Books: He Knew He Was Right

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'It is the deuce of a nuisance certainly,' said Stansbury, through the
cloud of smoke thinking now not at all of Mrs Trevelyan, but of Mrs
Trevelyan's sister.

'It makes a man almost feel that he had better not marry at all,' said
Trevelyan.

'I don't see that. Of course there may come troubles. The tiles may
fall on your head, you know, as you walk through the streets. As far as
I can see, women go straight enough nineteen times out of twenty. But
they don't like being what I call looked after.'

'And did I look after my wife more than I ought?'

'I don't mean that; but if I were married which I never shall be, for I
shall never attain to the respectability of a fixed income I fancy I
shouldn't look after my wife at all. It seems to me that women hate to
be told about their duties.'

'But if you saw your wife, quite innocently, falling into an improper
intimacy taking up with people she ought not to know doing that in
ignorance, which could not but compromise yourself wouldn't you speak a
word then?'

'Oh! I might just say, in an off-hand way, that Jones was a rascal, or
a liar, or a fool, or anything of that sort. But I would never caution
her against Jones. By George, I believe a woman can stand anything
better than that.'

'You have never tried it, my friend.'

'And I don't suppose I ever shall. As for me, I believe Aunt Stanbury
was right when she said that I was a radical vagabond. I dare say I
shall never try the thing myself, and therefore it's very easy to have
a theory. But! must be off. Good night, old fellow. I'll do the best I
can; and, at any rate, I'll let you know the truth.'

There had been a question during the day as to whether Stanbury should
let his sister know by letter that he was expected; but it had been
decided that he should appear at Nuncombe without any previous
notification of his arrival. Trevelyan had thought that this was very
necessary, and when Stanbury had urged that such a measure seemed to
imply suspicion, he had declared that in no other way could the truth
be obtained. He, Trevelyan, simply wanted to know the facts as they
were occurring. It was a fact that Colonel Osborne was down in
the neighbourhood of Nuncombe Putney. That, at least, had been
ascertained. It might very possibly be the case that he would be
refused admittance to the Clock House that all the ladies there would
combine to keep him out. But so Trevelyan urged the truth on this point
was desired. it was essentially necessary to his happiness that he
should know what was being done.

'Your mother and sister,' said he, 'cannot be afraid of your coming
suddenly among them.'

Stanbury, so urged, had found it necessary to yield, but yet he had
felt that he himself was almost acting like a detective policeman, in
purposely falling down upon them without a word of announcement. Had
chance circumstances made it necessary that he should go in such a
manner he would have thought nothing of it. It would simply have been a
pleasant joke to him.

As he went down by the train on the following day, he almost felt
ashamed of the part which he had been called upon to perform.

CHAPTER XXI - SHEWING HOW COLONEL OSBORNE WENT TO COCKCHAFFINGTON

Together with Miss Stanbury's first letter to her sister-in-law a
letter had also been delivered to Mrs Trevelyan. Nora Rowley, as her
sister had left the room with this in her hand, had expressed her
opinion that it had come from Trevelyan; but it had in truth been
written by Colonel Osborne. And when that second letter from Miss
Stanbury had been received at the Clock House that in which she in
plain terms begged pardon for the accusation conveyed in her first
letter Colonel Osborne had started on his deceitful little journey to
Cockchaffington, and Mr Bozzle, the ex-policeman who had him in hand,
had already asked his way to Nuncombe Putney.

When Colonel Osborne learned that Louis Trevelyan had broken up his
establishment in Curzon Street, and had sent his wife away into a
barbarous retirement in Dartmoor for such was the nature of the
information on the subject which was spread among Trevelyan's friends
in London and when he was made aware also that all this was done on his
account because he was so closely intimate with Trevelyan's wife, and
because Trevelyan's wife was, and persisted in continuing to be, so
closely intimate with him his vanity was gratified. Although it might
be true and no doubt was true that he said much to his friends and to
himself of the deep sorrow which he felt that such a trouble should
befall his old friend and his old friend's daughter; nevertheless, as
he curled his grey whiskers before the glass, and made the thost of
such remnant of hair as was left on the top of his head, as he looked
to the padding of his coat, and completed a study of the wrinkles
beneath his eyes, so that in conversation they might be as little
apparent as possible, he felt more of pleasure than of pain in regard
to the whole affair. It was very sad that it should be so, but it was
human. Had it been in his power to set the whole matter right by a
word, he would probably have spoken that word; but as this was not
poisible, as Trevelyan had in his opinion made a gross fool of himself,
as Emily Trevelyan was very nice, and not the less nice in that she
certainly was fond of himself, as great tyranny had been used towards
her, and as he himself had still the plea of old family friendship to
protect his conscience to protect his conscience unless he went so far
as to make that plea an additional sting to his conscience he thought
that, as a man, he must follow up the matter. Here was a young, and
fashionable, and very pretty woman banished to the wilds of Dartmoor
for his sake. And, as far as he could understand, she would not have
been so banished had she consented to say that she would give up her
acquaintance with him. In such circumstances as these was it possible
that he should do nothing? Various ideas ran through his head. He began
to think that if Trevelyan were out of the way, he might might perhaps
be almost tempted to make this woman his wife. She was so nice that he
almost thought that he might be rash enough for that, although he knew
well the satisfaction of being a bachelor but as the thought suggested
itself to him, he was well aware that he was thinking of a thing quite
distant from him. The reader is not to suppose that Colonel Osborne
meditated any making-away with the husband. Our colonel was certainly
not the man for a murder. Nor did he even think of running away with
his friend's daughter. Though he told himself that he could dispose of
his wrinkles satisfactorily, still he knew himself and his powers
sufficiently to be aware that he was no longer fit to be the hero of
such a romance as that. He acknowledged to himself that there was much
labour to be gone through in running away with another man's wife; and
that the results, in respect to personal comfort, are not always happy.
But what if Mrs Trevelyan were to divorce herself from her husband on
the score of her husband's cruelty? Various horrors were related as to
the man's treatment of his wife. By some it was said that she was in
the prison on Dartmoor or, if not actually in the prison, an
arrangement which the prison discipline might perhaps make difficult
that she was in the custody of one of the prison warders who possessed
a prim cottage and a grim wife, just outside the prison walls. Colonel
Osborne did not himself believe even so much as this, but he did
believe that Mrs Trevelyan had been banished to some inhospitable
region, to some dreary comfortless abode, of which, as the wife of a
man of fortune, she would have great ground to complain. So thinking,
he did not probably declare to himself that a divorce should be
obtained, and that, in such event, he would marry the lady but ideas
came across his mind in that direction. Trevelyan was a cruel
Bluebeard; Emily as he was studious to call Mrs Trevelyan was a dear
injured saint. And as for himself, though he acknowledged to himself
that the lumbago pinched him now and again, so that he could not rise
from his chair with all the alacrity of youth, yet, when he walked
along Pall Mall with his coat properly buttoned, he could not but
observe that a great many young women looked at him with admiring eyes.

It was thus with no settled scheme that the Colonel went to work, and
made inquiries, and ascertained Mrs Trevelyan's address in Devonshire.
When he learned it, he thought that he had done much; though, in truth,
there had been no secrecy in the matter. Scores of people knew Mrs
Trevelyan's address besides the newsvendor who supplied her paper, from
whose boy Colonel Osborne's servant obtained the information. But when
the information had been obtained, it was expedient that it should be
used; and therefore Colonel Osborne wrote the following letter:

'Acrobats Club, July 31, 186-

Dear Emily,'

Twice the Colonel wrote Dearest Emily, and twice he tore the sheet on
which the words were written. He longed to be ardent, but still it was
so necessary to be prudent! He was not quite sure of the lady. Women
sometimes tell their husbands, even when they have quarrelled with
them. And, although ardent expressions in writing to pretty women are
pleasant to male writers, it is not pleasant for a gentleman to be
asked what on earth he means by that sort of thing at his tune of life.
The Colonel gave half an hour to the consideration, and then began the
letter, Dear Emily. If prudence be the soul of valour, may it not be
considered also the very mainspring, or, perhaps, the pivot of love?

'Dear Emily

I need hardly tell you with what dismay I have heard of all that has
taken place in Curzon Street. I fear that you must have suffered much,
and that you are suffering now. It is an inexpressible relief to me to
hear that you have your child with you, and Nora. But, nevertheless, to
have your home taken away from you, to be sent out of London, to be
banished from all society! And for what? The manner in which the minds
of some men work is quite incomprehensible.

As for myself, I feel that I have lost the company of a friend whom
indeed I can very ill spare. I have a thousand things to say to you,
and among them one or two which I feel that I must say that I ought to
say. As it happens, an old schoolfellow of mine is Vicar of
Cockchaffington, a village which I find by the map is very near to
Nuncombe Putney. I saw him in town last spring, and he then asked me to
pay him a visit. There is something in his church which people go to
see, and though I don't understand churches much, I shall go and see
it. I shall run down on Wednesday, and shall sleep at the inn at
Lessboro'. I see that Lessboro' is a market town, and I suppose there
is an inn. I shall go over to my friend on the Thursday, but shall
return to Lessboro'. Though a man be ever so eager to see a church
doorway, he need not sleep at the parsonage. On the following day, I
will get over to Nuncombe Putney, and I hope that you will see me.
Considering my long friendship with you, and my great attachment to
your father and mother, I do not think that the strictest martinet
would tell you that you need hesitate in the matter.

I have seen Mr Trevelyan twice at the club, but he has not spoken to
me. Under such circumstances I could not of course speak to him.
Indeed, I may say that my feelings towards him just at present are of
such a nature as to preclude me from doing so with any appearance of
cordiality.

Dear Emily,

Believe me now, as always, your affectionate friend,

Frederic Osborne.'

When he read that letter over to himself a second time he felt quite
sure that he had not committed himself. Even if his friend were to send
the letter to her husband, it could not do him any harm. He was aware
that he might have dilated more on the old friendship between himself
and Sir Marmaduke, but he experienced a certain distaste to the mention
of things appertaining to years long past. It did not quite suit him in
his present frame of mind to speak of his regard in those
quasi-paternal terms which he would have used had it satisfied him to
represent himself simply as her father's friend. His language therefore
had been a little doubtful, so that the lady might, if she were so
minded, look upon him in that tender light in which her husband had
certainly chosen to regard him.

When the letter was handed to Mrs Trevelyan, she at once took it with
her up to her own room, so that she might be alone when she read it.
The handwriting was quite familiar to her, and she did not choose that
even her sister should see it. She had told herself twenty times over
that, while living at Nuncombe Putney, she was not living under the
guardianship of Mrs Stanbury. She would consent to live under the
guardianship of no one, as her husband did not choose to remain with
her and protect her. She had done no wrong, and she would submit to no
other authority, than that of her legal lord and master. Nor, according
to her views of her own position, was it in his power to depute that
authority to others. He had caused the separation, and now she must be
the sole judge of her own actions. In itself, a correspondence between
her and her father's old friend was in no degree criminal or even
faulty. There was no reason, moral, social, or religious, why an old
man, over fifty, who had known her all her life, should not write to
her. But yet she could not say aloud before Mrs Stan-bury, and
Priscilla, and her sister, that she had received a letter from Colonel
Osborne. She felt that the colour had come to her cheek, and that she
could not even walk out of the room as though the letter had been a
matter of indifference to her.

And would it have been a matter of indifference had there been nobody
there to see her? Mrs Trevelyan was certainly not in love with Colonel
Osborne. She was not more so now than she had been when her father's
friend, purposely dressed for the occasion, had kissed her in the
vestry of the church in which she was married, and had given her a
blessing, which was then intended to be semi-paternal as from an old
man to a young woman. She was not in love with him never would be,
never could be in love with him. Reader, you may believe in her so far
as that. But where is the woman, who, when she is neglected, thrown
over, and suspected by the man that she loves, will not feel the desire
of some sympathy, some solicitude, some show of regard from another
man? This woman's life, too, had not hitherto been of such a nature
that the tranquillity of the Clock House at Nuncombe Putney afforded to
her all that she desired. She had been there now a month, and was
almost sick from the want of excitement. And she was full of wrath
against her husband. Why had he sent her there to break her heart in, a
disgraceful retirement, when she had never wronged him? From morning to
night she had no employment, no amusement, nothing to satisfy her
cravings. Why was she to be doomed to such an existence? She had
declared that as long as she could have her boy with her, she would be
happy. She was allowed to have her boy; but she was anything but happy.
When she received Colonel Osborne's letter while she held it in her
hand still unopened, she never for a moment thought that that could
make her happy. But there was in it something of excitement. And she
painted the man to herself in brighter colours now than she had ever
given to him in her former portraits. He cared for her. He was gracious
to her. He appreciated her talents, her beauty, and her conduct. He
knew that she deserved a treatment very different from that accorded to
her by her husband. Why should she reject the sympathy of her father's
oldest friend, because her husband was madly jealous about an old man?
Her husband had chosen to send her away, and to leave her, so that she
must act on her own judgment. Acting on her own judgment, she read
Colonel Osborne's letter from first to last. She knew that he was wrong
to speak of coming to Nuncombe Putney; but yet she thought that she
would see him. She had a dim perception that she was standing on the
edge of a precipice, on broken ground which might fall under her
without a moment's warning, and yet she would not retreat from the
danger. Though Colonel Osborne was wrong, very wrong in coming to see
her, yet she liked him for coming. Though she would be half afraid to
tell her news to Mrs Stanbury, and more than half afraid to tell
Priscilla, yet she liked the excitement of the fear. Nora would scold
her; but Nora's scolding she thought she could answer. And then it was
not the fact that Colonel Osborne was coming down to Devonshire to see
her. He was coming as far as Lessboro' to see his friend at
Cockchaffington. And when at Lessboro', was it likely that he should
leave the neighbourhood without seeing the daughter of his old ally?
And why should he do so?

Was he to be unnatural in his conduct, uncivil, and unfriendly, because
Mr Trevelyan had been foolish, suspicious, and insane?

So arguing with herself, she answered Colonel Osborne's letter before
she had spoken on the subject to any one in the house and this was her
answer:

'My dear Colonel Osborne,

I must leave it to your own judgment to decide whether you will come to
Nuncombe Putney or not. There are reasons which would seem to make it
expedient that you should stay away even though circumstances are
bringing you into the immediate neighbourhood. But of these reasons I
will leave you to be the judge. I will never let it be said that I
myself have had cause to dread the visit of any old friend.
Nevertheless, if you stay away, I shall understand why you do so.

Personally, I shall be glad to see you as I have always been. It seems
odd to me that I cannot write in warmer tones to my father's and
mother's oldest friend. Of course, you will understand that though I
shall readily see you if you call, I cannot ask you to stay. In the
first place, I am not now living in my own house. I am staying with Mrs
Stanbury, and the place is called the Clock House.

Yours very sincerely,

Emily Trevelyan.'

The Clock House, Nuncombe Putney, Monday.'

Soon after she had written it, Nora came into her room, and at once
asked concerning the letter which she had seen delivered to her sister
that morning.

'It was from Colonel Osborne,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

'From Colonel Osborne! How very wrong!'

'I don't see that it is wrong at all. Because Louis is foolish and mad,
that cannot make another man wrong for doing the most ordinary thing in
the world.'

'I had hoped it had been from Louis,' said Nora.

'Oh dear, no. He is by no means so considerate. I do not suppose I
shall hear from him, till he chooses to give some fresh order about
myself or my child. He will hardly trouble himself to write to me,
unless he take up some new freak to show me that he is my master.

'And what does Colonel Osborne say?'

'He is coming here.'

'Coming here?' almost shouted Nora.

'Yes; absolutely here. Does it sound to you as if Lucifer himself were
about to show his face. The fact is he happens to have a friend in the
neighbourhood whom he has long promised to visit; and as he must be at
Lessboro', he does not choose to go away without the compliment of a
call. It will be as much to you as to me.'

'I don't want to see him in the least,' said Nora.

'There is his letter. As you seem to be so suspicious you had better
read it.'

Then Nora read it.

'And there is a copy of my answer,' said Mrs Trevelyan. 'I shall keep
both, because I know so well what ill-natured things people will say.'

'Dear Emily, do not send it,' said Nora.

'Indeed I shall. I will not be frightened by bugbears And I will not be
driven to confess to any man on earth that I am afraid to see him. Why
should I be afraid of Colonel Osborne? I will not submit to acknowledge
that there can be any danger in Colonel Osborne. Were I to do so I
should be repeating the insult against myself. If my husband wished to
guide me in such matters why did he not stay with me?'

Then she went out into the village and posted the letter. Nora
meanwhile was thinking whether she would call in the assistance of
Priscilla Stanbury; but she did not like to take any such a step in
opposition to her sister.

CHAPTER XXI - SHEWING HOW COLONEL OSBORNE WENT TO NUNCOMBE PUTNEY

Colonel Osborne was expected at Nuncombe Putney on the Friday, and, it
was Thursday evening before either Mrs Stanbury or Priscilla was told
of his coming. Emily had argued the matter with Nora, declaring that
she would make the communication herself, and that she would make it
when she pleased, and how she pleased. 'If Mrs Stanbury thinks,' said
she, 'that I am going to be treated as a prisoner, or that I will not
judge myself as to whom I may see, or whom I may not see, she is very
much mistaken.' Nora felt that were she to give information to those
ladies in opposition to her sister's wishes, she would express
suspicion on her own part by doing so; and she was silent. On that same
Thursday Priscilla had written her last defiant letter to her aunt that
letter in which she had cautioned her aunt to make no further
accusation without being sure of her facts. To Priscilla's imagination
that coming of Lucifer in person, of which Mrs Trevelyan had spoken,
would hardly have been worse than the coming of Colonel Osborne. When,
therefore, Mrs Trevelyan declared the fact on the Thursday evening,
vainly endeavouring to speak of the threatened visit in an ordinary
voice, and as of an ordinary circumstance, it was as though a
thunderbolt had fallen upon them.

'Colonel Osborne coming here!' said Priscilla, mindful of the Stanbury
correspondence mindful of the evil tongues of the world.

'And why not?' demanded Mrs Trevelyan, who had heard nothing of the
Stanbury correspondence.

'Oh dear, oh dear!' ejaculated Mrs Stanbury, who, of course, was aware
of all that had passed between the Clock House and the house in the
Close, though the letters had been written by her daughter.

Nora was determined to stand up for her sister, whatever might be the
circumstances of the case. 'I wish Colonel Osborne were not coming,'
said she, 'because it makes a foolish fuss; but I cannot understand how
anybody can suppose it to be wrong that Emily should see papa's very
oldest friend in the world.'

'But why is he coming?' demanded Priscilla.

'Because he wants to see an acquaintance at Cockchaffington;' said Mrs
Trevelyan; 'and there is a wonderful church-door there.'

'A church-fiddlestick!' said Priscilla.

The matter was debated throughout all the evening. At one time there
was a great quarrel between the ladies, and then there was a
reconciliation. The point on which Mrs Trevelyan stood with the
greatest firmness was this that it did not become her, as a married
woman 'whose conduct had always been good and who was more careful as
to that than she was even of her name, to be ashamed to meet any man.
'Why should I not see Colonel Osborne, or Colonel anybody else who
might call here with the same justification for calling which his old
friendship gives him?' Priscilla endeavoured to explain to her that her
husband's known wishes ought to hinder her from doing so. 'My husband
should have remained with me, to express his wishes,' Mrs Trevelyan
replied.

Neither could Mrs Stanbury nor could Priscilla bring herself to say
that the man should not be admitted into the house. In the course of
the debate, in the heat of her anger, Mrs Trevelyan declared that were
any such threat held out to her, she would leave the house and see
Colonel Osborne in the Street, or at the inn.

'No, Emily; no,' said Nora.

'But I will. I will not submit to be treated as a guilty woman, or as a
prisoner. They may say what they like, but I won't be shut up.'

'No one has tried to shut you up,' said Priscilla.

'You are afraid of that old woman at Exeter,' said Mrs Trevelyan; for
by this time the facts of the Stanbury correspondence had all been
elicited in general conversation; 'and yet you know how uncharitable
and malicious she is.'

'We are not afraid of her,' said Priscilla. 'We are afraid of nothing
but of doing wrong.'

'And will it be wrong to let an old gentleman come into the house,'
said Nora, 'who is nearly sixty, and who has known us ever since we
were born?'

'If he is nearly sixty, Priscilla,' said Mrs Stanbury, 'that does seem
to make a difference.' Mrs Stanbury herself was only just sixty, and
she felt herself to be quite an old woman.

'They may be devils at eighty,' said Priscilla.

'Colonel Osborne is not a devil at all,' said Nora.

'But mamma is so foolish,' said Priscilla. 'The man's age does not
matter in the least.'

'I beg your pardon, my dear,' said Mrs Stanbury, very humbly.

At that time the quarrel was raging, but afterwards came the
reconciliation. Had it not been for the Stanbury correspondence the
fact of Colonel Osborne's threatened visit would have been admitted as
a thing necessary as a disagreeable necessity; but how was the visit to
be admitted and passed over in the teeth of that correspondence?
Priscilla felt very keenly the peculiar cruelty of her position. Of
course, Aunt Stanbury would hear of the visit. Indeed, any secrecy in
the matter was not compatible with Priscilla's ideas of honesty. Her
aunt had apologised humbly for having said that Colonel Osborne had
been at Nuncombe. That apology, doubtless, had been due. Colonel
Osborne had not been at Nuncombe when the accusation had been made, and
the accusation had been unjust and false. But his coming had been
spoken of by Priscilla in her own letters as an occurrence which was
quite out of the question. Her anger against her aunt had been for
saying that the man had come, not for objecting to such a visit. And
now the man was coming, and Aunt Stanbury would know all about it. How
great, how terrible, how crushing would be Aunt Stanbury's triumph!