Books: He Knew He Was Right

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He blew forth quick clouds of heavy smoke, as he attempted to make
himself believe that this was all for the best. What would such a one
as he was do with a wife? Or, seeing as he did see, that marriage
itself was quite out of the question, how could it be good either for
him or her that they should be tied together by a long engagement? Such
a future would not at all suit the purpose of his life. In his life
absolute freedom would be needed freedom from unnecessary ties, freedom
from unnecessary burdens. His income was most precarious and he
certainly would not make it less so by submission to any closer
literary thraldom. And he believed himself to be a Bohemian too much of
a Bohemian to enjoy a domestic fireside with children and slippers. To
be free to go where he liked, and when he liked, to think as he
pleased, to be driven nowhere by conventional rules, to use his days,
Sundays as well as Mondays, as he pleased to use them; to turn
Republican, if his mind, should take him that way or Quaker, or Mormon
or Red Indian, if he wished it, and in so turning to do no damage to
any one but himself that was the life which he had planned for himself.
His aunt Stanbury had not read his character altogether wrongly, as he
thought, when she had once declared that decency and godliness were
both distasteful to him. Would it not be destruction to such a one as
he was, to fall into an interminable engagement with any girl, let her
be ever so sweet?

But yet, he felt as he sat there filling pipe after pipe, smoking away
till past midnight, that though he could not bear the idea of trammels,
though he was totally unfit for matrimony, either present or in
prospect he felt that he had within his breast a double identity, and
that that other division of himself would be utterly crushed if it were
driven to divest itself of the idea of love. Whence was to come his
poetry, the romance of his life, the springs of clear water in which
his ignoble thoughts were to be dipped till they should: become pure,
if love was to be banished altogether from the list of delights that
were possible to him? And then he began to speculate on love that love
of which poets wrote, and of which he found that some sparkle was
necessary to give light to his life. Was it not the one particle of
divine breath given to man, of which he had heard since he was a boy?
And how was this love to be come at, and was it to be a thing of
reality, or merely an idea? Was it a pleasure to be attained or a
mystery that charmed by the difficulties of the distance a distance
that never could be so passed that the thing should really be reached?
Was love to be ever a delight, vague as is that feeling of unattainable
beauty which far-off mountains give, when you know that you can never
place yourself amidst their unseen valleys? And if love could be
reached the love of which the poets sing, and of which his own heart
was ever singing what were to be its pleasures? To press a hand, to
kiss a lip, to clasp a waist, to hear even the low voice of the
vanquished, confessing loved one as she hides her blushing cheek upon
your shoulder what. is it all but to have reached the once mysterious
valley of your far-off mountain, and to have found that it is as other
valleys rocks and stones, with a little, grass, and a thin stream of
running water? But beyond that pressing of the hand, and that kissing
of the lips beyond that short-lived pressure of the plumage which is
common to birds and men what could love do beyond that? There were
children with dirty faces and household bills, and a wife, who must,
perhaps, always darn the stockings and be sometimes cross. Was love to
lead only to this a dull life, with a woman who had lost the beauty
from her cheeks, and the gloss from her hair, and the music from her
voice, and the fire from her eye and the grace from her step, and whose
waist an arm should no longer be able to span? Did the love of the
poets lead to that, and that only? Then, through the cloud of smoke,
there came upon him some dim idea of self-abnegation that the
mysterious valley among the mountains, the far-off prospect of which
was so charming to him which made the poetry of his life, was, in fact,
the capacity of caring more for other human beings than for himself.
The beauty of it all was not so much in the thing loved, as in the
loving. 'Were she a cripple, hunchbacked, eyeless' he said to, himself,
'it might be the same. Only she must be a woman.' Then he blew off a
great cloud of smoke, and went into bed lost amid poetry, philosophy,
love, and tobacco.

It had been arranged overnight that he was to start the next morning at
half-past seven, and Priscilla had promised to give him his breakfast
before he went. Priscilla, of course, kept her word. She was one of
those women who would take a grim pleasure in coming down to make the
tea at any possible hour at five, at four, if it were needed and who
would never want to go to bed again when the ceremony was performed.
But when Nora made her appearance Nora, who had beer dainty both
Priscilla and Hugh were surprised. They could not say why she was there
nor could Nora tell herself. She had not forgiven him. She had no
thought of being gentle and loving to him. She declared to herself that
she had no wish of saying good-bye to him once again. But yet she was
in the room, waiting for him, when he came down to his breakfast. She
had been unable to sleep, and. had reasoned with herself as to the
absurdity of lying in, bed awake, when she preferred to be up and out
of the house. It was true that she had not been out of her bed at seven
any morning since she had been at Nuncombe Putney; but that was no
reasons why she should not be more active on this special morning.
There was a noise in the house, and she never could sleep when there
was a noise. She was quite sure that she was not going down because she
wished to see Hugh Stanbury, but she was equally sure that it would be
a disgrace to her to be deterred from going down, simply because the
man was there. So she descended to the parlour, and was standing near
the open window when Stanbury bustled into the room, some quarter of an
hour after the proper time. Priscilla was there also, guessing
something of the truth, and speculating whether these two young people,
should they love each other, would be the better or the worse for such
love. There must be marriages if only that the world might go on in
accordance with the Creator's purpose. But, as Priscilla could see,
blessed were they who were not called upon to assist in the scheme. To
her eyes all days seemed to be days of wrath, and all times, times of
tribulation. And it was all mere vanity and vexation of spirit. To go
on and bear it till one was dead helping others to bear it, if such
help might be of avail that was her theory of life. To make it pleasant
by eating, and drinking, and dancing, or even by falling in love, was,
to her mind, a vain crunching of ashes between the teeth. Not to have
ill things said of her and of, hers, not to be disgraced, not to be
rendered incapable of some human effort, not to have actually to starve
such was the extent of her ambition in this world. And for the next she
felt so assured of, the goodness of God that she could not bring
herself to doubt of happiness in a world that was to be eternal. Her
doubt was this, whether it was really the next world which would be
eternal. Of eternity she did not doubt but might there not be, many
worlds? These, things, however, she kept almost entirely to herself.
'You down!' Priscilla had said.

'Well, yes; I could not sleep when I heard you all moving. And the
morning is so fine, and I thought that perhaps you would go out and
walk after your brother has gone.' Priscilla promised that she would
walk, and then the tea was made.

'Your sister and I are going out for an early walk' said Nora, when she
was greeted by Stanbury. Priscilla said, nothing, but thought she
understood it all.

'I wish I were going with you' said Hugh. Nora, remembering how very
little he had made of his opportunity on the evening before, did not
believe him.

The eggs and fried bacon were eaten in a hurry, and very little was
said. Then there came the moment for parting. The brother and sister
kissed each other, and Hugh took Nora by the hand 'I hope you make
yourself happy here' he said.

'Oh, yes if it were only for myself I should want nothing.'

'I will do the best, I can with Trevelyan.'

'The best will be to make him and every one understand that the fault
is altogether his, and not Emily's.'

'The best will be to make each think that there has been no real
fault,' said Hugh.

'There should be no talking of faults,' said Priscilla. 'Let the
husband take his wife back as he is bound to do.'

These words occupied hardly a minute in the saying, but during that
minute Hugh Stanbury held Nora by the hand. He held it fast. She would
not attempt to withdraw it, but neither would she return his pressure
by the muscle of a single finger. What right had he to press her hand;
or to make any sign of love, any pretence of loving, when he had gone
out of his way to tell her that she was not good enough for him? Then
he started, and Nora and Priscilla put on their hats arid left the
house.

'Let us go to Niddon Park,' said Nora.

'To Niddon Park again?'

'Yes; it is so beautiful! And I should like to see it by the morning
light. There is plenty of time.'

So they walked to Niddon Park in the morning, as they had done on the
preceding evening. Their conversation at first regarded Trevelyan and
his wife, and the old trouble; but Nora could not keep herself from
speaking of Hugh Stanbury.

'He would not have come,' she said, 'unless Louis had sent him.'

'He would not have come now, I think.'

'Of course not why should he before Parliament was hardly over, too?
But he won't remain in town now, will he?'

'He says somebody must remain and I think he will be in London till
near Christmas.'

'How disagreeable! But I suppose he doesn't care. It's all the same to
a man like him. They don't shut the clubs up, I dare say. Will he come
here at Christmas?'

'Either then or for the New Year--just for a day or two.'

'We shall be gone then, I suppose?' said Nora.

'That must depend on Mr Trevelyan,' said Priscilla.

'What a life for two women to lead to depend upon the caprice of a man
who must be mad! Do you think that Mr Trevelyan will care for what your
brother says to him?'

'I do not know Mr Trevelyan.

'He is very fond of your brother, and I suppose men friends do listen
to each other. They never seem to listen to women. Don't you think
that, after all, they despise women? They look on them as dainty,
foolish things.'

'Sometimes women despise men,' said Priscilla.

'Not very often do they? And then women are so dependent on men. A
woman can get nothing without a man.'

'I manage to get on somehow,' said Priscilla.

'No, you don't, Miss Stanbury if you think of it. You want mutton. And
who kills the sheep?

'But who cooks it?'

'But the men-cooks are the best,' said Nora; 'and the men-tailors, and
the men to wait at table, and the men poets, and the men-painters, and
the men-nurses. All the things that women do, men do better.'

'There are two things they can't do,' said Priscilla.

'What: are they?'

'They can't suckle babies, and they can't forget themselves.'

'About the babies, of course not. As for forgetting themselves I am not
quite so sure that I can forget myself. That is just where your brother
went down last night.'

They had at this moment reached the top of the steep slope below which
the river ran brawling among the rocks, and Nora seated herself exactly
where she had sat on the previous evening.

'I have been down scores of times,' said Priscilla.

'Let us go now.'

'You wouldn't go when Hugh asked you yesterday.'

'I didn't care then. But do come now if you don't mind the climb.' Then
they went down the slope and reached the spot from whence Hugh Stanbury
had jumped from rock to rock across the stream. 'You have never been
out there, have you?' said Nora.

'On the rocks? Oh, dear, no! I should be sure to fall.'

'But he went; just like a goat.'

'That's one of the things that men can do, I suppose,' said Priscilla.
'But I don't see any great glory in, being like a goat.'

'I do. I should like to be able to go, and I think I'll try. It is so
mean to be dainty and weak.'

'I don't think it at all dainty to keep dry feet.'

'But he didn't get his feet wet,' said Nora. 'Or if he did, he didn't
mind. I can see at once that I should be giddy and tumble down if I
tried it.'

'Of course you would.'

'But he didn't tumble down.'

'He has been doing it all his life,' said Priscilla.

'He can't do it up in London. When I think of myself, Miss Stanbury, I
am so ashamed. There is nothing that I can do. I couldn't write an
article for a newspaper.

'I think I could. But I fear no one would read it.'

'They read his,' said Nora, 'or else he wouldn't be paid for writing
them.' Then they climbed back again up the hill, and during the
climbing there were no words spoken. The slope was not much of a hill
was no more than the fall from the low ground of the valley to the
course which the river had cut for itself; but it was steep while it
lasted; and both the young women were forced to pause for a minute
before they could proceed upon their journey. As they walked home
Priscilla spoke of the scenery, and of the country, and of the nature
of the life which she and her mother and sister had passed at Nuncombe
Putney. Nora said but little till they were just entering the village,
and then she went back to the subject of her thoughts. 'I would
sooner,' said she, 'write for a newspaper than do anything else in the
world.'

'Why so?'

'Because it is so noble to teach people everything! And then a man who
writes for a newspaper must know so many things himself! I believe
there are women who do it, but very few. One or two have done it, I
know.'

'Go and tell that to Aunt Stanbury, and hear what she will say about
such women.'

'I suppose she is very prejudiced.'

'Yes; she is; but she is a clever woman. I am inclined to think women
had better not write for newspapers.'

'And why not?' Nora asked.

'My reasons would take me a week to explain, and I doubt whether I have
them very clear in my own head. In the first place there is that
difficulty about the babies. Most of them must get married, you know.'

'But not all,' said Nora.

'No; thank God; not all.'

'And if you are not married you might write for a newspaper. At any
rate, if I were you, I should be very proud of my brother.'

'Aunt Stanbury is not at all proud of her nephew,' said Priscilla, as
they entered the house.

CHAPTER XXVI - A THIRD PARTY IS SO OBJECTIONABLE

Hugh Stanbury went in search of Trevelyan immediately on his return to
London, and found his friend at his rooms in Lincoln's Inn.

'I have executed my commission,' said Hugh, endeavouring to speak of
what he had done in a cheery voice.

'I am much obliged to you, Stanbury very much; but I do not know that I
need trouble you to tell me anything about it.'

'And why not?'

'I have learned it all from that man.'

'What man?'

'From Bozzle. He has come back, and has been with me, and has learned
everything.'

'Look here, Trevelyan when you asked me to go down to Devonshire, you
promised me that there should be nothing more about Bozzle. I expect
you to put that rascal, and all that he has told you, out of your head
altogether. You are bound to do so for my sake, and you will be very
wise to do so for your own.'

'I was obliged to see him when he came.'

'Yes, and to pay him, I do not doubt. But that is all done, and should
be forgotten.'

'I can't forget it. Is it true or untrue that he found that man down
there? Is it true or untrue that my wife received Colonel Osborne at
your mother's house? Is it true or untrue that Colonel: Osborne went
down there with the express object of seeing her? Is it true or untrue
that they had corresponded? It is nonsense to bid me to forget all
this. You might as well ask me to forget that I had desired her neither
to write to him, nor to see him.'

'If I understand the matter,' said Trevelyan, 'you are incorrect in one
of your assertions.'

'In which?'

'You must excuse me if I am wrong, Trevelyan; but I don't think you
ever did tell your wife not to see this man, or not to write to him?'

'I never told her! I don't understand what you mean.'

'Not in so many words. It is my belief that she has endeavoured to obey
implicitly every clear instruction that you have given her.'

'You are wrong absolutely and altogether wrong. Heaven and earth! Do
you mean to tell me now, after all that has taken place, that she did
not know my wishes?'

'I have not said that. But you, have chosen to place her in such a
position, that though your word would go for much with her, she cannot
bring herself to respect your wishes.'

'And you call that being dutiful and affectionate!'

'I call it human and reasonable; and I think that it is compatible with
duty and affection. Have you consulted her wishes?'

'Always!'

'Consult them now then, and bid her come back to you.'

'No never! As far as I can see, I will never do so. The moment she is
away from me this man goes to her, and she receives him. She must have
known that she was wrong and you must know it.'

'I do not think that she is half so wrong as you yourself,' said
Stanbury. To this Trevelyan made no answer, and they both remained
silent some minutes. Stanbury had a communication to make before he
went, but it was one which he wished to delay as long as there was a
chance that his friend's heart might be softened one which he need not
make if Trevelyan would consent to receive his wife back to his house.
There was the day's paper lying on the table, and Stanbury had taken it
up and was reading it or pretending to read it.

'I will tell you what I propose to do,' said Trevelyan.

'Well.'

'It is best both for her and for me that we should be apart.'

'I cannot understand how you can be so mad as to say so.'

'You don't understand what I feel. Heaven and earth! To have a man
coming and going. But, never mind. You do not see it, and nothing will
make you see it. And there is no reason why you should.'

'I certainly do not see it. I do not believe that your wife cares more
for Colonel Osborne, except as an old friend of her father's, than she
does for the fellow that sweeps the crossing. It is a matter in which I
am bound to tell you what I think.'

'Very well. Now, if you have freed your mind, I will tell you my
purpose. I am bound to do so, because your people are concerned in it.
I shall go abroad.'

'And leave her in England?'

'Certainly. She will be safer here than she can, be abroad unless she
should choose to go back with her father to the islands.'

'And take the boy?'

'No I could not permit that. What I intend is this. I will give her 800
pounds a year, as long as I have reason to believe that she has no
communication whatever, either by word of mouth or by letter, with that
man. If she does, I will put the case immediately into the hands of my
lawyer, with instructions to him to ascertain from counsel what
severest steps I can take.'

'How I hate that word severe, when applied to a woman.'

'I dare say you do when applied to another man's wife. But there will
be no severity in my first proposition. As for the child if I approve
of the place in which she lives, as I do at present he shall remain
with her for nine months in the year till he is six years old. Then he
must come to me. And he shall come to me altogether if she sees or
hears from that man. I believe that 800 pounds a year will enable her
to live with all comfort under your mother's roof.''

'As to that,' said Stanbury, slowly, 'I suppose I had better tell you
at once, that the Nuncombe Putney arrangement cannot be considered as
permanent.'

'Why not?'

'Because my mother is timid, and nervous, and altogether unused to the
world.'

'That unfortunate woman is to be sent away even from Nuncombe Putney!'

'Understand me, Trevelyan.'

'I understand you. I understand you most thoroughly. Nor do I wonder at
it in the least. Do not suppose that I am angry with your mother, or
with you, or with your sister. I have no right to expect that they
should keep her after that man has made his way into their house. I can
well conceive that no honest, high-minded lady would do so.'

'It is not that at all.'

'But it is that. How can you tell me that it isn't? And yet you would
have me believe that I am not disgraced!' As he said this Trevelyan got
up, and walked about the room, tearing his hair with his hands. He was
in truth a wretched man, from whose mind all expectation of happiness,
was banished, who regarded his own position as one of incurable
ignominy, looking upon himself as one who had been made unfit for
society by no fault of his own. 'What was he to do with the wretched
woman who could be kept from the evil of her pernicious vanity by no
gentle custody, whom no most distant retirement would make safe from
the effects of her own ignorance, folly, and obstinacy? 'When is she to
go?' he asked in a low, sepulchral tone as though these new tidings
that had come upon him had been fatal laden with doom, and finally
subversive of all chance even of tranquillity.

'When you and she may please.'

'That is all very well but let me know the truth. I would not have your
mother's house contaminated; but may she remain there for a week?'

Stanbury jumped from his seat with an oath. 'I tell you what it is,
Trevelyan if you speak of your wife in that way, I will not listen to
you. It is unmanly and untrue to say that her presence can contaminate
any house.'

'That is very fine. It may be chivalrous in you to tell me on her
behalf that I am a liar and that I am not a man.'

'You drive me to it.'

'But what am I to think when you are forced to declare that this
unfortunate woman can not be allowed to remain at your mother's house a
house which has been especially taken with reference to a shelter for
her? She has been received with the idea that she would be discreet.
She has been indiscreet, past belief, and she is to be turned out most
deservedly. Heaven and earth! Where shall I find a roof for her head?'
Trevelyan as he said this was walking about the room with his hands
stretched up towards the ceiling; and as his friend was attempting to
make him comprehend that there was no intention on the part of anyone
to banish Mrs Trevelyan from the Clock House, at least for some months
to come not even till after Christmas unless some satisfactory
arrangement could be sooner made the door of the room was opened by the
boy, who called himself a clerk, and who acted as Trevelyan's servant
in the chambers, and a third person was shown into the room. That third
person was Mr Bozzle. As no name was given, Stanbury did not at first
know Mr Bozzle, but he had not had his eye on Mr Bozzle for half a
minute before he recognised the ex-policeman by the outward attributes
and signs of his profession. 'Oh; is that you, Mr Bozzle?' said
Trevelyan, as soon as the great man had made his bow of salutation.
'Well what is it?'

'Mr Hugh Stanbury, I think,' said Bozzle, making another bow to the
young barrister.

'That's my name,' said Stanbury.

'Exactly so, Mr S. The identity is one as I could prove on oath in any
court in England. You was on the railway platform at Exeter on Saturday
when we was waiting for the 12 express 'buss wasn't you now, Mr S?'

'What's that to you?'

'Well as it do happen, it is something to me. And, Mr S, if you was
asked that question in any court in England or before even one of the
metropolitan bekes, you wouldn't deny it.'

'Why the devil should I deny it? What's all this about, Trevelyan?'

'Of course you can't deny it, Mr S. When I'm down on a fact, I am down
on it. Nothing else wouldn't do in my profession.'

'Have you anything to say to me, Mr Bozzle?' asked Trevelyan.

'Well I have; just a word.'

'About your journey to Devonshire?'

'Well in a way it is about my journey to Devonshire. It's all along of
the same job, Mr Trewillian.'

'You can speak before my friend here,' said Trevelyan. Bozzle had taken
a great dislike to Hugh Stanbury, regarding the barrister with a
correct instinct as one who was engaged for the time in the same
service with himself and who was his rival in that service. When thus
instigated to make as it were a party of three in this delicate and
most confidential matter, and to take his rival, into his confidence,
he shook his head slowly and looked Trevelyan hard in the face 'Mr
Stanbury is my particular friend,' said Trevelyan, 'and knows well the
circumstances of this unfortunate affair. You can say anything before
him.'

Bozzle shook his head again. 'I'd rayther not, Mr Trewillian,' said he.
'Indeed I'd rayther not. It's something very particular.'