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Title: He Knew He Was Right

Author: Anthony Trollope

Release Date: February, 2004 [EBook #5140]
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HE KNEW HE WAS RIGHT



CHAPTER I

SHEWING HOW WRATH BEGAN


When Louis Trevelyan was twenty-four years old, he had all the
world before him where to choose; and, among other things, he chose
to go to 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
public servant, in good repute, who had, however, as yet achieved
for himself neither an exalted position nor a large fortune. He
had been governor of many islands, and had never lacked employment;
and now, at the age of fifty, found himself at the Mandarins, with
a salary of 3,000 pounds a year, living in a temperature at which
80 in the shade is considered to be cool, with eight daughters,
and not a shilling saved. A governor at the Mandarins who is social
by nature and hospitable on principle, cannot save money in the
islands even on 3,000 pounds a year when he has eight daughters.
And at the Mandarins, though hospitality is a duty, the gentlemen
who ate Sir Rowley's dinners were not exactly the men whom he or
Lady Rowley desired to welcome to their bosoms as sons-in-law. Nor
when Mr Trevelyan came that way, desirous of seeing everything in
the somewhat indefinite course of his travels, had Emily Rowley,
the eldest of the flock, then twenty years of age, seen as yet any
Mandariner who exactly came up to her fancy. And, as Louis Trevelyan
was a remarkably handsome young man, who was well connected, who
had been ninth wrangler at Cambridge, who had already published a
volume of poems, and who possessed 3,000 pounds a year of his own,
arising from various perfectly secure investments, he was not forced
to sigh long in vain. Indeed, the Rowleys, one and all, felt that
providence had been very good to them in sending young Trevelyan
on his travels in that direction, for he seemed to be a very pearl
among men. Both Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley felt that there might
be objections to such a marriage as that proposed to them, raised
by the Trevelyan family. Lady Rowley would not have liked her daughter
to go to England, to be received with cold looks by strangers. But
it soon appeared that there was no one to make objections. Louis,
the lover, had no living relative nearer than 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 head of the family was a
first cousin who lived in Cornwall on a moderate property, a very
good sort of stupid fellow, as Louis said, who would be quite
indifferent as to any marriage that his cousin might make. No man
could be more independent or more clearly justified in pleasing
himself than was this lover. And then he himself proposed that the
second daughter, Nora, should come and live with them in London.
What a lover to fall suddenly from the heavens into such a dovecote!

'I haven't a penny-piece to give 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 more
affectionate, when the money has belonged to himself.'

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

The Rowleys had found, on reaching London, that they had lighted
upon a pearl indeed. Louis Trevelyan was a man of whom all people
said all good things. He might have been a fellow of his college
had he not been a man of fortune. He might already, so Sir Rowley
was told, have been in Parliament, had he not thought it to be
wiser to wait awhile. Indeed, he was very wise in many things. He
had gone out on his travels thus young, not in search of excitement,
to kill beasts, or to encounter he knew not what novelty and
amusement, but that he might see men and know the world. He had
been on his travels for more than a year when the winds blew him
to the Mandarins. Oh, how blessed were the winds! And, moreover,
Sir Rowley found that his son-in-law was well spoken of at the
clubs by those who had known him during his university career, as
a man popular as well as wise, not a book-worm, or a dry philosopher,
or a prig. He could talk on all subjects, was very generous, a
man sure to be honoured and respected; and then such a handsome,
manly fellow, with short brown hair, a nose divinely chiselled, an
Apollo's mouth, six feet high, with shoulders and legs and arms in
proportion--a pearl of pearls! Only, as Lady Rowley 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 be
such 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
own way. He probably had not observed his daughter's temper so
accurately as his wife had done. With eight of them coming up around
him, how should he have observed their tempers? At any rate, if
there were anything amiss with Emily's temper, it would be well
that she should find her master in such a husband as Louis Trevelyan.

For nearly two years the little household in Curzon Street went on
well, or if anything was the matter no one outside of the little
household was aware of it. And there was a baby, a boy, a young
Louis, and a baby in such a household is apt to make things go
sweetly.

The marriage had taken place in July, and after the wedding tour
there had been a winter and a spring in London; and then they passed
a month or two at the sea-side, after which the baby had been born.
And then there came another winter and another spring. Nora Rowley
was with them in London, and by this time Mr Trevelyan had begun
to think that he should like to have his own way completely. His
baby was very nice, and his wife was clever, pretty, and attractive.
Nora was all that an unmarried sister should be. But but there had
come to be trouble and bitter words. Lady Rowley had been right
when she said 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
not be worth having.'

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

'What does he mean then by saying that he would rather not have
Colonel Osborne here? A man older than my own father, who has known
me 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 does
not beg my pardon, I shall I shall continue to live with him, of
course, as a sort of upper servant, because of baby. But he shall
know 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 civil
and kind to you because he is not your master; but you don't know
what 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 were driven to do that? He will be here today I have no doubt;
and Louis will sit there below in the library, and hear his step,
and will not come up.'

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

'Yes; and everybody will understand why. And for what am I to deny
myself in that way to the best and oldest friend I have? If any
such orders are to be given, let him give them and then see what
will come of it.'

Mrs Trevelyan had described Colonel Osborne truly as far as words
went, in saying that he had known her since she was a baby, and
that he was an older man than her father. Colonel Osborne's age
exceeded her father's by about a month, and as he was now past
fifty, he might be considered perhaps, in that respect, to be a
safe friend for a young married woman. But he was in every respect
a man very different from Sir Marmaduke. Sir Marmaduke, blessed and
at the same time burdened as he was with a wife and eight daughters,
and condemned as he 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 elasticity and salt of youth had altogether passed
away. He was fat and slow, thinking much of his wife and eight
daughters, thinking much also of his dinner. Now Colonel Osborne
was a bachelor, with no burdens but those imposed upon him by his
position as a member of Parliament, a man of fortune to whom the
world had been very easy. It was not therefore said so decidedly
of him as of Sir Marmaduke, that he was a middle-aged man, although
he had probably already lived more than two-thirds of his life.
And he was a good-looking man of his age, bald indeed at the top of
his head, and with a considerable sprinkling of grey hair through
his bushy beard; but upright in his carriage, active, and quick
in his step, who dressed well, and was clearly determined to make
the most he could of what remained to him of the advantages of youth.
Colonel Osborne was always so dressed that no one ever observed
the nature of his garments, being no doubt well aware that no man
after twenty-five can afford to call special attention to his coat,
his hat, his cravat, or his trousers; but nevertheless the matter
was one to which he paid much attention, and he 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 any rate as pretty.
He was known to have an excellent stud down in the shires, and had
the reputation of going well with hounds. Poor Sir Marmaduke could
not have ridden a hunt to save either his government or his credit.
When, therefore, Mrs Trevelyan declared to her sister that Colonel
Osborne was a man whom she was entitled to regard with semi-parental
feelings of veneration because he was older than her father, she
made a comparison which was more true in the letter than in the
spirit. And when she asserted that Colonel Osborne had known her
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 in old
days been the very intimate friend of her father; but of herself
he had seen little or nothing since those baby days, till he had
met her just as she was about to become Mrs Trevelyan; and though
it was natural that so old a friend should come to her and congratulate
her and renew his friendship, nevertheless it was not true that
he made his appearance in her husband's house in the guise of the
useful old family friend, who gives silver cups to the children and
kisses the little girls for the sake of the old affection which he
has borne for the parents. We all know the appearance of that old
gentleman, how pleasant and dear a fellow he is, how welcome is his
face within the gate, how free he makes with our wine, generally
abusing it, how he tells our eldest daughter to light his candle
for him, how he gave silver cups when the girls were born, and now
bestows tea-services as they get married--a most useful, safe, and
charming fellow, not a year younger-looking or more nimble than
ourselves, without whom life would be very blank. We all know that
man; but such a man was not Colonel Osborne in the house of Mr
Trevelyan's young bride.

Emily Rowley, when she was brought home from the Mandarin Islands
to 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 that
looked to be dark because her eye-brows and eye-lashes were nearly
black, but which were in truth so varying in colour that you could
not tell their hue. Her brown hair was very dark and very soft;
and the tint of her complexion was brown also, though the colour
of her cheeks was often so bright as to induce her enemies to say
falsely of her that she painted them. And she was very strong,
as are some girls who come from the tropics, and whom a tropical
climate has suited. She could sit on her horse the whole day long,
and would never be weary with dancing at the Government House balls.
When Colonel Osborne was introduced to her as the baby whom he had
known, he thought it would be very pleasant to be intimate with so
pleasant a friend, meaning no harm indeed, as but few men do mean
harm on such occasions, but still, not regarding the beautiful
young woman whom he had seen as one of a generation succeeding to
that of his own, to whom it would be his duty to make himself useful
on account of the old friendship which he bore to her father.

It was, moreover, well known in London though not known at all
to Mrs Trevelyan that this ancient Lothario had before this made
himself troublesome in more than one family. He was fond of intimacies
with married ladies, and perhaps was not averse to the excitement
of marital hostility. It must be remembered, however, that the
hostility to which allusion is here made was not the hostility of the
pistol or the horsewhip nor indeed was it generally the hostility
of a word of spoken anger. A young husband may dislike the too-friendly
bearing of a friend, and may yet abstain from that outrage on his
own dignity and on his wife, which is conveyed by a word of suspicion.
Louis Trevelyan having taken a strong dislike to Colonel Osborne,
and having failed to make his wife understand that this dislike
should have induced her to throw cold water upon the Colonel's
friendship, had allowed himself to speak a word which probably he
would have willingly recalled as soon as spoken. But words spoken
cannot be recalled, and many a man and many a woman who has spoken
a word at once regretted, are far too proud to express that regret.
So it was with Louis Trevelyan when he told his wife that 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 she had seen
the eye flash before, and was familiar with the angry tone, she
had never before felt herself to be insulted by her husband. As
soon as the word had been spoken Trevelyan had left the room and
had gone down among his books. But when he was alone he knew that
he had insulted his wife. He was quite aware that he should have
spoken to her gently, and have explained to her, with his arm
round her waist, that it would be better for both of them that this
friend's friendship should be limited. There is so much in a turn
of the eye and in the tone given to a word when such things have to
be said, so much more of importance than in the words themselves.
As Trevelyan thought of this, and remembered what his manner had
been, how much anger he had expressed, how far he had been from
having his arm round his wife's waist as he spoke to her, he almost
made up his mind to go upstairs and to apologise. But he was one
to whose nature the giving of any apology was repulsive. He could
not bear to have to own himself to have been wrong. And then his
wife had been most provoking in her manner to him. When he had
endeavoured to make her understand his wishes by certain disparaging
hints which he had thrown out as to Colonel Osborne, saying that
he was a dangerous man, one who did not show his true character,
a snake in the grass, a man without settled principles, and such
like, his wife had taken up the cudgels for her friend, and had
openly declared that she did not believe a word of the things that
were alleged against him.  'But still for all that it is true,'
the husband had said. 'I have no doubt that you think so,' the wife
had replied. 'Men do believe evil of one another, very often. 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 which he could
not recall. As he walked to and fro among his books downstairs,
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 forgive him unless he
did so. He would do so, he thought, but not exactly now. 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 house of
a lady of rank, the Countess Dowager of Milborough, a lady standing
high in the world's esteem, of whom his wife stood a little in awe;
and he calculated that this feeling, if it did not make his task
easy would yet take from it some of its difficulty. Emily would
be, not exactly cowed, by the prospect of Lady Milborough's dinner,
but perhaps a little reduced from her usual self-assertion. He would
say a word to her when he was dressing, assuring her that he had
not intended to animadvert in the slightest degree upon her own
conduct.

Luncheon was served, and the two ladies went down into the dining-room.
Mr Trevelyan did not appear. There was nothing in itself singular
in that, as he was accustomed to declare that luncheon was a meal
too much in the day, and that a man should eat nothing beyond a
biscuit between breakfast and dinner. But he would sometimes 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. It would probably
have been well that he should have done so now; but he remained
in his library behind the dining-room, and when his wife and his
sister-in-law had gone upstairs, he became anxious to learn whether,
Colonel Osborne would come on that day, and, if so, whether he would
be admitted. He had been told that Nora Rowley was to be called
for by another lady, a Mrs Fairfax, to go out and look at pictures.
His wife had declined to join Mrs Fairfax's party, having declared
that, as she was going to dine out, she would not leave her baby
all the afternoon. Louis Trevelyan, though he strove to apply his
mind to an article which he was writing for a scientific quarterly
review, could not keep himself from anxiety as to this expected visit
from Colonel Osborne. He was not in the least jealous. He swore to
himself fifty times over that any such feeling on his part would
be a monstrous injury to his wife.  Nevertheless he knew that he
would be gratified if on that special day Colonel Osborne should
be informed that his wife was not at home. Whether the man were
admitted or not, he would beg his wife's pardon; but he could, he
thought, do so with more thorough efficacy and affection if she
should have shown a disposition to comply with his wishes on this
day.

'Do say a word to Richard,' said Nora to her sister in a whisper
as they were going upstairs after luncheon.

'I will not,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'May I do it?'

'Certainly not, Nora. I should feel that I were demeaning myself
were I to allow what was said to me in such a manner to have any
effect upon 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 expressed
his wish in any other words I would have complied. But to be told
that he would rather not have Colonel Osborne here! If you had seen
his manner and heard his words, you would not have been surprised
that I should feel it as I do. It was a gross insult and it was
not the first.'

As she spoke the fire flashed from her eye, and the bright red
colour of her cheek told a tale of her anger which her sister well
knew how to read. Then there was a knock at the door, and they both
knew that Colonel 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 man
of fortune, a member of Parliament, and one who carried his half
century of years lightly on his shoulders. It will only be necessary
to say further of him that he was a man popular with those among
whom he lived, as a politician, as a sportsman, and as a member
of society. He could speak well in the House, though he spoke but
seldom, and it was generally thought of him that he might have been
something considerable, had it not suited him better to be nothing
at all. He was supposed to be a Conservative, and generally voted
with the conservative party; but he could boast that he was altogether
independent, and on an occasion would take the trouble of proving
himself to be so. He was in possession of excellent health; had all
that the world could give; was fond of books, pictures, architecture,
and china; had various tastes, and the means of indulging them,
and was one of those few men on whom it seems that every pleasant
thing has been lavished.  There was that little slur on his good
name to which allusion has been made; but those who knew Colonel
Osborne best were generally willing to declare that no harm was
intended, and that the evils which arose were always to be attributed
to mistaken jealousy. He had, his friends said, a free and pleasant
way with women which women like, a pleasant way of free friendship;
that there was no more, and that the harm which had come had always
come from false suspicion. But there were certain ladies about the
town--good, motherly, discreet women--who hated the name of Colonel
Osborne, who would not admit him within their doors, who would not
bow to him in other people's houses, who would always speak of him
as a serpent, a hyena, a kite, or a shark. Old Lady Milborough was
one of these, a daughter of a friend of hers having once admitted
the serpent to her intimacy.

'Augustus Poole was wise enough to take his wife abroad,' said old
Lady Milborough, discussing about this time with a gossip of hers
the danger of Mrs Trevelyan's position, 'or there would have been
a breakup there; and yet there never was a better girl in the world
than Jane Marriott.'

The reader may be quite certain that Colonel Osborne had no
premeditated evil intention when he allowed himself to become the
intimate friend of his old friend's daughter. There was nothing
fiendish in his nature. He was not a man who boasted of his
conquests. He was not a ravening wolf going about seeking whom he
might devour, and determined to devour whatever might come in his
way; but he liked that which was pleasant; and of all pleasant things
the company of a pretty clever woman was to him the pleasantest.
At this exact period of his life no woman was so pleasantly pretty
to him, and so agreeably clever, as Mrs Trevelyan.

When Louis Trevelyan heard on the stairs the step of the dangerous
man, he got up from his chair as though he too would have gone into
the 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
would have paved the way for an easy reconciliation with his wife.
But when he reached the door of his room, and had placed his hand
upon the lock, he withdrew again. He told himself he withdrew because
he would not allow himself to be jealous; but in truth he did so
because he knew he could not have brought himself to be civil to
the man he hated. So he sat down, and took up his pen, and began
to cudgel his brain about the scientific article. He was intent
on raising a dispute with some learned pundit about the waves of
sound, but he could think of no other sound than that of the light
steps of Colonel Osborne as he had gone upstairs. He put down his
pen, and clenched his fist, and allowed a black frown to settle
upon his brow. 'What right had the man to come there, unasked by
him, and disturb his happiness? And then this poor wife of his,
who knew so little of English life, who had lived in the Mandarin
Islands almost since she had been a child, who had lived in one
colony or another almost since she had been born, who had had so
few of those advantages for which he should have looked in marrying
a wife, how was the poor girl to conduct herself properly when
subjected to the arts and practised villanies of this viper? And
yet the poor girl was so stiff in her temper, had picked up such a
trick of obstinacy in those tropical regions, that Louis Trevelyan
felt that he did not know how to manage her. He too had heard how
Jane Marriott had been carried off to Naples after she had become
Mrs Poole. Must he too carry off his wife 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 and run away from such
a one as Colonel Osborne. And even were he to consent to do this,
how could he explain it all to that very wife for whose 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 that visit upstairs
prolonged itself, he almost thought it would be best for him to be
round with her!  We all know what a husband means when he resolves
to be round with his wife. He began to think that he would not
apologise at all for the words he had spoken but would speak them
again somewhat more sharply than before. She would be very wrathful
with him; there would be a silent enduring indignation, which,
as he understood well, would be infinitely worse than any torrent
of words. But was he, a man, to abstain from doing that which he
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 would
be right that he should say, because she was stiff-necked? No. He
would not apologise, but would tell her again that it was necessary,
both for his happiness and for hers, that all intimacy with Colonel
Osborne should be discontinued.

He was brought to this strongly marital resolution by the length
of the man's present visit; by that and by the fact that, during
the latter portion of it, his wife was alone with Colonel Osborne.
Nora had been there when the man came, but Mrs Fairfax had called,
not getting out of her carriage, and Nora had been constrained to
go down to her. She had hesitated a moment, and Colonel Osborne
had observed and partly understood the hesitation. When he saw it,
had he been perfectly well-minded in the matter, he would have gone
too. But he probably told himself that Nora Rowley was a fool, and
that in such matters it was quite enough for a man to know that he
did not intend any harm.

'You had better go down, Nora,' said Mrs Trevelyan; 'Mrs Fairfax
will 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 Colonel
Osborne 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, or
you will spoil it all.'

He had called them both Emily and Nora when Sir Marmaduke and Lady
Rowley were with them before the marriage, and, taking the liberty
of a very old family friend, had continued the practice. Mrs Trevelyan
was quite aware that she had been so called by him in the presence
of her husband and that her husband had not objected. But that was
now some months ago, before baby was born; and she was aware also
that he had not called her so latterly in presence of her husband.
She thoroughly 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 a request without betraying some fear on her husband's part.
The subject which they were now discussing was too important to
her to allow her to dwell upon this trouble at the moment, and so
she permitted him to go on with his speech.

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

'That's all nonsense to us, Colonel Osborne. Ladies always like
political jobs, and think that they and they only make politics
bearable. But this would not be a job at all. Papa could do it
better than anybody else. Think how long he has been at it!'

The matter in discussion was the chance of an order being sent
out to Sir Marmaduke to come home from his islands at the public
expense, to give evidence, respecting colonial government in general,
to a committee of the House of Commons which was about to sit on
the subject.  The committee had been voted, and two governors were
to be brought home for the purpose of giving evidence. What arrangement
could be so pleasant to a governor living in the Mandarin Islands,
who had had a holiday lately, and who could but ill afford to
take any holidays at his own expense? Colonel Osborne was on this
committee, and, moreover, was on good terms at the Colonial Office.
There were men in office who would be glad to do Colonel Osborne
a service, and then if this were a job, it would be so very little
of a job! Perhaps Sir Marmaduke might not be the very best man for
the purpose. Perhaps the government of the Mandarins did not afford
the best specimen of that colonial lore which it was the business
of the committee to master. But then two governors were to come,
and it might be as well to have one of the best sort, and one of
the second best. No one supposed that excellent old Sir Marmaduke
was a paragon of a governor, but then he had an infinity of experience!
For over twenty years he had been from island to island, and had
at least steered 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
he would leave Lady Rowley behind.'

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

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

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

'I should prefer London, certainly.'

'Of course you would; and you mustn't begrudge papa a month or two
when 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 papa
home.'

There could be nothing more innocent than this--nothing more innocent
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
of this 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 wish him to know that I had meddled with it at all. I am
very chary of having my name connected with anything of the kind;
and, upon my word, 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
it stood at present, which she did not at all like. She was very
averse to having any secret from her husband with Colonel Osborne;
and she was not at all pleased at being told that he was doing
for her a favour that he would not have done for any other living
human being. Had he said so to her yesterday, before those offensive
words had been spoken by her husband, she would not have thought
much about it. She would have connected the man's friendship for
herself with his very old friendship for her father, and she would
have regarded the assurance as made to the Rowleys in general, and
not to herself in particular. But now, after what had occurred,
it pained her to be told by Colonel Osborne that he would make,
specially on her behalf, a sacrifice of his political pride which he
would make for no other person 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 in his voice that she had almost felt
to be too warm. But she gave the promise; and when he pressed her
hand at parting, she pressed his again, in token of gratitude for
the kindness to be done to her father and mother.

Immediately afterwards Colonel Osborne went away, and Mrs Trevelyan
was left alone in her drawing-room. She knew that her husband was
still downstairs, and listened for a moment to hear whether he would
now come up to her. And he, too, had heard the Colonel's step as
he went, and for a few moments had doubted whether or no he would
at once go to his wife.  Though he believed himself to be a man
very firm of purpose, his mind had oscillated backwards and forwards
within the last quarter of an hour between those two purposes of
being round with his wife, and of begging her pardon for the words
which he had already spoken. He believed that he would best do his
duty by that plan of being round with her; but then it would be
so much pleasanter at any rate, so much easier, to beg her pardon.
But of one thing he was quite certain, he must by some means exclude
Colonel Osborne from his house. He could not live and continue to
endure the feelings which he had suffered while sitting downstairs
at his desk, with the knowledge that Colonel Osborne was closeted
with his wife upstairs. It might be that there was nothing in it.
That his wife was innocent he was quite sure. But nevertheless, he
was himself so much affected by some feeling which pervaded him in
reference to this man, that all his energy was destroyed., and his
powers of mind and body were paralysed. He could not, and would not,
stand it. Rather than that, he would follow Mr Poole, and take his
wife to Naples. So resolving, he put his hat on his head and walked
out of the house. He would have the advantage of the afternoon's
consideration before he took either the one step or the other.

As soon as he was gone Emily Trevelyan went upstairs to her baby.
She would not stir as long as there had been a chance of his coming
to her. She very much wished that he would come, and had made up her
mind, in spite of the fierceness of her assertion to her sister,
to accept any slightest hint at an apology which her husband
might offer to her. To this state of mind she was brought by the
consciousness of having a secret from him, and by a sense not of
impropriety on her own part, but of conduct which some people might
have called improper in her mode of parting from the man against
whom her husband had warned her. The warmth of that hand-pressing,
and the affectionate tone in which her name had been pronounced,
and the promise made to her, softened her heart towards her husband.
Had he gone to her now and 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 had
brought 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 he
went himself; but he did not come near me. It is for him to judge
of his 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
she had judged her husband's conduct, and had found it to be very
foolish indeed.

'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 am
afraid to say a word lest I should be accused of doing wrong. But
remember 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 such
matters as that about politics no gentleman likes to have his name
talked about!'

A look of great distress came upon Nora's face as she heard this.
To her it seemed to be very bad that there should be a secret between
her 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 to
Louis.'

'How can I tell him Colonel Osborne's private business, when Colonel
Osborne has desired me not to do so. For whose sake is Colonel
Osborne doing this? For papa's and mamma's! I suppose Louis won't
be jealous, because I want to have papa and mamma home. It would
not be 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,
and there heard a rumour that added to his anger against Colonel
Osborne. The Acrobats was a very distinguished club, into which
it was now difficult for a young man to find his way, and almost
impossible for a man who was no longer young, and therefore known
to many. It had been founded some twenty years since with the idea
of promoting muscular exercise and gymnastic amusements; but the
promoters had become fat and lethargic, and the Acrobats spent
their time mostly in playing whist, and in ordering and eating
their dinners. There were supposed to be, in some out-of-the-way
part of the building, certain poles and sticks and parallel bars
with which feats of activity might be 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 or the cook, or possibly to
the social excellences of the club. Louis Trevelyan was an Acrobat
as was also Colonel Osborne.

'So old Rowley is coming home,' said one distinguished Acrobat to
another 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 this
committee. It must be no end of a lounge for him. It doesn't count
as leave, and he has every shilling paid for him, down to his
cab-fares when he goes out to dinner. There's nothing like having
a friend at Court.'

Such was the secrecy of Colonel Osborne's secret! He had been so
chary of having his name mentioned in connection with a political
job, that he had found it necessary to impose on his young friend
the burden of a secret from her husband, and yet the husband heard
the whole story told openly at his club on the same day! There
was nothing in the story to anger Trevelyan had he not immediately
felt that there must be some plan in the matter between his wife
and Colonel Osborne, of which he had been kept ignorant. Hitherto,
indeed, his wife, as the reader knows, could not have told him. He
had not seen her since the matter had been discussed between her
and her friend. But he was angry because he first learned at his
club that 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
girl had left her; but the girl remained--was, as he believed,
kept in the room purposely by his wife, so that he should have no
moment of private conversation. He went downstairs, therefore, and
found Nora standing by the drawing-room fire.

'So you are dressed first today?' he said. 'I thought your turn
always came last.'

'Emily sent Jenny to me first today because she thought you would
be home, and she didn't go up to dress till the last minute.'

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

'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 the
luxury, though costly, would not be beyond his reach. But she had
persuaded him against the carriage, and there had come to be an
agreement that instead of the carriage there should always be an
autumn tour. 'One learns something from going about; but one learns
nothing from keeping a carriage,' Emily had said. Those had been
happy days, in which it had been intended that everything should
always be rose-coloured.  Now he was meditating whether, in lieu of
that autumn tour, it would not be necessary to take his wife away
to Naples altogether, so that she might be removed from the influence
of, of, of, of--no, not even to himself would he think of Colonel
Osborne as his wife's lover. The idea was too horrible! And yet,
how dreadful was it that he should have, for any reason, to withdraw
her from the influence of any man!

Lady Milborough lived ever so far away, in Eccleston Square, but
Trevelyan did not say a single word to either of his companions
during the journey. He was cross and vexed, and was conscious that
they knew that he was cross and vexed. Mrs Trevelyan and her sister
talked to each other the whole way, but they did so in that tone
which clearly indicates that the conversation is made up, not for
any interest attached to the questions asked or the answers given,
but because it is expedient that there should not be silence. Nora
said something about Marshall and Snellgrove and tried to make believe
that she was very anxious for her sister's answer. And Emily said
something about the opera at Covent Garden, which was intended
to show that her mind was quite at ease. But both of them failed
altogether, and knew that they failed. Once or twice Trevelyan thought
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 to
be 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's return through Colonel Osborne's influence. As that man at
the club had heard it, how could she not have known it? When they
got out at Lady Milborough's door he had spoken to neither of them.

There was a large dull party, made up mostly of old people. Lady
Milborough and Trevelyan's mother had been bosom friends, and
Lady Milborough had on this account taken upon herself to be much
interested in Trevelyan's wife. But Louis Trevelyan himself, in
discussing Lady Milborough with Emily, had rather turned his mother's
old friend into ridicule, and Emily had, of course, followed her
husband's mode of thinking. Lady Milborough had once or twice given
her some advice on small matters, telling her that this or that
air would be good for her baby, and explaining that a mother during
a certain interesting portion of her life, should refresh herself
with a certain kind of malt liquor. Of all counsel on such domestic
subjects Mrs Trevelyan was impatient, as indeed it was her nature
to be in all matters, and consequently, authorized as she had been
by her husband's manner of speaking of his mother's friend, she
had 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 resented
this, but had come to fear that Mrs Trevelyan was perhaps a little
flighty. She had never as yet allowed herself to say anything worse
of her young friend's wife than that. And she would always add that
that kind of thing would cure itself as the nursery became full. It
must be understood therefore that Mrs Trevelyan was not anticipating
much pleasure from Lady Milborough's party, and that she had accepted
the invitation as a matter of duty.

There was present among the guests a certain Honourable Charles
Glascock, the eldest son of Lord Peterborough, who made the affair
more interesting to Nora than it was to her sister. It had been
whispered into Nora's ears, by more than one person and among others
by Lady Milborough, whose own daughters were all married, that she
might if she thought fit become the Honourable Mrs Charles Glascock.
Now, whether she might think fit, or whether she might not, the
presence of the gentleman under such circumstances, as far as she
was concerned, gave an interest to the evening. And as Lady Milborough
took care that Mr Glascock should take Nora down to dinner, the
interest was very great. Mr Glascock was a good-looking man, just
under forty, in Parliament, heir to a peerage, and known to be
well off in respect to income. Lady Milborough and Mrs Trevelyan
had told Nora Rowley that should encouragement in that direction
come in her way, she ought to allow herself to fall in love with
Mr Glascock. A certain amount of encouragement had come in her
way, but she had not as yet allowed herself 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 with which he was immediately connected
were limited. She did believe that he had in truth paid her the
compliment of falling in love with her, and this is a compliment
to which few girls are indifferent. Nora might perhaps have tried
to fall in love with Mr Glascock, had she not been forced to make
comparisons between him and another. This other one had not fallen in
love with her, as she well knew; and she certainly had not fallen
in love with him. But still the comparison was 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 almost proposed to her.

'You have never seen Monkhams?' he said. Monkhams was his father's
seat, a very grand place in Worcestershire. Of course he knew very
well 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
finest in the kingdom. Do you like oaks?'

'Who does not like oaks? But we have none in the islands, and nobody
has ever seen so few as I have.'

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

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

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

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

'My dear,' said she, 'was not your father very intimate with that
Colonel Osborne?'

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

'Ah, yes; I thought I had heard so. That makes it of course natural
that you should know him.'

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

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

'I hope not, Lady Milborough, because we are all especially fond
of him.' This was said with so much of purpose, that poor, dear
old Lady Milborough was stopped in her good work. She knew well
the terrible strait to which Augustus Poole had been brought with
his wife, although nobody supposed that Poole's wife had ever
entertained a wrong thought in her pretty little heart. Nevertheless
he had been compelled 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 courage enough to take any man by the beard, had taking by
the beard been possible, had found it impossible to dislodge the
Colonel. He could not do so without making a row which would have
been disgraceful to himself and injurious to his wife; and therefore
he had taken Mrs Poole to Naples. Lady Milborough knew the whole
story, and thought that she foresaw that the same thing was about
to happen in the drawing-room in Curzon Street. When she attempted
to say a word to the wife, she found herself stopped. She could not
go on in that quarter after the reception with which the beginning
of her word had been met. But perhaps she might succeed better
with the husband.  After all, her friendship was with the Trevelyan
side, and not with the Rowleys.

'My dear Louis,' she said, 'I want to speak a word to you. Come
here.' And then she led him into a distant corner, Mrs Trevelyan
watching her all the while, and guessing why her husband was thus
carried away. 'I just want to give you a little hint, which I am
sure I believe is quite unnecessary,' continued Lady Milborough.
Then she paused, but Trevelyan would not speak.  She looked into his
face, and saw that it was black. But the man was the only child of
her dearest friend, and she persevered. 'Do you know I don't quite
like that Colonel Osborne coming so much to your house.' The face
before her became still blacker, but still the man said nothing. 'I
dare say it is a prejudice on my part, but I have always disliked
him. I think he is a dangerous friend--what I call a snake in the
grass. And though Emily's high good sense, and love for you, and
general feelings on such a subject, are just what a husband must
desire--Indeed, I am quite sure that the possibility of anything
wrong has never entered into her head.  But it is the very purity
of her innocence which makes the danger. He is a bad man, and I
would just say a word to her, if I were you, to make her understand
that his coming to her of a morning is not desirable. Upon my
word, I believe there is nothing he likes so much as going about
and making mischief between men and their wives.'

Thus she delivered herself; and Louis Trevelyan, though he was
sore and angry, could not but feel that she had taken the part of
a friend. All that she had said had been true; all that she had
said to 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
intolerably bitter to him that he should be warned about his wife's
conduct by any living human being; that he, to whom the world had
been so full of good fortune, that he, who had in truth taught
himself to think that he deserved so much good fortune, should be
made the subject of care on behalf of his friend, because of danger
between himself and his wife! On the spur of the moment he did not
know what answer to make. 'He is not a man whom I like myself,' he
said.

'Just be careful, Louis, that is all,' said Lady Milborough, and
then she was gone.

To be cautioned about his wife's conduct cannot be pleasant to
any man, and it was very unpleasant to Louis Trevelyan. He, too,
had been asked a question about Sir Marmaduke's expected visit to
England after the ladies had left the room. All the town had heard
of it except himself. He hardly spoke another word that evening till
the brougham was announced; and his wife had observed his silence.
When they were seated in the carriage, he together with his wife and
Nora Rowley, he immediately asked a question about Sir Marmaduke.
'Emily,' he said, 'is there any truth in a report I hear that your
father is coming home?' No answer was made, and for a moment or
two there was silence. 'You must have heard of it, then?' he said.
'Perhaps you can tell me, Nora, as Emily will not reply. Have you
heard anything of your 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
be a 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
in any matter with which I may not be made acquainted? I will have
nothing more between you and Colonel Osborne.  You shall not see
Colonel Osborne. Do you hear me?'

'Yes, I hear you, Louis.'

'And do you mean to obey me? By G--, you shall obey me. Remember
this, that I lay my positive order upon you, that you shall not
see Colonel Osborne again. You do not know it, perhaps, but you are
already forfeiting your reputation as an honest woman, and bringing
disgrace 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 that
you should give me your solemn assurance that you will obey me.'

'If you have said all that you have to say, perhaps you will listen
to 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,'
said Trevelyan. 'And because she is obstinate, and will not learn
from those who know better than herself what a woman may do, and
what she may not, she will ruin herself, and destroy my happiness.'

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

'Indeed, she has not been to blame,' said Nora to Trevelyan on the
staircase.

'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 with
him? I am sorry that she should suffer; but it is better that she
should suffer a little now, than that we should both suffer much
by-and-by.'

Nora endeavoured to explain to him the truth about the committee,
and Colonel Osborne's promised influence, and the reason why there
was to be a secret. But she was too much in a hurry to get to her
sister to make 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 have his name mentioned in connection with the matter.
'All the world knows it,' he said with scornful laughter.

It was in vain that Nora tried to explain to him that though
all the world might know it, Emily herself had only heard of the
proposition as a thing quite unsettled, as to which nothing at
present should be spoken openly. It was in vain to endeavour to
make peace on that night.  Nora hurried up to her sister, and found
that the hysterical tears had again given place to anger. She would
not see her husband, unless he would beg her pardon; and he would
not see her unless she would give the promise he demanded. And the
husband and wife did not see each other again on that night.




CHAPTER IV

HUGH STANBURY


It has been already stated that Nora Rowley was not quite so well
disposed as perhaps she ought to have been to fall in love with the
Honourable Charles Glascock, there having come upon her the habit
of comparing him with another gentleman whenever this duty of
falling in love with Mr Glascock was exacted from her. That other
gentleman was one with whom she knew that it was quite out of the
question that she should fall in love, because he had not a shilling
in the world; and the other gentleman was equally aware that it
was not open to him to fall in love with Nora Rowley for the same
reason. In regard to such matters Nora Rowley had been properly
brought up, having been made to understand by the best and most
cautious of mothers, that in that matter of falling in love it was
absolutely necessary that bread and cheese should be considered.
'Romance is a very pretty thing,' Lady Rowley had been wont to say
to her daughters, 'and I don't think life would be worth having
without a little of it. I should be very sorry to think that either
of my girls would marry a man only because he had money. But you
can't even be romantic without something to eat and drink.' Nora
thoroughly understood all this, and being well aware that 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 certain hard lines
lines intended to be as fast as they were hard. Let what might come
to her in the way of likings and dislikings, let the temptation
to her be ever so strong, she would never allow her heart to rest
on a man who, if he should ask her to be his wife, would not have
the means of supporting her. There were many, she knew, who would
condemn such a resolution as cold, selfish, and heartless.  She
heard people saying so daily. She read in books that it ought to
be so regarded. But she declared to herself that she would respect
the judgment neither of the people nor of the books.  To be poor
alone, to have to live without a husband, to look forward to a life
in which there would be nothing of a career, almost nothing to do,
to await the vacuity of an existence in which she would be useful
to no one, was a destiny which she could teach herself to endure,
because it might probably be forced upon her by necessity. Were her
father to die there would hardly be bread for that female flock to
eat. As it was, she was eating the bread of a man in whose house
she was no more than a visitor. The lot of a woman; as she often
told herself, was wretched, unfortunate, almost degrading. For a
woman such as herself there was no path open to her energy, other
than that of getting a husband. Nora Rowley thought of all this till
she was almost sick of the prospect of her life--especially sick
of it when she was told with much authority by the Lady Milboroughs
of her acquaintance, that it was her bounden duty to fall in love
with Mr Glascock. As to falling in love with Mr Glascock, she had
not as yet quite made up her 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 had quite made up her mind that she would
never fall in love with a poor man. In spite, however, of all that,
she felt herself compelled to make comparisons between Mr Glascock
and one Mr Hugh Stanbury, a gentleman who had not a shilling.

Mr Hugh Stanbury had been at college the most intimate friend of
Louis Trevelyan, and at Oxford had been, in spite of Trevelyan's
successes, a bigger man than his friend. Stanbury had not taken
so high a degree as Trevelyan, indeed had not gone out in honours
at all. He had done little for the credit of his college, and had
never put himself in the way of wrapping himself up for life in
the scanty lambswool of a fellowship. But he had won for himself
reputation as a clever speaker, as a man who had learned much that
college tutors do not profess to teach, as a hard-headed, ready-witted
fellow, who, having the world as an oyster before him, which it
was necessary that he should open, would certainly find either a
knife or a sword with which to open it.

Immediately on leaving college he had come to town, and had entered
himself at Lincoln's Inn.  Now, at the time of our story, he was a
barrister of four years' standing, but had never yet made a guinea.
He had never made a guinea by his work as a barrister, and was
beginning to doubt of himself whether he ever would do so. Not, as
he knew well, that guineas are generally made with ease by barristers
of four years' standing, but because, as he said to his friends, he
did not see his way to the knack of it. He did not know an attorney
in the world, and could not conceive how any attorney should ever
be induced to apply to him for legal aid.  He had done his work
of learning his trade about as well as other young men, but had
had no means of distinguishing himself within his reach. He went
the Western Circuit because his aunt, old Miss Stanbury, lived at
Exeter, but, as he declared of himself, had he had another aunt living
at York, he would have had nothing whatsoever to guide him in his
choice. He sat idle in the courts, and hated himself for so sitting.
So it had been with him for two years without any consolation or
additional burden from other employment than that of his profession.
After that, by some chance, he had become acquainted with the editor
of the Daily Record, and by degrees had taken to the writing of
articles. He had been told by all his friends, and especially by
Trevelyan, that if he 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 did not see how he should ever make more money out
of them than he would do by such sale. But for the articles which
he wrote, he received instant payment, a process which he found to
be most consolatory, most comfortable, and, as he said to Trevelyan,
as warm to him as a blanket in winter.

Trevelyan, who was a year younger than Stanbury, had taken upon
himself to be very angry.  He professed that he did not think much
of the trade of a journalist, and told Stanbury that he was sinking
from the highest to almost the lowest business by which an educated
man and a gentleman could earn his bread. Stanbury had simply replied
that he saw some bread on the one side, but none on the other; and
that bread from some side was indispensable to him. Then there had
come to be that famous war between Great Britain and the republic
of Patagonia, and Hugh Stanbury had been sent out as a special
correspondent by the editor and proprietor of the Daily Record.
His letters had been much read, and had called up a great deal of
newspaper pugnacity. He had made important statements which had
been flatly denied, and found to be utterly false; which again had
been warmly reasserted and proved to be most remarkably true to
the letter. In this way the correspondence, and he as its author,
became so much talked about that, on his return to England, he did
actually sell his gown and, wig and declare to his friends and to
Trevelyan among the number that he intended to look to journalism
for his future career.

He had been often at the house in Curzon Street in the
earliest happy days of his friend's marriage, and had thus become
acquainted--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 been
effected, he had not been there so frequently as before, because
Trevelyan had expressed his indignation almost too openly.

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

'Is a man faint-hearted when he finds it improbable that he shall
be able 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,' replied
Stanbury. 'I had to live upon nothing till the lucky hour should
strike.'

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

Even this had made no quarrel between the two men; but Stanbury had
expressed himself annoyed by his friend's language, and partly on
that account, and partly perhaps on another, had stayed away from
Curzon Street. As Nora Rowley had made comparisons about him, so
had he made comparisons about her. He had owned to himself that had
it been possible that he should marry, he would willingly entrust
his happiness to Miss Rowley. And he had thought once or twice
that Trevelyan had wished that such an arrangement might be made
at some future day. Trevelyan had always been much more sanguine
in expecting success for his friend at the Bar than Stanbury had
been for himself. It might well be that such a man as Trevelyan
might think that a clever rising barrister would be an excellent
husband for his sister-in-law, but that a man who earned a precarious
living as a writer for a penny paper would be by no means so
desirable a connection. Stanbury, as he thought of this, declared
to himself that he would not care two straws for Trevelyan in the
matter, if he could see his way without other impediments. But the
other impediments were there in such strength and numbers as to
make him feel that it could not have been intended by Fate that he
should take to himself a wife.  Although those letters of his to
the Daily Record had been so pre-eminently successful, he had never
yet been able to earn by writing above twenty-five or thirty pounds
a month. If that might be continued to him he could live upon it
himself; but, even with his moderate views, it would not suffice
for himself and family.

He had told Trevelyan that while living as an expectant barrister
he had no means of subsistence. In this, as Trevelyan knew, he was
not strictly correct. There was an allowance of 100 pounds a year
coming to him from the aunt whose residence at Exeter had induced
him to devote himself to the Western Circuit. His father had been
a clergyman with a small living in Devonshire, and had now been dead
some fifteen years. His mother and two sisters were still living
in a small cottage in his late father's parish, on the interest of
the money arising from a life insurance. Some pittance from sixty
to seventy pounds 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 most romantic--the little tale shall be told before this
larger tale is completed--and this aunt had undertaken to educate
and place out 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 not accomplishing great things, and then had been set down
to make his fortune as a barrister in London, with an allowance
of 100 pounds a year, his aunt having paid, moreover, certain fees
for entrance, tuition, and the like. The very hour in which Miss
Stanbury learned that her nephew was writing for a penny newspaper
she sent off a dispatch to tell him that he must give up her or
the penny paper. He replied by saying that he felt himself called
upon to earn his bread in the only line from which, as it seemed to
him, bread would be forthcoming. By return of post he got another
letter to say that he might draw for the quarter then becoming due,
but that that would be the last. And it was the last.

Stanbury made an ineffectual effort to induce his aunt to make over
the 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
never had given, and at that moment did not intend to give, a shilling
to the widow and daughters of her brother. Nor did she intend, or
had she ever intended, to leave a shilling of her money to Hugh
Stanbury, as she had very often told him. The money was, at her
death, to go back to the people from whom it had come to her.

When Nora Rowley made those comparisons between Mr Hugh Stanbury and
Mr Charles Glascock, they were always wound up very much in favour
of 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
Stanbury was untidy rather than otherwise in his outward person.
Nor had he any air of fashion or special grace to recommend him,
for he was undoubtedly an awkward-mannered man. But there was a
glance of sunshine in his eye, and a sweetness in the curl of his
mouth when he smiled, which made Nora feel that it would have been
all up with her had she not made so very strong a law for her own
guidance. Stanbury was a man about five feet ten, with shoulders
more than broad in proportion, stout limbed, rather awkward of his
gait, with large feet and hands, with soft wavy light hair, with
light grey eyes, with a broad, but by no means ugly, nose. His
mouth and lips were large, and he rarely showed his teeth. He wore
no other beard than whiskers, which he was apt to cut away through
heaviness of his hand in shaving, till Nora longed to bid him be more
careful. 'He doesn't care what sort of a guy he makes of himself,
she once said to her sister, almost angrily. 'He is a plain man,
and he knows it,' Emily had replied. Mr Trevelyan was doubtless a
handsome man, and it was almost on Nora's tongue to say something
ill-natured on the subject. Hugh Stanbury was reputed to be somewhat
hot in spirit and manner. He would be very sage in argument, pounding
down his ideas on politics, religion, or social life with his fist
as well as his voice. He was quick, perhaps, at making antipathies,
and quick, too, in making friendships; impressionable, demonstrative,
eager, rapid in his movements sometimes to the great detriment of
his shins and knuckles; and he possessed the sweetest temper that
was ever given to a man for the blessing of a woman. This was the
man between whom and Mr Glascock Nora Rowley found it to be impossible
not to make comparisons.

On the very day after Lady Milborough's dinner party Stanbury
overtook Trevelyan in the street, and asked his friend where he was
going eastward. Trevelyan was on his way to call upon his lawyer,
and said so. But he did not say why he was going to his lawyer.
He had sent to his wife by Nora that morning to know whether she
would make to him the promise he required. The only answer which
Nora could draw from her sister was a counter question, demanding
whether he would ask her pardon for the injury he had done her.
Nora had been most eager, most anxious, most conciliatory as a
messenger; but no good had come of these messages, and Trevelyan
had gone forth to tell all his trouble to his family lawyer. Old
Mr Bideawhile had been his father's ancient and esteemed friend,
and he could tell things to Mr Bideawhile which he could not bring
himself to tell to any other living man; and he could generally
condescend to accept Mr Bideawhile's advice, knowing that his father
before him had been guided by the same.

'But you are out of your way for Lincoln's Inn Fields,' said
Stanbury.

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

'I have been three times round St. James's Park to collect my
thoughts,' said Stanbury, 'and now I'm on my way to the Daily R.,
250, Fleet Street. It is my custom of an afternoon. I am prepared
to instruct the British public of tomorrow on any subject, as per
order, from the downfall of a European compact to the price of a
London mutton chop.'

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

'Not another word. How should there be? Aunt Jemima has already
drawn tight the purse strings, and it would soon be the casual ward
in earnest if it were not for the Daily R. God bless the Daily R.
Only think what a thing it is to have all subjects open to one,
from the destinies 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 what
is. But it's a deal honester than defending thieves and bamboozling
juries. How is your wife?'

'She's pretty well, thank you.'

Stanbury knew at once from the tone of his friend's voice that
there was 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
go through the whole family.'

'Miss Rowley is pretty well,' said Trevelyan.

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

Stanbury had in truth been altogether mistaken as to the state
of his friend's mind on that morning. Trevelyan, although he had,
according to his custom, put in a word in condemnation of the
newspaper line of life, was at the moment thinking whether he would
not tell all his trouble to Hugh Stanbury. He knew that he should
not find anywhere, not even in Mr Bideawhile, a more friendly or more
trustworthy listener. When Nora Rowley's name had been mentioned,
he had not thought of her. He had simply repeated the name with
the usual answer.  He was at the moment cautioning himself against
a confidence which after all might not be necessary, and which on
this occasion was not made. When one is in trouble it is a great
ease to tell one's trouble to a friend; but then one should always
wash one's dirty linen at home.  The latter consideration prevailed,
and Trevelyan allowed his friend to go on without burdening him
with the story of that 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
into the library, found on his table a letter to him addressed in
his wife's handwriting. He opened it quickly, hoping to find that
promise which he had demanded, and resolving that if it were made
he would at once become affectionate, yielding, and gentle to his
wife. But there was not a word written by his wife within the envelope.
It contained simply another letter, already opened, addressed to
her.  This letter had been brought up to her during her husband's
absence from the house, 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 enclose
it to her husband opened or unopened. She had hitherto refused to
make the promise which her husband exacted, but nevertheless, she
was minded to obey him; Had he included in his demand any requirement
that she should receive no letter from Colonel Osborne, she would
not have opened this one. But nothing had been said about letters,
and she would not shew herself to be afraid. So she read the note,
and then sent it down to be put on Mr Trevelyan's table in an
envelope addressed to him.

'If he is not altogether blinded, it will show him how cruelly he
has wronged me,' said she to her sister. She was sitting at the time
with her boy in her lap, telling herself that the child's features
were in all respects the very same as his father's, and that, come
what come might, the child should always be taught by her to love
and respect his father. And then there came a horrible thought.
What if the child should be taken away from her? If this quarrel,
out of which she saw no present mode of escape, were to lead to
a separation between her and her husband, would not the law, and
the judges, and the courts, and all the Lady Milboroughs of their
joint acquaintance into the bargain, say that the child should go
with his father? The judges, and the courts, and the Lady Milboroughs
would, of course, say that she was the sinner. And what could she
do without her boy? Would not any 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 so
much. When a puppy is taken away from its mother, she is bad enough
for a few days, but she gets over it in a week.' There was a pause
then for a few moments. Nora knew well which way ran the current
of her sister's thoughts, and had nothing at the present moment
which she could say on that subject.

'It is very hard for a woman to know what to do,' continued Emily,
'but if she is to marry, I think she had better marry a fool. After
all, a fool generally knows that he is a 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 a
fool; but I do not think he has that kind of strength which shows
itself 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't
be otherwise than a woman. And you must marry. And this man is a
gentleman, 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 set the Thames on fire some day, and see what comes of it.'

'All the same, I shall not marry Mr Glascock. A woman can die, at
any rate,' said Nora.

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

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

He did find it, and was sorely disappointed when he perceived that
it contained no word from his wife to himself. He opened Colonel
Osborne's note, and read it, and became, as he did so, almost more
angry than before. Who was this man that he should dare to address
another man's wife as 'Dear Emily'? At the moment Trevelyan
remembered 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 him
a thought. But Lady Rowley and Sir Marmaduke had then been present
also; and that man on that occasion had been the old friend of the
old father, and not the would-be young friend of the young daughter.
Trevelyan could hardly reason about it, but felt that whereas the
one was not improper, the other was grossly impertinent and even
wicked. And then, again, his wife, his Emily, was to show to him,
to her husband, or was not to show to him, the letter which she
received from this man, the letter in which she was addressed as
'Dear Emily,' according to this man's judgment and wish, and not
according to his judgment and wish--not according to the judgment
and wish of him who was her husband, her lord, and her master! 'Of
course, you will tell T. now.' This was intolerable to him. It made
him feel that he was to be regarded as second, and this man to be
regarded as first. And then he began to recapitulate all the good
things he had done for his wife, and all the causes which he had
given her for gratitude. Had he not taken her to his bosom, and
bestowed upon her the half of all that he had, simply for herself,
asking for nothing more than her love? He had possessed money,
position, a name all that makes life worth having. He had found her
in a remote corner of the world, with no fortune, with no advantages
of family or social standing, so circumstanced that any friend would
have warned him against such a marriage; but he had given her his
heart, and his hand, and his house, and had asked for nothing in
return but that he should be all in all to her, that he should be
her one god upon earth. And he had done more even than this. 'Bring
your sister,' he had said. 'The house shall be big enough for her
also, and she shall be my sister as well as yours.' Who had ever
done more for a woman, or shown a more absolute confidence? And
now what was the return he received? She was not contented with her
one god upon earth, but must make to herself other gods--another
god, and that too out of a lump of the basest clay to be found
around her. He thought that he could remember to have heard it said
in early days, long before he himself had had an idea of marrying,
that no man should look for a wife from among the tropics, that
women educated amidst the languors of those sunny climes rarely
came to possess those high ideas of conjugal duty and feminine
truth which a man should regard as the first requisites of a good
wife. As he thought of all this, he almost regretted that he had
ever visited the Mandarins, or ever heard the name of Sir Marmaduke
Rowley.

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 we
may 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 gives
all, the two are equal, let the things given be what they may!
King Cophetua 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 her from the oldest stock of reigning families then extant.
Trevelyan knew all this himself, had said so to himself a score
of times, though not probably in spoken words or formed sentences.
But, that all was equal between himself and the wife of his bosom,
had been a thing ascertained by him as a certainty. There was no
debt of gratitude from her to him which he did not acknowledge to
exist also as from him to her. But yet, in his anger, he could not
keep himself from 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! He had selected no other friend to take her place
in his councils! There was no 'dear Mary' or 'dear Augusta' with
whom he had secrets to be kept from his wife. When there arose
with him any question of interest such as was this of the return
of Sir Marmaduke 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 for her also. There was not a woman in the world in whose
company he took special delight in her absence.

And if there had been, how much less would have been her ground of
complaint? Let a man have any such friendships, what friendships he
may, he does not disgrace his wife. He felt himself to be so true
of heart that he desired no such friendships; but for a man indulging
in such 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 on her husband's shoulders. It was not enough for Caesar
that his wife should be true; it was necessary to Caesar that
she should not even be suspected. Trevelyan told himself that he
suspected his wife of no sin. God forbid that it should ever come
to that, both for his sake and for hers; and, above all, for the
sake of that boy who was so dear to them both! But there would be
the vile whispers, and dirty slanders would be dropped from envious
tongues into envious ears, and minds prone to evil would think evil
of him and of his. Had not Lady Milborough already cautioned him?
Oh, that he should have lived to have been cautioned about his
wife, that he should be told that eyes outside had looked into the
sacred shrine of his heart and seen that things there were fatally
amiss! And yet Lady Milborough was quite right.  Had he not in his
hand at this moment a document that proved her to be right? 'Dear
Emily'!  He took this note and crushed it in his fist and then
pulled it into fragments.

But what should he do? There was, first of all considerations, the
duty 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 so
contumacious that he hardly knew how to take a step in the direction
of guarding her from the effects of her ignorance, and maintaining
for her the advantages of her innocence. He was her master, and she
must know that he was her master. But how was he to proceed when
she refused to obey the plainest and most necessary command which
he laid upon her? Let a man be ever so much his wife's master, he
cannot maintain his masterdom by any power which the law places in
his hands. He had asked his wife for a promise of obedience, and
she would not give it to him! What was he to do next? He could,
no doubt, at least he thought so, keep the man from her presence.
He could order the servant not to admit the man, and the servant
would, doubtless, obey him. But to what a condition would he then
have been brought! Would not the world then be over for him over
for him as the 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 a servant to guard the conduct of his wife!

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

His resolution on these points was very strong, and yet there came
over him a feeling that it was his duty to be gentle. There was a
feeling also that that privilege of receiving obedience, which was
so indubitably his own, could only be maintained by certain wise
practices on his part in which gentleness must predominate. Wives
are bound to obey their husbands, but obedience cannot be exacted
from wives, as it may from servants, by aid of law and with penalties,
or as from a horse, by punishments, and manger curtailments. A man
should be master in his own house, but he should make his mastery
palatable, equitable, smooth, soft to the touch, a thing almost
unfelt. How was he to do all this now, when he had already given
an order to which obedience had been refused unless under certain
stipulations an agreement with which would be degradation to him?
He had pointed out to his wife her duty, and she had said she
would do her duty as pointed out, on condition that he would beg
her pardon for having pointed it out! This he could not and would
not do. Let the heavens fall, and the falling of the heavens in
this case was a separation between him and his wife, but he would
not consent to such injustice as that!

But what was he to do at this moment especially with reference to
that note which he had destroyed. At last he resolved to write to
his wife, and he consequently did write and send to her the following
letter:

DEAREST EMILY,

May 4.

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 today. 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, and
then he went out to his club.




CHAPTER VI

SHEWING HOW RECONCILIATION WAS MADE


'Look at that,' said Mrs Trevelyan, when her sister came into her
room about an hour before dinnertime. Nora read the letter, and
then 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 upon
you 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 to
find his wits again. There is nothing else that a woman can do. If
he chooses to dine at his club every day I can't help it.  We must
put off all the engagements, and that will be hard upon you.'

'Don't talk about me. It is too terrible to think that there should
be 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's
right, it ought to be done, and if it's wrong, it will not be your
fault.'

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

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

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

On the day following Nora again became a messenger between
the husband and wife, and before dinner-time a reconciliation had
been effected. Of course the wife gave way at last; and of course
she gave way so cunningly that the husband received none of the
gratification which he had expected in her surrender. 'Tell him
to come,' Nora had urged. '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 exacted would
be given. It is to be feared that Nora perverted the truth a little;
but if ever such perversion may be forgiven, forgiveness was due
to her. If they could only be brought together, she was sure that
there would be a reconciliation. They were brought together, and
there was a reconciliation.

'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.

'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
that the promise might be made to him. He had certainly understood
that it was to be made without reserve as an act on her part which
she had fully consented to perform. But she stood silent, with one
hand on the dressing table, looking away from him, very beautiful,
and dignified too, in her manner; but not, as far as he could judge,
either repentant or submissive. 'Nora said that you would make me
the promise 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 again
after what has occurred?  It will be for you to tell the servant.
I do not know how I can do that. But, as a matter of course, I will
encourage no person to come to your house of whom you disapprove.
It would 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
any formal request in the matter. Your word was quite sufficient.
That you should find cause of complaint in Colonel Osborne's coming
here is 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 from
supposing it to be possible that you have attributed an evil thought
to me.'

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

'That I can assure you I regard as a matter of course,' said the
wife.

'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
bound to hear whatever you may choose to say to me; but I will not
hear from any other lips a single word that may be injurious to
your honour.' This she said very quietly, with much dignity, and
he felt that he had better not answer her. She had given him the
promise which he had demanded, and he began to fear that if he
pushed the matter 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 by the 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 downstairs,
'when Colonel Osborne calls again, say' that your mistress is not
at home.' He gave the order in the most indifferent tone of voice
which he could assume; but as he gave it he felt thoroughly ashamed
of it. Richard, who, with the other servants, had of course known
that there had been a quarrel between his master and mistress for
the last two days, no doubt understood all about it.

While they were sitting at dinner on the next day, a Saturday,
there came another note from Colonel Osborne. The servant brought
it to his mistress, and she, when she had looked at it, put it down
by her plate. Trevelyan knew immediately from whom the letter had
come, and understood how impossible it was for his wife to give
it up in the servant's presence. The letter lay there till the man
was out of the room, 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
so horrible 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 sees that I have
been forbidden to open it.' Then the man returned to the room, and
the remainder of the dinner passed off almost in silence. It was
their custom when they dined without company to leave the dining-room
together, but on this evening Trevelyan remained for a few minutes
that he might read Colonel Osborne's letter, He waited, standing on
the rug with his face to the fire-place, till he was quite 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 tomorrow 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
Osborne to communicate to the person to whom it was addressed.
Trevelyan must now go upstairs and tell the contents of the letter
to his wife. But he felt that he had created for himself a terrible
trouble. He must tell his wife what was in the letter, but the very
telling of it would be a renewing of the soreness of his wound.
And then what was to be done in reference to the threatened visit
for the Sunday morning? Trevelyan knew very well that were his wife
denied at that hour, Colonel Osborne would understand the whole
matter. He had doubtless in his anger intended that Colonel Osborne
should understand the whole matter; but he was calmer now than he
had been then, and almost wished that the command given by him had
not been so definite and imperious. He remained with his arm on the
mantel-piece, thinking of it, for some ten minutes, and then went
up into the drawing-room. 'Emily,' he said, walking up to the table
at which she was 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 are
not 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
he would 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
all is 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. 'Somebody
is 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
he say anything about mamma, Nora?'

'You had better read the letter yourself,' said Trevelyan, who was
desirous 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's
letters were as innocent as an old newspaper. As you have supposed
them to be poisoned I will have nothing to do with them.'

This speech made him very angry. It seemed that his wife, who
had yielded to him, was determined to take out the value of her
submission in the most disagreeable words which she could utter.
Nora now closed the letter and handed it back to her brother-in-law.
He laid it down on the table beside him, and sat for a while with
his eyes fixed upon his book. At last he spoke again. 'Colonel
Osborne says that he will call tomorrow at luncheon time. You can
admit him, if you please, and thank him for the trouble he has
taken in this matter.'

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

There was silence again for some minutes, and the cloud upon
Trevelyan's brow became blacker than before. Then he rose from his
chair and walked round to the sofa on which his wife was sitting.
'I presume,' said he, 'that your wishes and mine in this matter
must be the same.'

'I cannot tell what your wishes are,' she replied. 'I never was
more in the dark on any subject in my life. My wishes at present
are confined to a desire to save you as far as may be possible from
the shame 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 servants to guard his wife. A husband without suspicions.'

'Emily,' exclaimed Nora Rowley, 'how can you say such things on
purpose to provoke him?'

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

'And have I not been provoked? Have I not been injured? You say
now that you have not suspected me, and yet in what condition do I
find myself? Because an old woman has chosen to talk scandal about
me, I am placed in a position in my own house which is disgraceful
to you and insupportable to myself. This man has been in the habit
of coming here on Sundays, and will, of course, know that we are
at home. You must manage it as you please. If you choose to receive
him, I will go upstairs.'

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

'Because Louis has made me promise that I will never willingly be
in his company again,' said Mrs Trevelyan. 'I would have given the
world 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 upstairs to the nursery. Trevelyan sat for an hour with
his book before him, reading or pretending to read, but his wife
did not come downstairs. Then Nora went up to her, and he descended
to his solitude below. So far he had hardly gained much by the
enforced obedience of his wife.

On the next morning the three went to church together; as they were
walking home Trevelyan's heart was filled with returning gentleness
towards his wife. He could not bear to be at wrath with her after
the church service which they had just heard together. But he was
softer-hearted than was she, and knowing this, was almost afraid
to say anything that would again bring forth from her expressions
of scorn. As soon as they were alone within the house he took 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
forget that I have been cautioned.' 'But cannot you bring yourself
to believe that I have meant it all for your good?'

'I have never doubted it, Louis never for a moment. But it has hurt
me to find that you should think that such caution was needed for
my good.'

It was almost on his tongue to beg her pardon, to acknowledge that
he had made a mistake, and to implore her to forget that he had
ever made an objection to Colonel Osborne's visit. He remembered
at this moment the painful odiousness of that 'Dear Emily;' but he
had to reconcile himself even to that, telling himself that, after
all, Colonel Osborne was an old man, a man older even than his
wife's father. If she would only have met him with gentleness, he
would have withdrawn his command, and have acknowledged that he had
been wrong. But she was hard, dignified, obedient, and resentful.
'It will, I think,' he said, 'be better for both of us that he
should be asked in to lunch today.'

'You must judge of that,' said Emily. 'Perhaps, upon the whole,
it will be best. I can only say that I will not be present. I will
lunch upstairs 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
were allowed to arrange themselves. Richard was told that Colonel
Osborne was coming to lunch, and when he came something was muttered
to him about Mrs Trevelyan being not quite well. It was Nora who
told the innocent fib, and though she did not tell it well, she did
her very best. She felt that her brother-in-law was very wretched,
and she was most anxious to relieve him. Colonel Osborne did not
stay long, and then Nora went upstairs to her sister.

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

Late in the afternoon his wife and sister-in-law came down dressed
for walking, and, finding Trevelyan in the library, they asked him
to join them; it was a custom with them to walk in the park on a
Sunday afternoon, and he at once assented, and went out with them.
Emily, who had had her triumph, was very gracious. There should not
be a word more said by her about Colonel Osborne. She would avoid
that gentleman, never receiving him in Curzon Street, and having
as little to say to him as possible elsewhere; but she would not
throw his name in her husband's teeth, or make any reference to
the injury which had so manifestly been done to her.  Unless Louis
should be indiscreet, it should be as though it had been forgotten.
As they walked by Chesterfield House and Stanhope Street into the
park, she began to discuss the sermon they had heard that morning,
and when she found that that subject was not alluring, she spoke
of a dinner to which they were to go at Mrs Fairfax's house. Louis
Trevelyan was quite aware that he was being treated as a naughty
boy, who was to be forgiven.

They went across Hyde Park into Kensington Gardens, and still the
same thing was going on.  Nora found it to be almost impossible
to say a word. Trevelyan answered his wife's questions, but was
otherwise silent. Emily worked very hard at her mission of forgiveness,
and hardly ceased in her efforts at conciliatory conversation. Women
can work so much harder in this way than men find it possible to
do! She never flagged, but continued to be fluent, conciliatory,
and intolerably wearisome. On a sudden they came across two men
together, who, as they all knew, were barely acquainted with each
other. These were 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
to baby as to anything else. Mr Stanbury, how is it we never see
you now?'

'It is the D.R., Mrs Trevelyan nothing else. The D.R. is a most
grateful mistress, but somewhat exacting. I am allowed a couple of
hours on Sundays, but otherwise my time is wholly passed in Fleet
Street.'

'How very unpleasant.'

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

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

'Certainly not with me, Mrs Trevelyan. I have never been put on
to take that branch yet.  Scruby does that with us, and does it
excellently. It was he who touched up the Ritualists, and then the
Commission, and then the Low Church bishops, till he didn't leave
one of 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
be saved.' Then he turned to Miss Rowley, and they two were soon
walking on 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 would
have avoided the position had it been possible for her to do so.
While they were falling into their present places, she had made a
little mute appeal to her husband to take her away from the spot,
to give her his arm and return with her, to save her in some way
from remaining in company with the man to whose company for her he
had objected; but he took no such step. It had seemed to him that
he could take no such step without showing his hostility to Colonel
Osborne.

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

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

'Beggars must not be choosers, you know, Colonel Osborne. I felt a
little disappointed when I found that we were not to see them till
February 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 be
better.'

'I suppose you think, Emily, that a little pudding today is better
than much tomorrow.'

Colonel Osborne certainly had a caressing, would-be affectionate
mode of talking to women, which, unless it were reciprocated and
enjoyed, was likely to make itself disagreeable. No possible words
could have been more innocent than those he had now spoken; but he
had turned his face down close to her face, and had almost whispered
them. And then, too, he had again called her by her Christian name.
Trevelyan had not heard the words. He had walked on, making the
distance between him and the other man greater than was necessary,
anxious to show 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 state of things, let the cost be what it might. She did not
say a word to Colonel Osborne, but addressed herself at once to her
husband.  'Louis,' she said, 'will you give me your arm? We will
go back, if you please.' Then she took her husband's arm and turned
herself and him abruptly away from their companion.

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

'It was quite unnecessary, Emily,' he said, 'that you should behave
like that.'

'Your suspicions,' she said, 'have made it almost impossible for
me to behave with propriety.'

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

'And it was requisite that he should be told,' said his wife. Then
they walked home without interchanging another word. When they
reached their house, Emily at once went up to her own room, and
Trevelyan to his. They parted as though they had no common interest
which 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 was
not his wife now in any sense that could bring to him a feeling of
domestic happiness. Her compliance with his command was of no use
to him unless she could be brought to comply in spirit. Unless she
would be soft to him he could not be happy. He walked about his
room uneasily for half-an-hour, trying to shake off his sorrow,
and then he went up to her room. 'Emily,' he said, 'for God's sake
let all this pass away.'

'What is to pass away?'

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

'Do you doubt my love?' said she.

'No; certainly not.'

'Nor I yours. Without love, Louis, you and I can not be happy.
But love alone will not make us so. There must be trust, and there
must also 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 he had gained nothing by the interview. She was still hard and
cold, and still assumed a tone which seemed to imply that she had
manifestly been the injured person.

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




CHAPTER VII

MISS JEMIMA STANBURY, OF EXETER


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
be hoped that no readers of these pages will be so un-English as
to be unable to appreciate the difference between county society
and town society, the society, that is, of a provincial town,
or so ignorant as not to know also that there may be persons so
privileged, that although they live distinctly within a provincial
town, there is accorded to them, as though by brevet rank, all the
merit of living in the county. In reference to persons so privileged,
it is considered that they have been made free from the contamination
of contiguous bricks and mortar by certain inner gifts, probably of
birth, occasionally of profession, possibly of merit. It is very
rarely, indeed, that money alone will bestow this acknowledged
rank; and in Exeter, which by the stringency and excellence of its
well-defined rules on such matters, may perhaps be said to take
the lead of all English provincial towns, money alone has never
availed. Good blood, especially if it be blood good in Devonshire,
is rarely rejected. Clergymen are allowed within the pale though
by no means as certainly as used to be the case; and, indeed, in
these days of literates, clergymen have to pass harder examinations
than those ever imposed upon them by bishops' chaplains, before
they are admitted ad eundem among the chosen ones of the city of
Exeter. The wives and daughters of the old prebendaries see well to
that. And, as has been said, special merit may prevail. Sir Peter
Mancrudy, the great Exeter physician, has won his way in, not
at all by being Sir Peter, which has stood in his way rather than
otherwise, but by the acknowledged excellence of his book about
saltzes. Sir Peter Mancrudy is supposed to have quite a metropolitan,
almost a European reputation and therefore is acknowledged to belong
to the county set, although he never dines out at any house beyond
the limits of the city. Now, let it be known that no inhabitant of
Exeter ever achieved a clearer right to be regarded as 'county,'
in opposition to 'town,' than had Miss Jemima Stanbury. There was
not a tradesman in Exeter who was not aware of it, and who did
not touch his hat to her accordingly. The men who drove the flies,
when summoned to take her out at night, would bring oats with them,
knowing how probable it was that they might have to travel far.
A distinct apology was made if she was asked to drink tea with
people who were simply 'town'. The Noels of Doddescombe Leigh, the
Cliffords of Budleigh Salterton, the Powels of Haldon, the Cheritons
of Alphington--all county persons, but very frequently in the
city--were greeted by her, and greeted her, on terms of equality.
Her most intimate friend was old Mrs MacHugh, the widow of the
last dean but two, who could not have stood higher had she been
the widow of the last bishop. And then, although Miss Stanbury
was intimate with the Frenches of Heavitree, with the Wrights of
Northernhay, with the Apjohns of Helion Villa, a really magnificent
house, two miles out of the city on the Crediton Road, and with
the Crumbies of Cronstadt House, Saint Ide's, who would have been
county people, if living in the country made the difference, although
she was intimate with all these families, her manner to them was
not the same, nor was it expected to be the same, as with those of
her own acknowledged set. These things are understood in Exeter so
well!

Miss Stanbury belonged to the county set, but she lived in a large
brick house, standing in the Close, almost behind the Cathedral.
Indeed it was so close to the eastern end of the edifice that a
carriage could not be brought quite up to her door. It was a large
brick house, very old, with a door in the middle, and five steps
ascending to it between high iron rails. On each side of the door
there were two windows on the ground floor, and above that there
were three tiers of five windows each, and the house was double
throughout, having as many windows looking out behind into a gloomy
courtyard. But the glory of the house consisted in this, that there
was a garden attached to it, a garden with very high walls, over
which the boughs of trees might be seen, giving to the otherwise
gloomy abode a touch of freshness in the summer, and a look of space
in the winter, which no doubt added something to the reputation
even of Miss Stanbury.  The fact for it was a fact that there was
no gloomier or less attractive spot in the whole city than Miss
Stanbury's garden, when seen inside, did not militate against this
advantage. There were but half-a-dozen trees, and a few square
yards of grass that was never green, and a damp ungravelled path on
which no one ever walked. Seen from the inside the garden was not
much; but, from the outside, it gave a distinct character to the
house, and produced an unexpressed acknowledgment that the owner
of it ought to belong 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
owner of the 'Cock and Bottle,' a very decent second class inn
on the other side of the Close, an inn supposed to have clerical
tendencies, which made it quite suitable for a close. The choristers
took their beer there, and the landlord was a retired verger. Nearly
the whole of one side of a dark passage leading out of the Close
towards the High Street belonged to her; and though the passage be
narrow and the houses dark, the locality is known to be good for
trade. And she owned two large houses in the High Street, and a
great warehouse at St. Thomas's, and had been bought out of land
by the Railway at St. David's much to her own dissatisfaction, as
she was wont to express herself, but, undoubtedly, at a very high
price. It will be understood therefore, that Miss Stanbury was
wealthy, and that she was bound to the city in which she lived by
peculiar ties.

But Miss Stanbury had not been born to this wealth, nor can she
be said to have inherited from her forefathers any of these high
privileges which had been awarded to her. She had achieved them
by the romance of her life and the manner in which she had carried
herself amidst its vicissitudes. Her father had been vicar of
Nuncombe Putney, a parish lying twenty miles west of Exeter, among
the moors. And on her father's death, her brother, also now dead,
had become vicar of the same parish--her brother, whose only son,
Hugh. Stanbury, we already know, working for the 'D. R.' up in
London. When Miss 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 various misfortunes arose, how Mr Burgess quarrelled with the
Stanbury family, how Jemima quarrelled with her own family, how,
when her father died, she went out from Nuncombe Putney parsonage,
and lived on the smallest pittance in a city lodging, how her lover
was untrue to her and did not marry her, and how at last he died
and left her every shilling that he possessed.

The Devonshire people, at the time, had been much divided as to
the merits of the Stanbury quarrel. There were many who said that
the brother could not have acted otherwise than he did; and that Miss
Stanbury, though by force of character and force of circumstances
she had weathered the storm, had in truth been very indiscreet.
The results, however, were as have been described. At the period
of which we treat, Miss Stanbury was a very rich lady, living by
herself in Exeter, admitted, without question, to be one of the
county set, and still at variance with her brother's family. Except
to Hugh, she had never spoken a word to one of them since her
brother's death. When the money came into her hands, she at that
time being over forty, and her nephew being then just ten years old,
she had undertaken to educate him, and to start him in the world.
We know how she had kept her word, and how and why she had withdrawn
herself from any further responsibility in the matter.

And in regard to this business of starting the young man she had
been careful 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
proposal to her brother, she had been careful to let it be understood
that simple education was all that she intended to bestow upon him
'and that only,' she had added, 'in the event of my surviving till
his education be completed.' And to Hugh himself she had declared
that any 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 of ground from whence to make his first leap. We know how he
made that leap, infinitely to the disgust of his aunt, who, when
he refused obedience 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 which she 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 pounds 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 be
his duty to earn his bread, as a means of earning it had come within
his reach. He might as well have spared himself the trouble. She
simply wrote a few words across his own letter in red ink: 'The
bread of unworthiness should never be earned or eaten;' and then'
sent the letter back under a blank envelope to her nephew.

She was a thorough Tory of the old school. Had Hugh taken to
writing for a newspaper that had cost sixpence, or even threepence
for its copies, she might perhaps have forgiven him. At any rate
the offence would not have been so flagrant. And had the paper been
conservative instead of liberal, she would have had some qualms
of conscience before she gave him up. But to live by writing for
a newspaper! and for a penny newspaper!! and for a penny radical
newspaper!!! It was more than she could endure. Of what nature
were the articles which he contributed it was impossible that she
should have any idea, for no consideration would have induced her
to look at a penny newspaper, or to admit it within her doors. She
herself took in the John Bull and the Herald, and daily groaned
deeply at the way in which those once great organs of true British
public feeling were becoming demoralised and perverted. Had any
reduction been made in the price of either of them, she would at
once have stopped her subscription. In the matter of politics she
had long since come to think that every thing good was over. She
hated the name of Reform so much that she could not bring herself
to believe in Mr Disraeli and his bill. For many years she had
believed in Lord Derby. She would fain believe in him still if she
could. It was the great desire of her heart to have some one in
whom she believed. In the bishop of her diocese she did believe,
and annually sent him some little comforting present from her own
hand. And in two or three of the clergymen around her she believed,
finding in them a flavour of the unascetic godliness of ancient
days which was gratifying to her palate. But in politics there
was hardly a name remaining to which she could fix her faith and
declare that there should be her guide. For awhile she, thought
she would cling to Mr Lowe; but, when she made inquiry, she found
that there was no base there of really well-formed conservative
granite. The three gentlemen who had dissevered themselves from
Mr Disraeli when