Books: He Knew He Was Right

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

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

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

'They say that he can hardly live above a month or two. He will never
see my wife if I can have a wife; but I should like to tell him, if it
were possible that--'

'I understand you, Mr Glascock.'

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

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

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

'No,' she said, and there was something almost of fierceness in the
tone of her voice as she answered him.

'And must that be your final answer to me?'

'Mr Glascock, what can I say?' she replied. 'I will you the honest
truth I will tell you everything. I came into this room determined to
accept you. But you are so good, and so kind, and so upright, that I
cannot tell you a falsehood. I do not love you. I ought not to take
what you offer me. If I did, it would be because you are rich, and a
lord; and not because I love you. I love some one else. There pray,
pray do not tell of me; but I do.' Then she flung away from him and hid
her face in a corner of the sofa out of the light.

Her lover stood silent, not knowing how to go on with the conversation,
not knowing how to bring it to an end. After what she had now said to
him it was impossible that he should press her further. It was almost
impossible that he should wish to do so. When a lady is frank enough to
declare that her heart is not her own to give, a man can hardly wish to
make further prayer for the gift. 'If so,' he said, 'of course I have
nothing to hope.'

She was sobbing, and could not answer him. She was half repentant,
partly proud of what she had done half repentant in that she had lost
what had seemed to her to be so good, and full of remorse in that she
had so unnecessarily told her secret.

'Perhaps,' said he, 'I ought to assure you that what you have told me
shall never be repeated by my lips.'

She thanked him for this by a motion of her head and hand, not by words
and then he was gone. How he managed to bid adieu to Mrs Stanbury and
her sister, or whether he saw them as he left the house, she never
knew. In her corner of the sofa, weeping in the dark, partly proud and
partly repentant, she remained till her sister came to her. 'Emily,'
she said, jumping up, 'say nothing about it; not a word. It is of no
use. The thing is done and over, and let it altogether be forgotten.'

'It is done and over, certainly,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'Exactly; and I suppose a girl may do what she likes with herself in
that way. If I choose to decline to take anything that is pleasant, and
nice, and comfortable, nobody has a right to scold me. And I won't be
scolded.'

'But, my child, who is scolding you?'

'You mean to scold me. But it is of no use. The man has gone, and there
is an end of it. Nothing that you can say or I can think will bring him
back again. I don't want anybody to tell me that it would be better to
be Lady Peterborough, with everything that the world has to give, than
to live here without a soul to speak to, and to have to go back to
those horrible islands next year. You can't think that I am very
comfortable.'

'But what did you say to him, Nora?'

'What did I say to him? What could I say to him? Why didn't he ask me
to be his wife without saying anything about love? He asked me if I
loved him. Of course I don't love him. I would have said I did, but it
stuck in my throat. I am willing enough, I believe, to sell myself to
the devil, but I don't know how to do it. Never mind. It's done, and
now I'll go to bed.'

She did go to bed, and Mrs Trevelyan explained to the two ladies as
much as was necessary of what had occurred. When Mrs Stanbury came to
understand that the gentleman who had been closeted with her would,
probably, in a few months be a lord himself, that he was a very rich
man, a member of Parliament, and one of those who are decidedly born
with gold spoons in their mouths, and understood also that Nora Rowley
had refused him, she was lost in amazement. Mr Glascock was about forty
years of age, and appeared to Nora Rowley, who was nearly twenty years
his junior, to be almost an old man. But to Mrs Stanbury, who was over
sixty, Mr Glascock seemed to be quite in the flower of his age. The
bald place at the top of his head simply showed that he had passed his
boyhood, and the grey hairs at the back of his whiskers were no more
than outward signs of manly discretion. She could not understand why
any girl should refuse such an offer, unless the man were himself bad
in morals, or in temper. But Mrs Trevelyan had told her while Nora and
Mr Glascock were closeted together, that he was believed by them all to
be good and gentle. Nevertheless she felt a considerable increase of
respect for a young lady who had refused the eldest son of a lord.
Priscilla, when she heard what had occurred, expressed to her mother a
moderated approval. According to her views a girl would much more often
be right to refuse an offer of marriage than to accept it, let him who
made the offer be who he might. And the fact of the man having been
sent away with a refusal somewhat softened Priscilla's anger at his
coming there at all.

'I suppose he is a goose,' said she to her mother, 'and I hope there
won't be any more of this kind running after them while they are with
us.'

Nora, when she was alone, wept till her heart was almost broken. It was
done, and the man was gone, and the thing was over. She had quite
sufficient knowledge of the world to realise perfectly the difference
between such a position as that which had been offered to her, and the
position which in all probability she would now be called upon to fill.
She had had her chance, and Fortune had placed great things at her
disposal. It must said of her also that the great things which Fortune
had offered to her were treasures very valuable in her eyes. Whether it
be right and wise to covet or to desire wealth and rank, there was no
doubt but that she coveted them. She had been instructed to believe in
them, and she did believe in them. In some mysterious manner of which
she herself knew nothing, taught by some preceptor the nobility of
whose lessons she had not recognised though she had accepted them, she
had learned other things also to revere truth and love, and to be
ambitious as regarded herself of conferring the gift of her whole heart
upon some one whom she could worship as a hero. She had spoken the
simple truth when she had told her sister that she had been willing to
sell herself to the devil, but that she had failed in her attempt to
execute the contract. But now as she lay weeping on her bed, tearing
herself with remorse, picturing to herself in the most vivid colours
all that she had thrown away, telling herself of all that she might
have done and all she might have been, had she not allowed the insane
folly of a moment to get the better of her, she received little or no
comfort from the reflection that she had been true to her better
instincts. She had told the man that she had refused him because she
loved Hugh Stanbury at least, as far as she could remember what had
passed, she had so told him. And how mean it was of her to allow
herself to be actuated by an insane passion for a man who had never
spoken to her of love, and how silly of her afterwards to confess it!
Of what service could such a passion be to her life? Even were it
returned, she could not marry such a one as Hugh Stanbury. She knew
enough of herself to be quite sure that were he to ask her to do so
tomorrow, she would refuse him. Better go and be scorched, and bored to
death, and buried at the Mandarins, than attempt to regulate a poor
household which, as soon as she made one of its number, would be on the
sure road to ruin! For a moment there came upon her, not a thought,
hardly an idea something of a waking dream that she would write to Mr
Glascock and withdraw all that she had said. Were she to do so he would
probably despise her, and tell her that he despised her but there might
be a chance. It was possible that such a declaration would bring him
back to her and did it not bring him back to her she would only be
where she was, a poor lost, shipwrecked creature, who had flung herself
upon the rocks and thrown away her only chance of a prosperous voyage
across the ocean of life; her only chance, for she was not like other
girls, who at any rate remain on the scene of action, and may refit
their spars and still win their way. For there were to be no more
seasons in London, no more living in Curzon Street, no renewed power of
entering the ball-rooms and crowded staircases in which high-born
wealthy lovers can be conquered. A great prospect had been given to
her, and she had flung it aside! That letter of retractation was,
however, quite out of the question. The reader must not suppose that
she had ever thought that she could write it. She thought of nothing
but of coming misery and remorse. In her wretchedness she fancied that
she had absolutely disclosed to the man who loved her the name of him
whom she had been mad enough to say that she loved. But what did it
matter? Let it be as it might, she was destroyed.

The next morning she came down to breakfast pale as a ghost; and they
who saw her knew at once that she had done that which had made her a
wretched woman.

CHAPTER XVIII - THE STANBURY CORRESPONDENCE

Half an hour after the proper time, when the others had finished their
tea and bread and butter, Nora Rowley came down among them pale as a
ghost. Her sister had gone to her while she was dressing, but she had
declared that she would prefer to be alone. She would be down directly,
she had said, and had completed her toilet without even the assistance
of her maid. She drank her cup of tea and pretended to eat her toast;
and then sat herself down, very wretchedly, to think of it all again.
It had been all within her grasp all of which she had ever dreamed! And
now it was gone! Each of her three companions strove from time to time
to draw her into conversation, but she seemed to be resolute in her
refusal. At first, till her utter prostration had become a fact plainly
recognised by them all, she made some little attempt at an answer when
a direct question was asked of her; but after a while she only shook
her head, and was silent, giving way to absolute despair.

Late in the evening she went out into the garden, and Priscilla
followed her. It was now the end of July, and the summer was in its
glory. The ladies, during the day, would remain in the drawing-room
with the windows open and the blinds down, and would sit in the evening
reading and working, or perhaps pretending to read and work, under the
shade of a cedar which stood upon the lawn. No retirement could
possibly be more secluded than was that of the garden of the Clock
House. No stranger could see into it, or hear sounds from out of it.
Though it was not extensive, it was so well furnished with those
charming garden shrubs which, in congenial soils, become large trees,
that one party of wanderers might seem to be lost from another amidst
its walls. On this evening Mrs Stanbury and Mrs Trevelyan had gone out
as usual, but Priscilla had remained with Nora Rowley. After a while
Nora also got up and went through the window all alone. Priscilla,
having waited for a few minutes, followed her; and caught her in a long
green walk that led round the bottom of the orchard.

'What makes you so wretched?' she said.

'Why do you say I am wretched?'

'Because it's so visible. How is one to go on living with you all day
and not notice it?'

'I wish you wouldn't notice it. I don't think it kind of you to notice
it. If I wanted to talk of it, I would say so.'

'It is better generally to speak of a trouble than to keep it to
oneself,' said Priscilla.

'All the same, I would prefer not to speak of mine,' said Nora.

Then they parted, one going one way and one the other, and Priscilla
was certainly angry at the reception which had been given to the
sympathy which she had proffered. The next day passed almost without a
word spoken between the two. Mrs Stanbury had not ventured as yet to
mention to her guest the subject of the rejected lover, and had not
even said much on the subject to Mrs Trevelyan. Between the two sisters
there had been, of course, some discussion on the matter. It was
impossible that it should be allowed to pass without it; but such
discussions always resulted in an assertion on the part of Nora that
she would not be scolded. Mrs Trevelyan was very tender with her, and
made no attempt to scold her tried, at last, simply to console her; but
Nora was so continually at work scolding herself, that every word
spoken to her on the subject of Mr Glascock's visit seemed to her to
carry with it a rebuke.

But on the second day she herself accosted Priscilla Stanbury. 'Come
into the garden,' she said, when they two were for a moment alone
together; 'I want to speak to you.' Priscilla, without answering,
folded up her work and put on her hat. 'Come down to the green walk,'
said Nora. 'I was savage to you last night, and I want to beg your
pardon.'

'You were savage,' said Priscilla, smiling, 'and you shall have my
pardon. Who would not pardon you any offence, if you asked it?'

'I am so miserable!' she said.

'But why?'

'I don't know. I can't tell. And it is of no use talking about it now,
for it is all over. But I ought not to have been cross to you, and I am
very sorry.'

'That does not signify a straw; only so far, that when I have been
cross, and have begged a person's pardon which I don't do as often as I
ought I always feel that it begets kindness. If I could help you in
your trouble I would.'

'You can't fetch him back again.'

'You mean Mr Glascock. Shall I go and try?'

Nora smiled and shook her head. 'I wonder what he would say if you
asked him. But if he came, I should do the same thing.'

'I do not in the least know what you have done, my dear. I only see
that you mope about, and are more down in the mouth than any one ought
to be, unless some great trouble has come.'

'A great trouble has come.'

'I suppose you have had your choice either to accept your lover or to
reject him.'

'No; I have not had my choice.'

'It seems to me that no one has dictated to you; or, at least, that you
have obeyed no dictation.'

'Of course, I can't explain it to you. It is impossible that I should.'

'If you mean that you regret what you have done because you have been
false to the man, I can sympathise with you. No one has ever a right to
be false, and if you are repenting a falsehood, I will willingly help
you to eat your ashes and to wear your sackcloth. But if you are
repenting a truth--'

'I am.'

'Then you must eat your ashes by yourself, for me; and I do not think
that you will ever be able to digest them.'

'I do not want anybody to help me,' said Nora proudly.

'Nobody can help you, if I understand the matter rightly. You have got
to get the better of your own covetousness and evil desires, and you
are in the fair way to get the better of them if you have already
refused to be this man's wife because you could not bring yourself to
commit the sin of marrying him when you did not love him. I suppose
that is about the truth of it; and indeed, indeed, I do sympathise with
you. If you have done that, though it is no more than the plainest
duty, I will love you for it. One finds so few people that will do any
duty that taxes their self-indulgence.'

'But he did not ask me to marry him.'

'Then I do not understand anything about it.'

'He asked me to love him.'

'But he meant you to be his wife?'

'Oh yes he meant that of course.'

'And what did you say?' asked Priscilla.

'That I didn't love him,' replied Nora.

'And that was the truth?'

'Yes it was the truth.'

'And what do you regret? that you didn't tell him a lie?'

'No not that,' said Nora slowly.

'What then? You cannot regret that you have not basely deceived a man
who has treated you with a loving generosity?' They walked on silent
for a few yards, and then Priscilla repeated her question. 'You cannot
mean that you are sorry that you did not persuade yourself to do evil?'

'I don't want to go back to the islands, and to lose myself there, and
to be nobody that is what I mean. And I might have been so much! Could
one step from the very highest rung of the ladder to the very lowest
and not feel it?'

'But you have gone up the ladder if you only knew it,' said Priscilla.
'There was a choice given to you between the foulest mire of the clay
of the world, and the sunlight of the very God. You have chosen the
sunlight, and you are crying after the clay! I cannot pity you; but I
can esteem you, and love you, and believe in you. And I do. You'll 'get
yourself right at last, and there's my hand on it, if you'll take it.'
Nora took the hand that was offered to her, held it in her own for some
seconds, and then walked back to the house and up to her own room in
silence.

The post used to come into Nuncombe Putney at about eight in the
morning, carried thither by a wooden-legged man who rode a donkey.
There is a general understanding that the wooden-legged men in country
parishes should be employed as postmen, owing to the great steadiness
of demeanour which a wooden leg is generally found to produce. It may
be that such men are slower in their operations than would be biped
postmen; but as all private employers of labour demand labourers with
two legs, it is well that the lame and halt should find a refuge in the
less exacting service of the government. The one-legged man who rode
his donkey into Nuncombe Putney would reach his post-office not above
half an hour after his proper time; but he was very slow in stumping
round the village, and seldom reached the Clock House much before ten.
On a certain morning two or three days after the conversation just
recorded it was past ten when he brought two letters to the door, one
for Mrs Trevelyan, and one for Mrs Stanbury. The ladies had finished
their breakfast, and were seated together at an open window. As was
usual, the letters were given into Priscilla's hands, and the newspaper
which accompanied them into those of Mrs Trevelyan, its undoubted
owner. When her letter was handed to her, she looked at the address
closely and then walked away with it into her own room.

'I think it's from Louis,' said Nora, as soon as the door was closed.
'If so, he is telling her to come back.'

'Mamma, this is for you,' said Priscilla. 'It is from Aunt Stanbury. I
know her handwriting.'

'From your aunt? What can she be writing about? There is something
wrong with Dorothy.' Mrs Stanbury held the letter but did not open it.
'You had better read it, my dear. If she is ill, pray let her come
home.'

But the letter spoke of nothing amiss as regarded Dorothy, and did not
indeed even mention Dorothy's name. Luckily Priscilla read the letter
in silence, for it was an angry letter. 'What is it, Priscilla? Why
don't you tell me? Is anything wrong?' said Mrs Stanbury.

'Nothing is wrong, mamma except that my aunt is a silly woman.'

'Goodness me! what is it?'

'It is a family matter,' said Nora smiling, 'and I will go.

'What can it be?' demanded Mrs Stanbury again as soon as Nora had left
the room.

'You shall hear what it can be. I will read it to you,' said Priscilla.
'It seems to me that of all the women that ever lived my Aunt Stanbury
is the most prejudiced, the most unjust, and the most given to evil
thinking of her neighbours. This is what she has thought fit to write
to you, mamma.' Then Priscilla read her aunt's letter, which was as
follows:

'The Close, Exeter, July 31, 186-.

Dear Sister Stanbury,

I am informed that the lady who is living with you because she could
not continue to live under the same roof with her lawful husband, has
received a visit at your house from a gentleman who was named as her
lover before she left her own. I am given to understand that it was
because of this gentleman's visits to her in London, and because she
would not give up seeing him, that her husband would not live with her
any longer.'

'But the man has never been here at all,' said Mrs Stanbury, in dismay.

'Of course he has not been here. But let me go on.'

'I have got nothing to do with your visitors,' continued the letter,
'and I should not interfere but for the credit of the family. There
ought to be somebody to explain to you that much of the abominable
disgrace of the whole proceeding will rest upon you, if you permit such
goings on in your house. I suppose it is your house. At any rate you
are regarded as the mistress of the establishment, and it is for you to
tell the lady that she must go elsewhere. I do hope that you have done
so, or at least that you will do so now. It is intolerable that the
widow of my brother a clergyman should harbour a lady who is separated
from her husband and who receives visits from a gentleman who is
reputed to be her lover. I wonder much that your eldest daughter should
countenance such a proceeding.

Yours truly,

JEMIMA STANBURY.'

Mrs Stanbury, when the letter had been read to her, held up both her
hands in despair. 'Dear, dear,' she exclaimed. 'Oh, dear!'

'She had such pleasure in writing it,' said Priscilla, 'that one ought
hardly to begrudge it her.' The blackest spot in the character of
Priscilla Stanbury was her hatred for her aunt in Exeter. She knew that
her aunt had high qualities, and yet she hated her aunt. She was well
aware that her aunt was regarded as a shining light by very many good
people in the county, and yet she hated her aunt. She could not but
acknowledge that her aunt had been generous to her brother, and was now
very generous to her sister, and yet she hated her aunt. It was now a
triumph to her that her aunt had fallen into so terrible a quagmire,
and she was by no means disposed to let the sinning old woman easily
out of it.

'It is as pretty a specimen,' she said, 'as I ever knew of malice and
eaves-dropping combined.'

'Don't use such hard words, my dear.'

'Look at her words to us,' said Priscilla. 'What business has she to
talk to you about the credit of the family and abominable disgrace? You
have held your head up in poverty, while she has been rolling in
money.'

'She has been very good to Hugh and now to Dorothy.'

'If I were Dorothy I would have none of her goodness. She likes some
one to trample on some one of the name to patronise. She shan't trample
on you and me, mamma.'

Then there was a discussion as to what should be done; or rather a
discourse in which Priscilla explained what she thought fit to do.
Nothing, she decided, should be said to Mrs Trevelyan on the subject;
but an answer should be sent to Aunt Stanbury. Priscilla herself would
write this answer, and herself would sign it. There was some difference
of opinion on this point, as Mrs Stanbury thought that if she might be
allowed to put her name to it, even though Priscilla should write it,
the wording of it would be made, in some degree, mild to suit her own
character. But her daughter was imperative, and she gave way.

'It shall be mild enough in words,' said Priscilla, 'and very short.'

Then she wrote her letter as follows:

'Nuncombe Putney, August 1, 186-.

Dear Aunt Stanbury,

You have found a mare's nest. The gentleman you speak of has never been
here at all, and the people who bring you news have probably hoaxed
you. I don't think that mamma has ever disgraced the family, and you
can have no reason for thinking that she ever will. You should, at any
rate, be sure of what you are saying before you make such cruel
accusations,

Yours truly,

'Priscilla Stanbury.

P.S. Another gentleman did call here not to see Mrs Trevelyan; but
I suppose mamma's house need not be closed against all visitors.'

Poor Dorothy had passed evil hours from the moment in which her aunt
had so far certified herself as to Colonel Osborne's visit to Nuncombe
as to make her feel it to be incumbent on her to interfere. After much
consideration Miss Stanbury had told her niece the dreadful news, and
had told also what she intended to do. Dorothy, who was in truth
horrified at the iniquity of the fact which was related, and who never
dreamed of doubting the truth of her aunt's information, hardly knew
how to interpose. 'I am sure mamma won't let there be anything wrong,'
she had said.