Books: He Knew He Was Right

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'Was I very terrible, Brooke?'

'My mother had told me, I fancy, that I was never to make a noise, and
be sure not to break any of the china. You were always very
good-natured, and when you gave me a silver watch I could hardly
believe the extent of my own bliss.'

'You wouldn't care about a watch from an old worn now, Brooke?'

'You try me. But what rakes you are here! It's past eleven o'clock, and
I must go and have a smoke.'

'Have a what?' said Miss Stanbury, with a startled air.

'A smoke. You needn't be frightened, I don't mean in the house.'

'No I hope you don't mean that.'

'But I may take a turn round the Close with a pipe mayn't I?'

'I suppose all young men do smoke now,' said Miss Stanbury,
sorrowfully.

'Every one of them; and they tell me that the young women mean to take
to it before long.'

'If I saw a young woman smoking, I should blush for my sex; and though
she were the nearest and dearest that I had, I would never speak to her
never. Dorothy, I don't think Mr Gibson smokes.'

'I'm sure I don't know, aunt.'

'I hope he doesn't. I do hope that he does not. I cannot understand
what pleasure it is that men take in making chimneys of themselves, and
going about smelling so that no one can bear to come near them.'

Brooke merely laughed at this, and went his way, and smoked his pipe
out in the Close, while Martha sat up to let him in when he had
finished it. Then Dorothy escaped at once to her room, fearful of being
questioned by her aunt about Mr Gibson. She had, she thought now, quite
made up her mind. There was nothing in Mr Gibson that she liked. She
was by no means so sure as she had been when she was talking to her
sister, that she would prefer a clergyman to any one else. She had
formed no strong ideas on the subject of lovemaking, but she did think
that any man who really cared for her, would find some other way of
expressing his love than that which Mr Gibson had adopted. And then Mr
Gibson had spoken to her about her aunt's money in a way that was
distasteful to her. She thought that she was quite sure that if he
should ask her, she would not accept him.

She was nearly undressed, nearly safe for the night, when there came a
knock at the door, and her aunt entered the room. 'He has come in,'
said Miss Stanbury.

'I suppose he has had his pipe, then.'

'I wish he didn't smoke. I do wish he didn't smoke. But I suppose an
old woman like me is only making herself a fool to care about such
things. If they all do it I can't prevent them. He seems to be a very
nice young man in other things; does he not, Dolly?'

'Very nice indeed, Aunt Stanbury.'

'And he has done very well in his office. And as for his saying that he
must smoke, I like that a great deal better than doing it on the sly.'

'I don't think Mr Burgess would do anything on the sly, aunt.'

'No, no; I don't think he would. Dear me; he's not at all like what I
fancied.'

'Everybody seemed to like him very much.'

'Didn't they. I never saw Sir Peter so much taken. And there was quite
a flirtation between him and Mrs MacHugh. And now, my dear, tell me
about Mr Gibson.'

'There is nothing to tell, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Isn't there? From what I saw going on, I thought there would be
something to tell. He was talking to you the whole evening.'

'As it happened he was sitting next to me of course.'

'Indeed he was sitting next to you so much so that I thought everything
would be settled.'

'If I tell you something, Aunt Stanbury, you mustn't be angry with me.'

'Tell me what? What is it you have to tell me?'

'I don't think I shall ever care for Mr Gibson not in that way.'

'Why not, Dorothy?'

'I'm sure he doesn't care for me. And I don't think he means it.'

'I tell you he does mean it. Mean it! Why, I tell you it has all been
settled between us. Since I first spoke to you I have explained to him
exactly what I intend to do, He knows that he can give up his house and
come and live here. I am sure he must have said something about it to
you tonight.'

'Not a word, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Then he will.'

'Dear aunt, I do so wish you would prevent it. I don't like him. I
don't indeed.'

'Not like him!'

'No I don't care for him a bit, and I never shall. I can't help it,
Aunt Stanbury. I thought I would try, but I find it would be
impossible. You can't want me to marry a man if I don't love him.'

'I never heard of such a thing in my life. Not love him! And why
shouldn't you love him? He's a gentleman. Everybody respects him. He'll
have plenty to make you comfortable all your life! And then why didn't
you tell me before?'

'I didn't know, Aunt Stanbury. I thought that perhaps--'

'Perhaps what?'

'I could not say all at once that I didn't care for him, when I had
never so much as thought about it for a moment before.'

'You haven't told him this?'

'No, I have not told him. I couldn't begin by telling him, you know.'

'Then I must pray that you will think about it again. Have you imagined
what a great thing for you it would be to be established for life so
that you should never have any more trouble again about a home, or
about money, or anything? Don't answer me now, Dorothy, but think of
it. It seemed to me that I was doing such an excellent thing for both
of you.' So saying Miss Stanbury left the room, and Dorothy was enabled
to obey her, at any rate, in one matter. She did think of it. She laid
awake thinking of it almost all the night. But the more she thought of
it, the less able was she to realise to herself any future comfort or
happiness in the idea of becoming Mrs Gibson.

CHAPTER XXXII - THE 'FULL MOON' AT ST. DIDDULPH'S

The receipt of Mrs Trevelyan's letter on that Monday morning was a
great surprise both to Mr and Mrs Outhouse. There was no time for any
consideration, no opportunity for delaying their arrival till they
should have again referred the matter to Mr Trevelyan. Their two nieces
were to be with them on that evening, and even the telegraph wires, if
employed with such purpose, would not be quick enough to stop their
coming. The party, as they knew, would have left Nuncombe Putney before
the arrival of the letter at the parsonage of St. Diddulph's. There
would have been nothing in this to have caused vexation, had it not
been decided between Trevelyan and Mr Outhouse that Mrs Trevelyan was
not to find a home at the parsonage. Mr Outhouse was greatly afraid of
being so entangled in the matter as to be driven to take the part of
the wife against the husband; and Mrs Outhouse, though she was full of
indignation against Trevelyan, was at the same time not free from anger
in regard to her own niece. She more than once repeated that most
unjust of all proverbs, which declares that there is never smoke
without fire, and asserted broadly that she did not like to be with
people who could not live at home, husbands with wives, and wives with
husbands, in a decent, respectable manner. Nevertheless the
preparations went on busily, and when the party arrived at seven
o'clock in the evening, two rooms had been prepared close to each
other, one for the two sisters, and the other for the child and nurse,
although poor Mr Outhouse himself was turned out of his own little
chamber in order that the accommodation might be given. They were all
very hot, very tired, and very dusty, when the cab reached the
parsonage. There had been the preliminary drive from Nuncombe Putney to
Lessboro'. Then the railway journey from thence to the Waterloo Bridge
Station had been long. And it had seemed to them that the distance from
the station to St. Diddulph's had been endless. When the cabman was
told whither he was to go, he looked doubtingly at his poor old horse,
and then at the luggage which he was required to pack on the top of his
cab, and laid himself out for his work with a full understanding that
it would not be accomplished without considerable difficulty. The
cabman made it twelve miles from Waterloo Bridge to St. Diddulph's, and
suggested that extra passengers and parcels would make the fare up to
ten and six. Had he named double as much Mrs Trevelyan would have
assented. So great was the fatigue, and so wretched the occasion, that
there was sobbing and crying in the cab, and when at last the parsonage
was reached, even the nurse was hardly able to turn her hand to
anything. The poor wanderers were made welcome on that evening without
a word of discussion as to the cause of their coming. 'I hope you are
not angry with us, Uncle Oliphant,' Emily Trevelyan had said, with
tears in her eyes. 'Angry with you, my dear for coming to our house!
How could I be angry with you?' Then the travellers were hurried
upstairs by Mrs Outhouse, and the master of the parsonage was left
alone for a while. He certainly was not angry, but he was ill at ease,
and unhappy. His guests would probably remain with him for six or seven
months. He had resolutely refused all payment from Mr Trevelyan, but,
nevertheless, he was a poor man. It is impossible to conceive that a
clergyman in such a parish as St. Diddulph's, without a private income,
should not be a poor man. It was but a hand-to-mouth existence which he
lived, paying his way as his money came to him, and sharing the
proceeds of his parish with the poor. He was always more or less in
debt. That was quite understood among the tradesmen. And the butcher
who trusted him, though he was a bad churchman, did not look upon the
parson's account as he did on other debts. He would often hint to Mr
Outhouse that a little money ought to be paid, and then a little money
would be paid. But it was never expected that the parsonage bill should
be settled. In such a household the arrival of four guests, who were
expected to remain for an almost indefinite number of months, could not
be regarded without dismay. On that first evening, Emily and Nora did
come down to tea, but they went up again to their rooms almost
immediately afterwards; and Mr Outhouse found that many hours of
solitary meditation were allowed to him on the occasion. 'I suppose
your brother has been told all about it,' he said to his wife, as soon
as they were together on that evening.

'Yes he has been told. She did not write to her mother till after she
had got to Nuncombe Putney. She did not like to speak about her
troubles while there was a hope that things might be made smooth.'

'You can't blame her for that, my dear.'

'But there was a month lost, or nearly. Letters go only once a month.
And now they can't hear from Marmaduke or Bessy,' Lady Rowley's name
was Bessy 'till the beginning of September.'

'That will be in a fortnight.'

'But what can my brother say to them? He will suppose that they are
still down in Devonshire.'

'You don't think he will come at once?'

'How can he, my dear? He can't come without leave, and the expense
would be ruinous. They would stop his pay, and there would be all
manner of evils. He is to come in the spring, and they must stay here
till he comes.' The parson of St. Diddulph's sighed and groaned. Would
it not have been almost better that he should have put his pride in his
pocket, and have consented to take Mr Trevelyan's money?

On the second morning Hugh Stanbury called at the parsonage, and was
closeted for a while with the parson. Nora had heard his voice in the
passage, and every one in the house knew who it was that was talking to
Mr Outhouse, in the little back parlour that was called a study. Nora
was full of anxiety. Would he ask to see them to see her? And why was
he there so long? 'No doubt he has brought a message from Mr
Trevelyan,' said her sister. 'I dare say he will send word that I ought
not to have come to my uncle's house.' Then, at last, both Mr Outhouse
and Hugh Stanbury came into the room in which they were all sitting.
The greetings were cold and unsatisfactory, and Nora barely allowed
Hugh to touch the tip of her fingers. She was very angry with him, and
yet she knew that her anger was altogether unreasonable. That he had
caused her to refuse a marriage that had so much to attract her was not
his sin not that; but that, having thus overpowered her by his
influence, he should then have stopped. And yet Nora had told herself
twenty times that it was quite impossible that she should become Hugh
Stanbury's wife and that, were Hugh Stanbury to ask her, it would
become her to be indignant with him, for daring to make a proposition
so outrageous. And now she was sick at heart, because he did not speak
to her!

He had, of course, come to St. Diddulph's with a message from
Trevelyan, and his secret was soon told to them all. Trevelyan himself
was upstairs in the sanded parlour of the Full Moon public-house, round
the corner. Mrs Trevelyan, when she heard this, clasped her hands and
bit her lips. What was he there for? If he wanted to see her, why did
he not come boldly to the parsonage? But it soon appeared that he had
no desire to see his wife. 'I am to take Louey to him,' said Hugh
Stanbury, 'if you will allow me.'

'What to be taken away from me!' exclaimed the mother. But Hugh assured
her that no such idea had been formed; that he would have concerned
himself in no such stratagem, and that he would himself undertake to
bring the boy back again within an hour. Emily was, of course, anxious
to be informed what other message was to be conveyed to her; but there
was no other message no message either of love or of instruction.

'Mr Stanbury,' said the parson, 'has left me something in my hands for
you.' This 'something' was given over to her as soon as Stanbury had
left the house, and consisted of cheques for various small sums,
amounting in all to 200 pounds. 'And he hasn't said what I am to do
with it?' Emily asked of her uncle. Mr Outhouse declared that the
cheques had been given to him without any instructions on that head. Mr
Trevelyan had simply expressed his satisfaction that his wife should be
with her uncle and aunt, had sent the money, and had desired to see the
child.

The boy was got ready, and Hugh walked with him in his arms round the
corner, to the Full Moon. He had to pass by the bar, and the barmaid
and the potboy looked at him very hard. 'There's a young 'ooman has to
do with that ere little game,' said the potboy 'And it's two to one the
young 'ooman has the worst of it,' said the barmaid. 'They mostly
does,' said the potboy, not without some feeling of pride in the
immunities of his sex. 'Here he is,' said Hugh, as he entered the
parlour. 'My boy, there's papa.' The child at this time was more than a
year old, and could crawl about and use his own legs with the
assistance of a finger to his little hand, and could utter a sound
which the fond mother interpreted to mean papa; for with all her hot
anger against her husband, the mother was above all things anxious that
her child Should be taught to love his father's name. She would talk of
her separation from her husband as though it must be permanent; she
would declare to her sister how impossible it was that they should ever
again live together; she would repeat to herself over and over the tale
of the injustice that had been done to her, assuring herself that it
was out of the question that she should ever pardon the man; but yet,
at the bottom of her heart, there was a hope that the quarrel should be
healed before her boy would be old enough to understand the nature of
quarrelling. Trevelyan took the child on to his knee, and kissed him;
but the poor little fellow, startled by his transference from one male
set of arms to another, confused by the strangeness of the room, and by
the absence of things familiar to his sight, burst out into loud tears.
He had stood the journey round the corner in Hugh's arms manfully, and,
though he had looked about him with very serious eyes, as he passed
through the bar, he had borne that, and his carriage up the stairs; but
when he was transferred to his father, whose air, as he took the boy,
was melancholy and lugubrious in the extreme, the poor little fellow
could endure no longer a mode of treatment so unusual, and, with a
grimace which for a moment or two threatened the coming storm, burst
out with an infantile howl. 'That's how he has been taught,' said
Trevelyan.

'Nonsense,' said Stanbury. 'He's not been taught at all. It's Nature.'

'Nature that he should be afraid of his own father! He did not cry when
he was with you.'

'No as it happened, he did not. I played with him when I was at
Nuncombe; but, of course, one can't tell when a child will cry, and
when it won't.'

'My darling, my dearest, my own son!' said Trevelyan, caressing the
child, and trying to comfort him; but the poor little fellow only cried
the louder. It was now nearly two months since he had seen his father,
and, when age is counted by months only, almost everything may be
forgotten in six weeks. 'I suppose you must take him back again,' said
Trevelyan, sadly.

'Of course, I must take him back again. Come along, Louey, my boy.'

'It is cruel very cruel,' said Trevelyan. 'No man living could love his
child better than I love mine or, for the matter of that, his wife. It
is very cruel.'

'The remedy is in your own hands, Trevelyan,' said Stanbury, as he
marched off with the boy in his arms.

Trevelyan had now become so accustomed to being told by everybody that
he was wrong, and was at the same time so convinced that he was right,
that he regarded the perversity of his friends as a part of the
persecution to which he was subjected. Even Lady Milborough, who
objected to Colonel Osborne quite as strongly as did Trevelyan himself,
even she blamed him now, telling him that he had done wrong to separate
himself from his wife. Mr Bideawhile, the old family lawyer, was of the
same opinion. Trevelyan had spoken to Mr Bideawhile as to the
expediency of making some lasting arrangement for a permanent
maintenance for his wife; but the attorney had told him that nothing of
the kind could be held to be lasting. It was clearly the husband's duty
to look forward to a reconciliation, and Mr Bide-awhile became quite
severe in the tone of rebuke which he assumed. Stanbury treated him
almost as though he were a madman. And as for his wife herself when she
wrote to him she would not even pretend to express any feeling of
affection. And yet, as he thought, no man had ever done more for a
wife. When Stanbury had gone with the child, he sat waiting for him in
the parlour of the public-house, as miserable a man as one could find.

He had promised himself something that should be akin to pleasure in
seeing his boy but it had been all disappointment and pain. What was it
that they expected him to do? What was it that they desired? His wife
had behaved with such indiscretion as almost to have compromised his
honour; and in return for that he was to beg her pardon, confess
himself to have done wrong, and allow her to return in triumph! That
was the light in which he regarded his own position; but he promised to
himself that let his own misery be what it might he would never so
degrade him. The only person who had been true to him was Bozzle. Let
them all look to it. If there were any further intercourse between his
wife and Colonel Osborne, he would take the matter into open court, and
put her away publicly, let Mr Bideawhile say what he might. Bozzle
should see to that and as to himself, he would take himself out of
England and hide himself abroad. Bozzle should know his address, but he
would give it to no one else. Nothing on earth should make him yield to
a woman who had ill-treated him nothing but confession and promise of
amendment on her part. If she would acknowledge and promise, then he
would forgive all, and the events of the last four months should never
again be mentioned by him. So resolving he sat and waited till Stanbury
should return to him.

When Stanbury got back to the parsonage with the boy he had nothing to
do but to take his leave. He would fain have asked permission to come
again, could he have invented any reason for doing so. But the child
was taken from him at once by its mother, and he was left alone with Mr
Outhouse. Nora Rowley did not even show herself, and he hardly knew how
to express sympathy and friendship for the guests at the parsonage,
without seeming to be untrue to his friend Trevelyan. 'I hope all this
may come to an end soon,' he said.

'I hope it may, Mr Stanbury,' said the clergyman; 'but to tell you the
truth, it seems to me that Mr Trevelyan is so unreasonable a man, so
much like a madman indeed, that I hardly know how to look forward to
any future happiness for my niece.' This was spoken with the utmost
severity that Mr Outhouse could assume.

'And yet no man loves his wife more tenderly.'

'Tender love should show itself by tender conduct, Mr Stanbury. What
has he done to his wife? He has blackened her name among all his
friends and hers, he has turned her out of his house, he has reviled
her and then thinks to prove how good he is by sending her money. The
only possible excuse is that he must be mad.'

Stanbury went back to the Full Moon, and retraced his steps with his
friend towards Lincoln's Inn. Two minutes took him from the parsonage
to the public-house, but during these two minutes he resolved that he
would speak his mind roundly to Trevelyan as they returned home.
Trevelyan should either take his wife back again at once, or else he,
Stanbury, would have no more to do with him. He said nothing till they
had threaded together the maze of streets which led them from the
neighbourhood of the Church of St. Diddulph's into the straight way of
the Commercial Road. Then he began. 'Trevelyan,' said he, 'you are
wrong in all this from beginning to end.'

'What do you mean?'

'Just what I say. If there was anything in what your wife did to offend
you, a soft word from you would have put it all right.'

'A soft word! How do you know what soft words I used?'

'A soft word now would do it. You have only to bid her come back to
you, and let bygones be bygones, and all would be right. Can't you be
man enough to remember that you are a man?'

'Stanbury, I believe you want to quarrel with me.'

'I tell you fairly that I think that you are wrong.'

'They have talked you over to their side.'

'I know nothing about sides. I only know that you are wrong.'

'And what would you have me do?'

'Go and travel together for six months.' Here was Lady Milborough's
receipt again! 'Travel together for a year if you will. Then come back
and live where you please. People will have forgotten it or if they
remember it, what matters? No sane person can advise you to go on as
you are doing now.'

But it was of no avail. Before they had reached the Bank the two
friends had quarrelled and had parted.

Then Trevelyan felt that there was indeed no one left to him but
Bozzle. On the following morning he saw Bozzle, and on the evening of
the next day he was in Paris.

CHAPTER XXXIII - HUGH STANBURY SMOKES ANOTHER PIPE

Trevelyan was gone, and Bozzle alone knew his address. During the first
fortnight of her residence at St. Diddulph's Mrs Trevelyan received two
letters from Lady Milborough, in both of which she was recommended,
indeed tenderly implored, to be submissive to her husband. 'Anything,'
said Lady Milborough, 'is better than separation.' In answer to the
second letter Mrs Trevelyan told the old lady that she had no means by
which she could shew any submission to her husband, even if she were so
minded. Her husband had gone away, she did not know whither, and she
had no means by which she could communicate with him. And then came a
packet to her from her father and mother, despatched from the islands
after the receipt by Lady Rowley of the melancholy tidings of the
journey to Nuncombe Putney. Both Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley were
full of anger against Trevelyan, and wrote as though the husband could
certainly be brought back to a sense of his duty, if they only were
present. This packet had been at Nuncombe Putney, and contained a
sealed note from Sir Marmaduke addressed to Mr Trevelyan. Lady Rowley
explained that it was impossible that they should get to England
earlier than in the spring. 'I would come myself at once and leave papa
to follow,' said Lady Rowley, 'only for the children. If I were to
bring them, I must take a house for them, and the expense would ruin
us. Papa has written to Mr Trevelyan in a way that he thinks will bring
him to reason.'

But how was this letter, by which the husband was to be brought to
reason, to be put into the husband's hands? Mrs Trevelyan applied to Mr
Bideawhile and to Lady Milborough, and to Stanbury, for Trevelyan's
address; but was told by each of them that nothing was known of his
whereabouts. She did not apply to Mr Bozzle, although Mr Bozzle was
more than once in her neighbourhood; but as yet she knew nothing of Mr
Bozzle. The replies from Mr Bideawhile and from Lady Milborough came by
the post; but Hugh Stanbury thought that duty required him to make
another journey to St. Diddulph's and carry his own answer with him.