage, even though the two pretty hats, perhaps, suffered something. "We are so glad to have you at last, "said Lady Peterborough. "Of course we are very quiet; but you won'tmind that. " Nora declared that no house could be too quiet for her, and then said something of the melancholy scene which she had justleft. "And no time is fixed for your own marriage? But of course ithas not been possible. And why should you be in a hurry? We quiteunderstand that this is to be your home till everything has arrangeditself. " There was a drive of four or five miles before they reachedthe park gates, and nothing could be kinder or more friendly than wasthe new peeress; but Nora told herself that there was no forgettingthat her friend was a peeress. She would not be so ill-conditioned asto suggest to herself that her friend patronised her;--and, indeed, had she done so, the suggestion would have been false;--but she couldnot rid herself of a certain sensation of external inferiority, andof a feeling that the superiority ought to be on her side, as allthis might have been hers, --only that she had not thought it worthher while to accept it. As these ideas came into her mind, she hatedherself for entertaining them; and yet, come they would. While shewas talking about her emblematic beef-steak with Hugh, she had noregret, no uneasiness, no conception that any state of life could bebetter for her than that state in which an emblematic beef-steak wasof vital importance; but she could not bring her mind to the samecondition of unalloyed purity while sitting with Lady Peterborough inLord Peterborough's carriage. And for her default in this respect shehated 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 mileafterwards. One has a sort of feeling when one is in that one can'tget out, --it is so big. " In so speaking, it was Lady Peterborough'sspecial endeavour to state without a boast facts which wereindifferent, but which must be stated. 

"It is very magnificent, " said Nora. There was in her voice theslightest touch of sarcasm, which she would have given the world notto have uttered; but it had been irrepressible. 

Lady Peterborough understood it instantly, and forgave it, notattributing to it more than its true meaning, acknowledging toherself that it was natural. "Dear Nora, " she said, --not knowing whatto say, blushing as she spoke, --"the magnificence is nothing; but theman's love is everything. "

Nora shook herself, and determined that she would behave well. Theeffort should be made, and the required result should be produced byit. "The magnificence, as an adjunct, is a great deal, " she said;"and for his sake, I hope that you enjoy it. "

"Of course I enjoy it. "

"Wallachia's teachings and preachings have all been thrown to thewind, I hope. "

"Not quite all. Poor dear Wally! I got a letter from her theother day, which she began by saying that she would attune hercorrespondence to my changed condition in life. I understood thereproach so thoroughly! And, when she told me little details ofindividual men and women, and of things she had seen, and said not aword about the rights of women, or even of politics generally, I feltthat I was a degraded creature in her sight. But, though you laugh ather, she did me good, --and will do good to others. Here we are insideMonkhams, and now you must look at the avenue. "

Nora was now rather proud of herself. She had made the effort, andit had been successful; and she felt that she could speak naturally, and express her thoughts honestly. "I remember his telling me aboutthe avenue the first time I ever saw him;--and here it is. I did notthink then that I should ever live to see the glories of Monkhams. 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 theright, and the house is just before you. There are great iron gates, and terraces, and wondrous paraphernalia before you get up to thedoor. I can tell you Monkhams is quite a wonder. I have to shutmyself up every Wednesday morning, and hand the house over to Mrs. Crutch, the housekeeper, who comes out in a miraculous brown silkgown, to shew it to visitors. On other days, you'll find Mrs. Crutchquite civil and useful;--but on Wednesdays, she is majestic. Charlesalways goes off among his sheep on that day, and I shut myself upwith a pile of books in a little room. You will have to be imprisonedwith 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 wouldn'tlet me. "

"It would have broken Mrs. Crutch's heart. "

"That's what Charles said. He thinks that Mrs. Crutch tells themthat I'm locked up somewhere, and that that gives a zest to thesearch. Some people from Nottingham once did break into old LadyPeterborough's room, and the shew was stopped for a year. There wassuch 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 savedmoney. "

By this time Nora was quite at her ease; but still there was beforeher the other difficulty, of meeting Lord Peterborough. They weredriven out of the avenue, and round to the right, and through theiron gate, and up to the huge front door. There, upon the top step, was standing Lord Peterborough, with a billycock hat and a very oldshooting coat, and nankeen trousers, which were considerably tooshort for him. It was one of the happinesses of his life to dressjust as he pleased as he went about his own place; and it certainlywas his pleasure to wear older clothes than any one else in hisestablishment. "Miss Rowley, " he said, coming forward to give hera hand out of the carriage, "I am delighted that you should seeMonkhams at last. "

"You see I have kept you to your promise. Caroline has been tellingme everything about it; but she is not quite a complete guide as yet. She does not know where the seven oaks are. Do you remember tellingme of the seven oaks?"

"Of course I do. They are five miles off;--at Clatton farm, Carry. I don't think you have been near Clatton yet. We will ride thereto-morrow. " And thus Nora Rowley was made at home at Monkhams. 

She was made at home, and after a week or two she was very happy. Shesoon perceived that her host was a perfect gentleman, and as such, a man to be much loved. She had probably never questioned the fact, whether Mr. Glascock was a gentleman or not, and now she did notanalyse it. It probably never occurred to her, even at the presenttime, to say to herself that he was certainly that thing, soimpossible of definition, and so capable of recognition; but she knewthat she had to do with one whose presence was always pleasant toher, whose words and acts towards her extorted her approbation, whosethoughts seemed to her to be always good and manly. Of course shehad not loved him, because she had previously known Hugh Stanbury. There could be no comparison between the two men. There was abrightness about Hugh which Lord Peterborough could not rival. Otherwise, --except for this reason, --it seemed to her to beimpossible that any young woman should fail to love Lord Peterboroughwhen 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 excellence tohis host. Lord Peterborough had been shooting partridges all hislife, and shot them with a precision which excited Hugh's envy. Toown the truth, Stanbury did not shoot well, and was treated ratherwith scorn by the gamekeeper; but in other respects he spent three orfour of the happiest days of his life. He had his work to do, andafter the second day over the stubbles, declared that the exigenciesof the D. R. Were too severe to enable him to go out with his gunagain; but those rambles about the park with Nora, for which, amongthe exigencies of the D. R. , he did find opportunity, were never tobe forgotten. 

"Of course I remember that it might have been mine, " she said, sitting with him under an old, hollow, withered sloping stump of anoak, which still, however, had sufficient of a head growing from oneedge of the trunk to give them the shade they wanted; "and if youwish me to own to regrets, --I will. "

"It would kill me, I think, if you did; and yet I cannot get it outof my head that if it had not been for me your rank and position inlife 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 cupboard isthe thing for me. Caroline will do very well here. She looks like apeeress, and bears her honours grandly; but they will never hardenher. I, too, could have been magnificent with fine feathers. Mostbirds are equal to so much as that. I fancy that I could havelooked the part of the fine English lady, and could have patronisedclergymen's wives in the country, could have held my own among mypeers in London, and could have kept Mrs. Crutch in order; but itwould have hardened me, and I should have learned to think that to bea 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 sortof conviction that it would be better, though I had a longing to playthe other part. Then you came, and you have saved me. Nevertheless, it is very nice, Hugh, to have the oaks to sit under. " Stanburydeclared that it was very nice. 

 [Illustration: Monkhams. ]

But still nothing was settled about the wedding. Trevelyan'scondition was so uncertain that it was very difficult to settleanything. Though nothing was said on the subject between Stanburyand Mrs. Trevelyan, and nothing written between Nora and her sister, it could not but be remembered that should Trevelyan die, his widowwould require a home with them. They were deterred from choosing ahouse by this reflection, and were deterred from naming a day also bythe consideration that were they to do so, Trevelyan's state mightstill probably prevent it. But this was arranged, that if Trevelyanlived through the winter, or even if he should not live, theirmarriage should not be postponed beyond the end of March. Tillthat time Lord Peterborough would remain at Monkhams, and it wasunderstood that Nora's invitation extended to that period. 

"If my wife does not get tired of you, I shall not, " LordPeterborough said to Nora. "The thing is that when you do go we shallmiss you so terribly. " In September, too, there happened anotherevent which took Stanbury to Exeter, and all needful particulars asto 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 Englandthan Dorothy Stanbury when that September came which was to makeher the wife of Mr. Brooke Burgess, the new partner in the firm ofCropper and Burgess. Her early aspirations in life had been so low, and of late there had come upon her such a succession of soft showersof success, --mingled now and then with slight threatenings of stormswhich had passed away, --that the Close at Exeter seemed to her tohave become a very Paradise. Her aunt's temper had sometimes been toher as the threat of a storm, and there had been the Gibson marriagetreaty, and the short-lived opposition to the other marriage treatywhich had seemed to her to be so very preferable; but everything hadgone at last as though she had been Fortune's favourite, --and nowhad come this beautiful arrangement about Cropper and Burgess, whichwould save her from being carried away to live among strangers inLondon! 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 besthad never guessed that she possessed a keen sense of humour, a niceappreciation of character, and a quiet reticent wit of her own, underthat staid and frightened demeanour. Since her engagement with BrookeBurgess it seemed to those who watched her that her character hadbecome changed, as does that of a flower when it opens itself in itsgrowth. The sweet gifts of nature within became visible, the petalssprang to view, and the leaves spread themselves, and the sweet scentwas felt upon the air. Had she remained at Nuncombe, it is probablethat none would ever have known her but her sister. It was necessaryto this flower that it should be warmed by the sun of life, andstrengthened by the breezes of opposition, and filled by the showersof companionship, before it could become aware of its own loveliness. Dorothy was one who, had she remained ever unseen in the retirementof her mother's village cottage, would have lived and died ignorantof even her own capabilities for enjoyment. She had not dreamed thatshe could win a man's love, --had hardly dreamed till she had lived atExeter that she had love of her own to give back in return. She hadnot known that she could be firm in her own opinion, that she couldlaugh herself and cause others to laugh, that she could be a lady andknow that other women were not so, that she had good looks of her ownand could be very happy when told of them by lips that she loved. Theflower that blows the quickest is never the sweetest. The fruit thatripens tardily has ever the finest flavour. It is often the same withmen and women. The lad who talks at twenty as men should talk atthirty, has seldom much to say worth the hearing when he is forty;and the girl who at eighteen can shine in society with composure, hasgenerally given over shining before she is a full-grown woman. WithDorothy the scent and beauty of the flower, and the flavour of thefruit, had come late; but the fruit will keep, and the flower willnot fall to pieces with the heat of an evening. 

"How marvellously your bride has changed since she has been here, "said Mrs. MacHugh to Miss Stanbury. "We thought she couldn't say booto 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 Stanbury yetthat was a fool. "

"They are a wonderful family, of course, " said Mrs. MacHugh; "but Ithink that of all of them she is the most wonderful. Old Barty saidsomething to her at my house yesterday that wasn't intended to bekind. "

"When did he ever intend to be kind?"

"But he got no change out of her. 'The Burgesses have been in Exetera long time, ' she said, 'and I don't see why we should not get on atany rate as well as those before us. ' Barty grunted and growled andslunk away. He thought she would shake in her shoes when he spoke toher. "

"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 a weekwith her mother and sister at the cottage. She had insisted on this, though Priscilla had hinted, somewhat unnecessarily, that Dorothy, with her past comforts and her future prospects, would find theaccommodation at the cottage very limited. "I suppose you and I, Pris, can sleep in the same bed, as we always did, " she said, with atear in each eye. Then Priscilla had felt ashamed of herself, and hadbade her come. 

"The truth is, Dolly, " said the elder sister, "that we feel so unlikemarrying and giving in marriage at Nuncombe, that I'm afraid you'lllose your brightness and become dowdy, and grim, and misanthropic, aswe are. When mamma and I sit down to what we call dinner, I alwaysfeel that there is a grace hovering in the air different to thatwhich she says. "

"And what is it, Pris?"

"Pray, God, don't quite starve us, and let everybody else haveindigestion. We don't say it out loud, but there it is; and thespirit of it might damp the orange blossoms. "

She went of course, and the orange blossoms were not damped. She hadlong walks with her sister round by Niddon and Ridleigh, and even asfar distant as Cockchaffington, where much was said about that wickedColonel as they stood looking at the porch of the church. "I shall beso happy, " said Dorothy, "when you and mother come to us. It will besuch a joy to me that you should be 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 notgo. "

"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, andperhaps 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. Ihave a pride about myself, and think that I never did wrong butonce, --when I let mamma go into that odious Clock House. It is a badpride, and yet I'm proud of it. I haven't got a gown fit to go andstay with you, when you become a grand lady in Exeter. I don't doubtyou'd give me any sort of gown I wanted. "

"Of course I would. Ain't we sisters, Pris?"

"I shall not be so much your sister as he will be your husband. Besides, I hate to take things. When Hugh sends money, and formamma's sake it is accepted, I always feel uneasy while it lasts, andthink that that plague of an indigestion ought to come upon me also. Do you remember the lamb that came when you went away? It made me sosick. "

"But, Priscilla;--isn't that morbid?"

"Of course it is. You don't suppose I really think it grand. I ammorbid. But I am strong enough to live on, and not get killed by themorbidity. Heaven knows how much more there may be of it;--fortyyears, perhaps, and probably the greater portion of that absolutelyalone;--"

"No;--you'll be with us then, --if it should come. "

"I think not, Dolly. Not to have a hole of my own would beintolerable to me. But, as I was saying, I shall not be unhappy. Toenjoy life, as you do, is I suppose out of the question for me. ButI have a satisfaction when I get to the end of the quarter and findthat there is not half-a-crown due to any one. Things get dearer anddearer, but I have a comfort even in that. I have a feeling that Ishould like to bring myself to the straw a day. " Of course therewere offers made of aid, --offers which were rather prayers, --andplans suggested of what might be done between Brooke and Hugh; butPriscilla declared that all such plans were odious to her. "Whyshould you be unhappy about us?" she continued. "We will come and seeyou, --at least I will, --perhaps once in six months, and you shall payfor the railway ticket; only I won't stay, because of the gown. "

"Is not that nonsense, Pris?"

"Just at present it is, because mamma and I have both got new gownsfor the wedding. Hugh sent them, and ever so much money to buybonnets and gloves. "

"He is to be married himself soon, --down at a place called Monkhams. Nora is staying there. "

"Yes;--with a lord, " said Priscilla. "We sha'n't have to go there, atany rate. "

"You liked Nora when she was here?"

"Very much;--though I thought her self-willed. But she is notworldly, and she is conscientious. She might have married that lordherself if she would. I do like her. When she comes to you at Exeter, if the wedding gown isn't quite worn out, I shall come and see her. Iknew she liked him when she was here, but she 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 twoshould be married, and so grandly married, and that I shall never, never have any one to love. "

"Oh, Priscilla, do not say that. If I have a child will you not loveit?"

"It will be your child;--not mine. Do not suppose that I complain. I know that it is right. I know that you ought to be married and Iought not. I know that there is not a man in Devonshire who wouldtake me, or a man in Devonshire whom I would accept. I know that I amquite unfit for any other kind of life than this. I should make anyman wretched, and any man would make me wretched. But why is it so? Ibelieve that you would make any man happy. "

"I hope to make Brooke happy. "

"Of course you will, and therefore you deserve it. We'll 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 thatshe could give her time to her aunt without injury to herself. MissStanbury had come to think of herself as though all the reality ofher life had passed away from her. Every resolution that she hadformed had been broken. She had had the great enemy of her life, Barty Burgess, in the house with her upon terms that were intendedto be amicable, and had arranged with him a plan for the division ofthe family property. Her sister-in-law, whom in the heyday of herstrength she had chosen to regard as her enemy, and with whom even asyet there had been no reconciliation, was about to become her guest, as was also Priscilla, --whom she had ever disliked almost as much asshe had respected. She had quarrelled utterly with Hugh, --in such amanner as to leave no possible chance of a reconciliation, --and healso was about to be her guest. And then, as to her chosen heir, shewas now assisting him in doing the only thing, as to which she haddeclared that if he did do it, he should not be her heir. As she wentabout the house, under an idea that such a multiplicity of personscould not be housed and fed without superhuman exertion, she thoughtof all this, and could not help confessing to herself that her lifehad been very vain. It was only when her eyes rested on Dorothy, andshe saw how supremely happy was the one person whom she had takenmost closely to her heart, that she could feel that she had doneanything that should not have been left undone. "I think I'll sitdown now, Dorothy, " she said, "or I sha'n't be able to be with youto-morrow. "

"Do, aunt. Everything is all ready, and nobody will be here for anhour yet. Nothing can be nicer than the rooms, and nothing ever wasdone so well before. I'm only thinking how lonely you'll be whenwe'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?Are you sure your mother wouldn't like a fire in her room, Dorothy?"

"A fire in September, aunt?"

"People live so differently. One never knows. "

"They never have but one fire at Nuncombe, aunt, summer or winter. "

"That's no reason they shouldn't be comfortable here. " However, shedid not insist on having the fire lighted. 

Mrs. Stanbury and Priscilla came first, and the meeting was certainlyvery uncomfortable. Poor Mrs. Stanbury was shy, and could hardlyspeak 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 uneasy. Each of themwas so dear to her, that it was a pity that they should glower ateach other like enemies. Priscilla was not at all shy; but she wascombative, and, as her aunt said of her afterwards, would not keepher prickles in. "I hope, Priscilla, you like weddings, " said MissStanbury to her, not knowing where to find a subject forconversation. 

"In the abstract I like them, " said Priscilla. Miss Stanbury did notknow what her niece meant by liking weddings in the abstract, and wasangry. 

"I suppose you do have weddings at Nuncombe Putney sometimes, " shesaid. 

"I hope they do, " said Priscilla, "but I never saw one. To-morrowwill be my first 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 shesaid nothing more on the occasion. 

Then came Hugh and the bridegroom. The bridegroom, as a matter ofcourse, was not accommodated in the house, but he was allowed tocome there for his tea. He and Hugh had come together; and for Hugha bed-room had been provided. His aunt had not seen him since hehad been turned out of the house, because of his bad practices, andDorothy 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, "I am glad to see you on such an occasionas this. "

"Aunt, " he said, "I am glad of any occasion that can get me anentrance once more into the dear old house. I am so pleased to seeyou. " She allowed her hand to remain in his a few moments, andmurmured something which was intended to signify her satisfaction. "I must tell you that I am going to be married myself, to one of thedearest, sweetest, and loveliest girls that ever were seen, and youmust 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 you, 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 had sown hiswild oats, and that matrimony would sober him. When, however, Martharemarked that she believed Mr. Hugh to be as hardworking a young manas any in London, Miss Stanbury shook her head sorrowfully. Thingswere being very much changed with her; but not even yet was she to bebrought to approve of work done on behalf of a penny newspaper. 

On the following morning, at ten o'clock, there was a procession fromMiss Stanbury's house into the Cathedral, which was made entirely onfoot;--indeed, no assistance could have been given by any carriage, for there is a back entrance to the Cathedral, near to the LadyChapel, exactly opposite Miss Stanbury's house. There were manyof the inhabitants of the Close there, to see the procession, andthe cathedral bells rang out their peals very merrily. Brooke, thebridegroom, gave his arm to Miss Stanbury, which was, no doubt, veryimproper, --as he should have appeared in the church as coming fromquite some different part of the world. Then came the bride, hangingon her brother, then two bridesmaids, --friends of Dorothy's, livingin the town; and, lastly, Priscilla with her mother, for nothingwould induce Priscilla to take the part of a bridesmaid. "You mightas well ask an owl to sing to you, " she said. "And then all thefrippery would be thrown away upon me. " But she stood close toDorothy, and when the ceremony 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 DorothyBurgess, --as she then was pleased to call her, --was a girl very hardto be understood. "She came here, " said Mrs. MacHugh, "two years ago, a plain, silent, shy, dowdy young woman, and we all said that MissStanbury would be tired of her in a week. There has never come a timein which there was any visible difference in her, and now she is oneof our city beauties, with plenty to say to everybody, with a fortunein one pocket and her aunt in the other, and everybody is saying whata fortunate fellow Brooke Burgess is to get her. In a year or twoshe'll be at the top of everything in the city, and will make her wayin 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 BrookeBurgess was a very fortunate fellow to get his wife. 

CHAPTER XCVIII. 

ACQUITTED. 

During this time, while Hugh was sitting with his love under the oaktrees at Monkhams, and Dorothy was being converted into Mrs. BrookeBurgess in Exeter Cathedral, Mrs. Trevelyan was living with herhusband in the cottage at Twickenham. Her life was dreary enough, and there was but very little of hope in it to make its drearinesssupportable. As often happens in periods of sickness, the singlefriend who could now be of service to the one or to the other wasthe doctor. He came daily to them, and with that quick growth ofconfidence which medical kindness always inspires, Trevelyan toldto this gentleman all the history of his married life, --and allthat Trevelyan told to him he repeated to Trevelyan's wife. It maytherefore be understood that Trevelyan, between them, was treatedlike a child. 

Dr. Nevill had soon been able to tell Mrs. Trevelyan that herhusband's health had been so shattered as to make it improbable thathe should ever again be strong either in body or in mind. He wouldnot admit, even when treating his patient like a child, that he hadever 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 areseldom of avail to bring a man back to reason. Your father was angrywith him, and yet declared that he was mad. That in itself was hardlyrational. One does not become angry with a madman. "

One does not become angry with a madman; but while a man has powerin his hands over others, and when he misuses that power grosslyand cruelly, who is there that will not be angry? The misery of theinsane more thoroughly excites our pity than any other sufferingto which humanity is subject; but it is necessary that the madnessshould be acknowledged to be madness before the pity can be felt. Onecan forgive, or, at any rate, make excuses for any injury when it isdone; but it is almost beyond human nature to forgive an injury whenit is a-doing, let the condition of the doer be what it may. EmilyTrevelyan at this time suffered infinitely. She was still willing toyield in all things possible, because her husband was ill, --becauseperhaps he was dying; but she could no longer satisfy herself withthinking that all that she admitted, --all that she was still ready toadmit, --had been conceded in order that her concessions might tend tosoften the afflictions of one whose reason was gone. Dr. Nevill saidthat her husband was not mad;--and indeed Trevelyan seemed now to beso clear in his mind that she could not doubt what the doctor said toher. She could not think that he was mad, --and yet he spoke of thelast two years as though he had suffered from her almost all that ahusband could suffer from a wife's misconduct. She was in doubt abouthis health. "He may recover, " the doctor said; "but he is so weakthat the slightest additional ailment would take him off. " At thistime 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 ofhis savage memories in regard to the past, --he treated his wife onall ordinary subjects with consideration. He spoke much of his money, telling her that he had not altered, and would not alter, the willthat he had made immediately on his marriage. Under that will all hisproperty would be hers for her life, and would go to their child whenshe was dead. To her this will was more than just, --it was generousin the confidence which it placed in her; and he told his lawyer, inher presence, that, to the best of his judgment, he need not changeit. But still there passed hardly a day in which he did not make someallusion to the great wrong which he had endured, throwing in herteeth the confessions which she had made, --and almost accusing herof that which she certainly never had confessed, even when, in theextremity of her misery at Casalunga, she had thought that it littlemattered what she said, so that for the moment he might be appeased. If he died, was he to die in this belief? If he lived, was he to livein this belief? And if he did so believe, was it possible that heshould still trust her with his money and with his child?

"Emily, " he said one day, "it has been a terrible tragedy, has itnot?" She did not answer his question, sitting silent as it was hercustom to do when he addressed her after such fashion as this. Atsuch times she would not answer him; but she knew that he wouldpress her for an answer. "I blame him more than I do you, " continuedTrevelyan, --"infinitely more. He was a serpent intending to sting mefrom the first, --not knowing perhaps how deep the sting would go. "There was no question in this, and the assertion was one which hadbeen 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 thatmarriage was so fearful a thing that certainly she could neverventure upon it again. 

"All I ask of you is, that should you do so, you will be more carefulof your husband's honour. "

"Louis, " she said, getting up and standing close to him, "tell mewhat it is that you mean. " It was now his turn to remain silent, and hers to demand an answer. "I have borne much, " she continued, "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 youaccuse me? Let us, at any rate, know each other's thoughts on thismatter, of which each of us is ever thinking. "

"I make no new accusation. "

"I must protest then against your using words which seem to conveyaccusation. Since marriages were first known upon earth, no woman hasever been truer to her husband than I have been to you. "

"Were you lying to me then at Casalunga when you acknowledged thatyou had been false to your duties?"

"If I acknowledged that, I did lie. I never said that; but yet I didlie, --believing it to be best for you that I should do so. For yourhonour's sake, for the child's sake, weak as you are, Louis, I mustprotest that it was so. I have never injured you by deed or thought. "

"And 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 me to-morrow that younever lied, and never owned that you had lied. "

Though it should kill him, she must tell him the truth now. "You werevery ill at Casalunga, " she said, after a pause. 

"But not so ill as I am now. I could breathe that air. I could livethere. Had I remained I should have been well now, --but what ofthat?"

"Louis, you were dying there. Pray, pray listen to me. We thoughtthat you were dying; and we knew also that you would be taken fromthat house. "

"That was my affair. Do you mean that I could not keep a house overmy head?" At this moment he was half lying, half sitting, in a largeeasy chair in the little drawing-room of their cottage, to which hehad been carried from the adjoining bed-room. When not excited, hewould sit for hours without moving, gazing through the open window, sometimes with some pretext of a book lying within the reach of hishand; but almost without strength to lift it, and certainly withoutpower to read it. But now he had worked himself up to so much energythat he almost raised himself up in his chair, as he turned towardshis wife. "Had I not the world before me, to choose a house in?"

"They would have put you somewhere, and I could not have reachedyou. "

"In a madhouse, you mean. Yes;--if you had told them. "

"Will you listen, dear Louis? We knew that it was our duty to bringyou home; and as you would not let me come to you, and serve you, andassist you to come here where you are safe, --unless I owned that youhad been right, I said that you had been right. "

"And it was a lie, --you say now?"

"All that is nothing. I cannot go through it; nor should you. Thereis the only question. You do not think that I have been--? I need notsay the thing. You do not think that?" As she asked the question, sheknelt beside him, and took his hand in hers, and kissed it. "Say thatyou do not think that, and I will never trouble you further about thepast. "

"Yes;--that is it. You will never trouble me!" She glanced up intohis face and saw there the old look which he used to wear when he wasat Willesden and at Casalunga; and there had come again the old tonein which he had spoken to her in the bitterness of his wrath:--thelook and the tone, which had made her sure that he was a madman. "Thecraft and subtlety of women passes everything!" he said. "And so atlast I am to tell you that from the beginning it has been my doing. Iwill never say so, though I should die in refusing to do it. "

After that there was no possibility of further conversation, forthere came upon him a fit of coughing, and then he swooned; and inhalf-an-hour he was in bed, and Dr. Nevill was by his side. "You mustnot speak to him at all on this matter, " said the doctor. "But if hespeaks to me?" she asked. "Let it pass, " said the doctor. "Let thesubject be got rid of with as much ease as you can. He is very illnow, and even this might have killed him. " Nevertheless, though thisseemed to be stern, Dr. Nevill was very kind to her, declaring thatthe hallucination in her husband's mind did not really consist of abelief in her infidelity, but arose from an obstinate determinationto yield nothing. "He does not believe it; but he feels that were heto 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 theweakness of the body. "

Three days after that Nora visited Twickenham from Monkhams inobedience to a telegram from her sister. "Louis, " she said, "hadbecome 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 thestation, and brought her with him to the cottage. He asked whetherhe might see Trevelyan, but was told that it would be better thathe should not. He had been almost continually silent since the lastdispute which he had with his wife; but he had given little signsthat he was always thinking of the manner in which he had beenbrought home by her from Italy, and of the story she had told himof her mode of inducing him to come. Hugh Stanbury had been herpartner in that struggle, and would probably be received, if not withsullen silence, then with some attempt at rebuke. But Hugh did seeDr. Nevill, and learned from him that it was hardly possible thatTrevelyan should live many hours. "He has worn himself out, " said thedoctor, "and there is nothing left in him by which he can lay hold oflife again. " Of Nora her brother-in-law took but little notice, andnever again referred in her hearing to the great trouble of his life. He said to her a word or two about Monkhams, and asked a question nowand again as to Lord Peterborough, --whom, however, he always calledMr. Glascock; but Hugh Stanbury's name was never mentioned by him. There was a feeling in his mind that at the very last he had beenduped in being brought to England, and that Stanbury had assisted inthe deception. To his wife he would whisper little petulant regretsfor the loss of the comforts of Casalunga, and would speak of the airof Italy and of Italian skies and of the Italian sun, as though hehad enjoyed at his Sienese villa all the luxuries which climate cangive, and would have enjoyed them still had he been allowed to remainthere. To all this she would say nothing. She knew now that he wasfailing quickly, and there was only one subject on which she eitherfeared or hoped to hear him speak. Before he left her for ever andever would he tell her that he had not doubted her faith?

She had long discussions with Nora on the matter, as though all thefuture of her life depended on it. It was in vain that Nora tried tomake her understand that if hereafter the spirit of her husband couldknow anything of the troubles of his mortal life, could ever lookback to the things which he had done in the flesh, then would hecertainly know the truth, and all suspicion would be at an end. Andif not, if there was to be no such retrospect, what did it matternow, 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, whowas soon to be a widow, yearned to be acquitted in this world by himto whom her guilt or her innocence had been matter of such vitalimportance. "He has never thought it, " said Nora. 

"But if he would say so! If he would only look it! It will be all inall to me as long as I live in this world. " And then, though they haddetermined between themselves in spoken words never to regard himagain as one who had been mad, in all their thoughts and actionstowards him they treated him as though he were less responsible thanan infant. And he was mad;--mad though every doctor in England hadcalled him sane. Had he not been mad he must have been a fiend, --orhe could not have tortured, as he had done, the woman to whom he owedthe closest protection which one human being can give to another. 

During these last days and nights she never left him. She had doneher duty to him well, at any rate since the time when she had beenenabled to come near him in Italy. It may be that in the first daysof their quarrel, she had not been regardful, as she should havebeen, of a husband's will, --that she might have escaped this tragedyby submitting herself to the man's wishes, as she had always beenready to submit herself to his words. Had she been able always tokeep her neck in the dust under his foot, their married life mighthave been passed without outward calamity, and it is possible thathe might still have lived. But if she erred, surely she had beenscourged for her error with scorpions. As she sat at his bedsidewatching him, she thought of her wasted youth, of her faded beauty, of her shattered happiness, of her fallen hopes. She had still herchild, --but she felt towards him that she herself was so sad acreature, so sombre, so dark, so necessarily wretched from this timeforth till the day of her death, that it would be better for the boythat she should never be with him. There could be nothing left forher but garments dark with woe, eyes red with weeping, hours sad fromsolitude, thoughts weary with memory. And even yet, --if he would onlynow say that he did not believe her to have been guilty, how greatwould be the change in her future life!

Then came an evening in which he seemed to be somewhat stronger thanhe had been. He had taken some refreshment that had been preparedfor him, and, stimulated by its strength, had spoken a word or twoboth to Nora and to his wife. His words had been of no especialinterest, --alluding to some small detail of his own condition, suchas are generally the chosen topics of conversation with invalids. But he had been pronounced to be better, and Nora spoke to himcheerfully, when he was taken into the next room by the man whowas always at hand to move him. His wife followed him, and soonafterwards returned, and bade Nora good night. She would sit by herhusband, and Nora was to go to the room below, that she might receiveher lover there. He was expected out that evening, but Mrs. Trevelyansaid that she would not see him. Hugh came and went, and Nora tookherself to her chamber. The hours of the night went on, and Mrs. Trevelyan was still sitting by her husband's bed. It was stillSeptember, and the weather was very warm. But the windows had beenall closed since an hour before sunset. She was sitting therethinking, thinking, thinking. Dr. Nevill had told her that the timenow was very near. She was not thinking now how very near it mightbe, but whether there might yet be time for him to say that one wordto her. 

"Emily, " he said, in the lowest whisper. 

"Darling!" she answered, turning round and touching him with herhand. 

"My feet are cold. There are no clothes on them. "

She took a thick shawl and spread it double across the bottom ofthe bed, and put her hand upon his arm. Though it was clammy withperspiration, it was chill, and she brought the warm clothes up closeround his shoulders. "I can't sleep, " he said. "If I could sleep, I shouldn't mind. " Then he was silent again, and her thoughts wentharping on, still on the same subject. She told herself that if everthat act of justice were to be done for her, it must be done thatnight. After a while she turned round over him ever so gently, andsaw 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 handwas 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 amoment or two she waited, and the kiss did not come. Would he spareher in this the last moment left to him either for justice or formercy? For a moment or two the bitterness of her despair was almostunendurable. She had time to think that were she once to withdrawher hand, she would be condemned for ever;--and that it must bewithdrawn. But at length the lips moved, and with struggling ear shecould hear the sound of the tongue within, and the verdict of thedying man had been given in her favour. He never spoke a word moreeither 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. Richards is there. It is better than an hoursince now. Let me come in. " She got into her sister's bed, and thereshe told the tale of her tardy triumph. "He declared to me at lastthat he trusted me, " she said, --almost believing that real words hadcome from his lips to that effect. Then she fell into a flood oftears, and after a while she also slept. 

CHAPTER XCIX. 

CONCLUSION. 

At last the maniac was dead, and in his last moments he had made suchreparation as was in his power for the evil that he had done. Withthat slight touch of his dry fevered lips he had made the assertionon which was to depend the future peace and comfort of the woman whomhe had so cruelly misused. To her mind the acquittal was perfect;but she never explained to human ears, --not even to those of hersister, --the manner in which it had been given. Her life, as far aswe are concerned with it, has been told. For the rest, it cannot bebut that it should be better than that which was passed. If there beany retribution for such sufferings in money, liberty, and outwardcomfort, such retribution she possessed;--for all that had been his, was now hers. He had once suggested what she should do, were sheever to be married again; and she felt that of such a career therecould be no possibility. Anything but that! We all know that widows'practices in this matter do not always tally with wives' vows; but, as regards Mrs. Trevelyan, we are disposed to think that the promisewill be kept. She has her child, and he will give her sufficientinterest to make life worth having. 

Early in the following spring Hugh Stanbury was married to NoraRowley in the parish church of Monkhams, --at which place by that timeNora found herself to be almost as much at home as she might havebeen under other circumstances. They had prayed that the marriagemight be very private;--but when the day arrived there was novery close privacy. The parish church was quite full, there werehalf-a-dozen bridesmaids, there was a great breakfast, Mrs. Crutchhad a new brown silk gown given to her, there was a long articlein the county gazette, and there were short paragraphs in variousmetropolitan newspapers. It was generally thought among his compeersthat Hugh Stanbury had married into the aristocracy, and that thefact was a triumph for the profession to which he belonged. It shewedwhat a Bohemian could do, and that men of the press in England mightgradually hope to force their way almost anywhere. So great was thename of Monkhams! He and his wife took for themselves a very smallhouse near the Regent's Park, at which they intend to remain untilHugh shall have enabled himself to earn an additional two hundreda-year. Mrs. Trevelyan did not come to live with them, but kept thecottage near the river at Twickenham. Hugh Stanbury was very averseto any protracted connection with comforts to be obtained from poorTrevelyan's income, and told Nora that he must hold her to herpromise about the beef-steak in the cupboard. It is our opinion thatMr. And Mrs. Hugh Stanbury will never want for a beef-steak and allcomfortable additions until the inhabitants of London shall cease torequire newspapers on their breakfast tables. 

Brooke and Mrs. Brooke established themselves in the house in theClose on their return from their wedding tour, and Brooke at once puthimself into intimate relations with the Messrs. Croppers, takinghis fair share of the bank work. Dorothy was absolutely installed asmistress in her aunt's house with many wonderful ceremonies, withthe unlocking of cupboards, the outpouring of stores, the givingup of keys, and with many speeches made to Martha. This was allvery painful to Dorothy, who could not bring herself to suppose itpossible that she should be the mistress of that house, during heraunt's life. Miss Stanbury, however, of course persevered, speakingof herself as a worn-out old woman, with one foot in the grave, whowould soon be carried away and put out of sight. But in a very fewdays things got back into their places, and Aunt Stanbury had thekeys again. "I knew how it would be, miss, " said Martha to her youngmistress, "and I didn't say nothing, 'cause you understand her sowell. "

Mrs. Stanbury and Priscilla still live at the cottage, which, however, to Priscilla's great disgust, has been considerably improvedand prettily furnished. This was done under the auspices of Hugh, butwith funds chiefly supplied from the house of Brooke, Dorothy, andCo. Priscilla comes into Exeter to see her sister, perhaps, everyother week; but will never sleep away from home, and very rarely willeat or drink at her sister's table. "I don't know why, I don't, " shesaid to Dorothy, "but somehow it puts me out. It delays me in myefforts to come to the straw a day. " Nevertheless, the sisters aredear friends. 

I fear that in some previous number a half promise was made that ahusband should be found for Camilla French. That half-promise cannotbe treated in the manner in which any whole promise certainly wouldhave been handled. There is no husband ready for Cammy French. Thereader, however, will be delighted to know that she made up herquarrel with her sister and Mr. Gibson, and is now rather fondof being a guest at Mr. Gibson's house. On her first return toExeter after the Gibsons had come back from their little Cornishrustication, Camilla declared that she could not and would not bringherself to endure a certain dress of which Bella was very fond;--andas this dress had been bought for Camilla with special referenceto the glories of her anticipated married life, this objection wasalmost natural. But Bella treated it as absurd, and Camilla at lastgave way. 

It need only further be said that though Giles Hickbody and Marthaare not actually married as yet, --men and women in their class oflife always moving towards marriage with great precaution, --it isquite understood that the young people are engaged, and are to bemade happy together at some future time.