Books: He Knew He Was Right

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And on this occasion Fortune was either very kind to him or very
unkind. Whichever it was, he found himself alone for a few seconds in
the parsonage parlour with Nora Rowley. Mr Outhouse was away at the
time. Emily had gone upstairs for the boy; and Mrs Outhouse, suspecting
nothing, had followed her. 'Miss Rowley,' said he, getting up from his
seat, 'if you think it will do any good I will follow Trevelyan till I
find him.'

'How can you find him? Besides, why should you give up your own
business?'

'I would do anything to serve your sister.' This he said with
hesitation in his voice, as though he did not dare to speak all that he
desired to have spoken.

'I am sure that Emily is very grateful,' said Nora; 'but she would not
wish to give you such trouble as that.'

'I would do anything for your sister,' he repeated, 'for your sake,
Miss Rowley.' This was the first time that he had ever spoken a word to
her in such a strain, and it would be hardly too much to say that her
heart was sick for some such expression. But now that it had come,
though there was a sweetness about it that was delicious to her, she
was absolutely silenced by it.

And she was at once not only silent, but stern, rigid, and apparently
cold. Stanbury could not but feel as he looked at her that he had
offended her. 'Perhaps I ought not to say as much,' said he; 'but it is
so.'

'Mr Stanbury,' said she, 'that is nonsense. It is of my sister, not of
me, that we are speaking.'

Then the door was opened and Emily came in with her child, followed by
her aunt. There was no other opportunity, and perhaps it was well for
Nora and for Hugh that there should have been no other. Enough had been
said to give her comfort; and more might have led to his discomposure.
As to that matter on which he was presumed to have come to St.
Diddulph's, he could do nothing. He did not know Trevelyan's address,
but did know that Trevelyan had abandoned the chambers in Lincoln's
Inn. And then he found himself compelled to confess that he had
quarrelled with Trevelyan, and that they had parted in anger on the day
of their joint visit to the East. 'Everybody who knows him must quarrel
with him,' said Mrs Outhouse. Hugh when he took his leave was treated
by them all as a friend who had been gained. Mrs Outhouse was gracious
to him. Mrs Trevelyan whispered a word to him of her own trouble. 'If!
can hear anything of him, you may be sure that I will let you know,' he
said. Then it was Nora's turn to bid him adieu. There was nothing to be
said. No word could be spoken before others that should be of any
avail. But as he took her hand in his he remembered the reticence of
her fingers on that former day, and thought that he was sure there was
a difference.

On this occasion he made his journey back to the end of Chancery Lane
on the top of an omnibus; and as he lit his little pipe, disregarding
altogether the scrutiny of the public, thoughts passed through his mind
similar to those in which he had indulged as he sat smoking on the
corner of the churchyard wall at Nuncombe Putney. He declared to
himself that he did love this girl; and as it was so, would it not be
better, at any rate more manly, that he should tell her so honestly,
than go on groping about with half-expressed words when he saw her,
thinking of her and yet hardly daring to go near her, bidding himself
to forget her although he knew that such forgetting was impossible,
hankering after the sound of her voice and the touch of her hand, and
something of the tenderness of returned affection and yet regarding her
as a prize altogether out of his reach! Why should she be out of his
reach? She had no money, and he had not a couple of hundred pounds in
the world. But he was earning an income which would give them both
shelter and clothes and bread and cheese.

What reader is there, male or female, of such stories as is this, who
has not often discussed in his or her own mind the different sides of
this question of love and marriage? On either side enough may be said
by any arguer to convince at any rate himself. It must be wrong for a
man, whose income is both insufficient and precarious also, not only to
double his own cares and burdens, but to place the weight of that
doubled burden on other shoulders besides his own on shoulders that are
tender and soft, and ill adapted to the carriage of any crushing
weight. And then that doubled burden that burden of two mouths to be
fed, of two backs to be covered, of two minds to be satisfied, is so
apt to double itself again and again The two so speedily become four,
and six! And then there is the feeling that that kind of semi-poverty,
which has in itself something of the pleasantness of independence, when
it is borne by a man alone, entails the miseries of a draggle-tailed
and querulous existence when it is imposed on a woman who has in her
own home enjoyed the comforts of affluence. As a man thinks of all
this, if he chooses to argue with himself on that side, there is enough
in the argument to make him feel that not only as a wise man but as an
honest man, he had better let the young lady alone. She is well as she
is, and he sees around him so many who have tried the chances of
marriage and who are not well! Look at Jones with his wan, worn wife
and his five children, Jones who is not yet thirty, of whom he happens
to know that the wretched man cannot look his doctor in the face, and
that the doctor is as necessary to the man's house as is the butcher!
What heart can Jones have for his work with such a burden as this upon
his shoulders? And so the thinker, who argues on that side, resolves
that the young lady shall go her own way for him.

But the arguments on the other side are equally cogent, and so much
more alluring! And they are used by the same man with reference to the
same passion, and are intended by him to put himself right in his
conduct in reference to the same dear girl. Only the former line of
thoughts occurred to him on a Saturday, when he was ending his week
rather gloomily, and this other way .of thinking on the same subject
has come upon him on a Monday, as he is beginning his week with renewed
hope. Does this young girl of his heart love him? And if so, their
affection for each other being thus reciprocal, is she not entitled to
an expression of her opinion and her wishes on this difficult subject?
And if she be willing to run the risk and to encounter the dangers to
do so on his behalf, because she is willing to share everything with
him is it becoming in him, a man, to fear what she does not fear? If
she be not willing let her say so. If there be any speaking, he must
speak first but she is entitled, as much as he is, to her own ideas
respecting their great outlook into the affairs of the world. And then
is it not manifestly God's ordinance that a man should live together
with a woman? How poor a creature does the man become who has shirked
his duty in this respect, who has done nothing to keep the world going,
who has been willing to ignore all affection so that he might avoid all
burdens, and who has put into his own belly every good thing that has
come to him, either by the earning of his own hands or from the bounty
and industry of others! Of course there is a risk; but what excitement
is there in anything in which there is none? So on the Tuesday he
speaks his mind to the young lady, and tells her candidly that there
will be potatoes for the two of them sufficient, as he hopes, of
potatoes, but no more. As a matter of course the young lady replies
that she for her part will be quite content to take the parings for her
own eating. Then they rush deliciously into each others arms and the
matter is settled. For, though the convictions arising from the former
line of argument may be set aside as often as need be, those reached
from the latter are generally conclusive. That such a settlement will
always be better for the young gentleman and the young lady concerned
than one founded on a sterner prudence is more than one may dare to
say; but we do feel sure that that country will be most prosperous in
which such leaps in the dark are made with the greatest freedom.

Our friend Hugh, as he sat smoking on the knife-board of the omnibus,
determined that he would risk everything. If it were ordained that
prudence should prevail, the prudence should be hers. Why should he
take upon himself to have prudence enough for two, seeing that she was
so very discreet in all her bearings? Then he remembered the touch of
her hand, which he still felt upon his palm as he sat handling his
pipe, and he told himself that after that he was bound to say a word
more. And moreover he confessed to himself that he was compelled by a
feeling that mastered him altogether. He could not get through an
hour's work without throwing down his pen and thinking of Nora Rowley.
It was his destiny to love her and there was, to his mind, a mean,
pettifogging secrecy, amounting almost to daily lying, in his thus
loving her and not telling her that he loved her. It might well be that
she should rebuke him; but he thought that he could bear that. It might
well be that he had altogether mistaken that touch of her hand. After
all it had been the slightest possible motion of no more than one
finger. But he would at any rate know the truth. If she would tell him
at once that she did not care for him, he thought that he could get
over it; but life was not worth having while he lived in this shifty,
dubious, and uncomfortable state. So he made up his mind that he would
go to St. Diddulph's with his heart in his hand.

In the mean time, Mr Bozzle had been twice to St. Diddulph's and now he
made a third journey there, two days after Stanbury's visit. Trevelyan,
who, in truth, hated the sight of the man, and who suffered agonies in
his presence, had, nevertheless, taught himself to believe that he
could not live without his assistance. That it should be so was a part
of the cruelty of his lot. Who else was there that he could trust? His
wife had renewed her intimacy with Colonel Osborne the moment that she
had left him. Mrs Stanbury, who had been represented to him as the most
correct of matrons, had at once been false to him and to her trust, in
allowing Colonel Osborne to enter her house. Mr and Mrs Outhouse, with
whom his wife had now located herself, not by his orders, were, of
course, his enemies. His old friend, Hugh Stanbury, had gone over to
the other side, and had quarrelled with him purposely, with malice
prepense, because he would not submit himself to the caprices of the
wife who had injured him. His own lawyer had refused to act for him;
and his fast and oldest ally, the very person who had sounded in his
ear the earliest warning note against that odious villain, whose daily
work it was to destroy the peace of families even Lady Milborough had
turned against him! Because he would not follow the stupid prescription
which she, with pig-headed obstinacy, persisted in giving because he
would not carry his wife off to Naples she was ill-judging and
inconsistent enough to tell him that he was wrong! Who was then left to
him but Bozzle? Bozzle was very disagreeable. Bozzle said things, and
made suggestions to him which were as bad as pins stuck into his flesh.
But Bozzle was true to his employer, and. could find out facts. Had it
not been for Bozzle, he would have known nothing of the Colonel's
journey to Devonshire. Had it not been for Bozzle, he would never have
heard of the correspondence; and, therefore, when he left London, he
gave Bozzle a roving commission; and when he went to Paris, and from
Paris onwards, over the Alps into Italy, he furnished Bozzle with his
address. At this time, in the midst of all his misery, it never
occurred to him to inquire of himself whether it might be possible that
his old friends were right, and that he himself was wrong. From morning
to night he sang to himself melancholy silent songs of inward wailing,
as to the cruelty of his own lot in life and, in the mean time, he
employed Bozzle to find out for him how far that cruelty was carried.

Mr Bozzle was, of course, convinced that the lady whom he was employed
to watch was no better than she ought to be. That is the usual Bozzlian
language for broken vows, secrecy, intrigue, dirt, and adultery. It was
his business to obtain evidence of her guilt. There was no question to
be solved as to her innocency. The Bozzlian mind would have regarded
any such suggestion as the product of a green softness, the possession
of which would have made him quite unfit for his profession. He was
aware that ladies who are no better than they should be are often very
clever so clever, as to make it necessary that the Bozzles who shall at
last confound them should be first-rate Bozzles, Bozzles quite at the
top of their profession and, therefore, he went about his work with
great industry and much caution. Colonel Osborne was at the present
moment in Scotland. Bozzle was sure of that. He was quite in the north
of Scotland. Bozzle had examined his map, and had found that Wick,
which was the Colonel's post-town, was very far north indeed. He had
half a mind to run down to Wick, as he was possessed by a certain
honest zeal, which made him long to do something hard and laborious;
but his experience told him that it was very easy for the Colonel to
come up to the neighbourhood of St. Diddulph's, whereas the lady could
not go down to Wick, unless she were to decide upon throwing herself
into her lover's arms whereby Bozzle's work would be brought to an end.
He, therefore, confined his immediate operations to St. Diddulph's.

He made acquaintance with one or two important persons in and about Mr
Outhouse's parsonage. He became very familiar with the postman. He
arranged terms of intimacy, I am sorry to say, with the housemaid; and,
on the third journey, he made an alliance with the potboy at the Full
Moon. The potboy remembered well the fact of the child being brought to
'our 'ouse,' as he called the Full Moon; and he was enabled to say,
that the same 'gent as had brought the boy backards and forrards,' had
since that been at the parsonage. But Bozzle was quite quick enough to
perceive that all this had nothing to do with the Colonel. He was led,
indeed, to fear that his 'governor,' as he was in the habit of calling
Trevelyan in his half-spoken soliloquies that his governor was not as
true to him as he was to his governor. What business had that meddling
fellow Stanbury at St. Diddulph's? for Trevelyan had not thought it
necessary to tell his satellite that he had quarrelled with his friend.
Bozzle was grieved in his mind when he learned that Stanbury's
interference was still to be dreaded; and wrote to his governor, rather
severely, to that effect; but, when so writing, he was able to give no
further information. Facts, in such cases, will not unravel themselves
without much patience on the part of the investigators.

CHAPTER XXXIV - PRISCILLA'S WISDOM

On the night after the dinner party in the Close, Dorothy was not the
only person in the house who laid awake thinking of what had taken
place. Miss Stanbury also was full of anxiety, and for hour after hour
could not sleep as she remembered the fruitlessness of her efforts on
behalf of her nephew and niece.

It had never occurred to her when she had first proposed to herself
that Dorothy should become Mrs Gibson that Dorothy herself would have
any objection to such a step in life. Her fear had been that Dorothy
would have become over-radiant with triumph at the idea of having a
husband, and going to that husband with a fortune of her own. That Mr
Gibson might hesitate, she had thought very likely. It is thus, in
general, that women regard the feelings, desires, and aspirations of
other women. You will hardly ever meet an elderly lady who will not
speak of her juniors as living in a state of breathless anxiety to
catch husbands. And the elder lady will speak of the younger as though
any kind of choice in such catching was quite disregarded. The man must
be a gentleman or, at least, gentlemanlike and there must be bread. Let
these things be given, and what girl won't jump into what man's arms?
Female reader, is it not thus that the elders of your sex speak of the
younger? When old Mrs Stanbury heard that Nora Rowley had refused Mr
Glascock, the thing was to her unintelligible; and it was now quite
unintelligible to Miss Stanbury that Dorothy should prefer a single
life to matrimony with Mr Gibson.

It must be acknowledged, on Aunt Stanbury's behalf, that Dorothy was
one of those yielding, hesitating, submissive young women, trusting
others but doubting ever of themselves, as to whom it is natural that
their stronger friends should find it expedient to decide for them.
Miss Stanbury was almost justified in thinking that unless she were to
find a husband for her niece, her niece would never find one for
herself. Dorothy would drift into being an old maid, like Priscilla,
simply because she would never assert herself never put her best foot
foremost. Aunt Stanbury had therefore taken upon herself to put out a
foot; and having carefully found that Mr Gibson was 'willing,' had
conceived that all difficulties were over. She would be enabled to do
her duty by her niece, and establish comfortably in life, at any rate,
one of her brother's children. And now Dorothy was taking upon herself
to say that she did not like the gentleman! Such conduct was almost
equal to writing for a penny newspaper!

On the following morning, after breakfast, when Brooke Burgess was gone
out to call upon his uncle which he insisted upon doing openly, and not
under the rose, in spite of Miss Stanbury's great gravity on the
occasion there was a very serious conversation, and poor Dorothy had
found herself to be almost silenced. She did argue for a time; but her
arguments seemed, even to herself, to amount to so little! Why
shouldn't she love Mr Gibson? That was a question which she found it
impossible to answer. And though she did n actually yield, though she
did not say that she would accept the man, still, when she was told
that three days were to be allowed to her for consideration, and that
then the offer would be made to her in form, she felt that, as regarded
the anti-Gibson interest, she had not a leg to stand upon. Why should
not such an insignificant creature, as was she, love Mr Gibson or any
other man, who had bread to give her, and was in some degree like a
gentleman? On that night, she wrote the following letter to her sister:

'The Close, Tuesday

DEAREST PRISCILLA,

I do so wish that you could be with me, so that I could talk to you
again. Aunt Stanbury is the most affectionate and kindest friend in the
world; but she has always been so able to have her own way, because she
is both clever and good, that I find myself almost like a baby with
her. She has been talking to me again about Mr Gibson; and it seems
that Mr Gibson really does mean it. It is certainly very strange; but I
do think now that it is true. He is to come on Friday. It seems very
odd that it should all be settled for him in that way; but then Aunt
Stanbury is so clever at settling things!

He sat next to me almost all the evening yesterday but he didn't say
anything about it, except that he hoped I agreed with him about going
to church, and all that. I suppose I do; and I am quite sure that if I
were to be a clergyman's wife, I should endeavour to do whatever my
husband thought right about religion. One ought to try to do so, even
if the clergyman is not one's husband. Mr Burgess has come, and he was
so very amusing all the evening, that perhaps that was the reason Mr
Gibson said so little. Mr Burgess is a very nice man, and I think Aunt
Stanbury is more fond of him than of anybody. He is not at all the sort
of person that I expected.

But if Mr Gibson does come on Friday, and do really mean it, what am I
to say to him? Aunt Stanbury will be very angry if I do not take her
advice. I am quite sure that she intends it all for my happiness; and
then, of course, she knows so much more about the world than I do. She
asks me what it is that I expect. Of course, I do not expect anything.
It is a great compliment from Mr Gibson, who is a clergyman, and
thought well of by everybody. And nothing could be more respectable.
Aunt Stanbury says that with the money she would give us we should be
quite comfortable; and she wants us to live in this house. She says
that there are thirty girls round Exeter who would give their eyes for
such a chance; and, looking at it in that light, of course, it is a
very great thing for me. Only think how poor we have been! And then,
dear Priscilla, perhaps he would let me be good to you and dear mamma!

But, of course, he will ask me whether I love him; and what am I to
say? Aunt Stanbury says that I am to love him. "Begin to love him at
once," she said this morning. I would if I could, partly for her sake,
and because I do feel that it would be so respectable. When I think of
it, it does seem such a pity that poor I should throw away such a
chance. And I must say that Mr Gibson is very good, and most obliging;
and everybody says that he has an excellent temper, and that he is a
most prudent, well-dispositioned man. I declare, dear Priscilla, when I
think of it, I cannot bring myself to believe that such a man should
want me to be his wife.

But what ought I to do? I suppose when a girl is in love she is very
unhappy if the gentleman does not propose to her. I am sure it would
not make me at all unhappy if I were told that Mr Gibson had changed
his mind.

Dearest Priscilla, you must write at once; because he is to be here on
Friday. Oh, dear; Friday does seem to be so near! And I shall never
know what to say to him, either one way or the other.

Your most affectionate sister,

DOROTHY STANBURY.

P.S. Give my kindest love to mamma; but you need not tell her unless
you think it best.'

Priscilla received this letter on the Wednesday morning, and felt
herself bound to answer it on that same afternoon. Had she postponed
her reply for a day, it would still have been in Dorothy's hands before
Mr Gibson could have come to her on the dreaded Friday morning. But
still that would hardly give her time enough to consider the matter
with any degree of deliberation after she should have been armed with
what wisdom Priscilla might be able to send her. The post left Nuncombe
Putney at three; and therefore the letter had to be written before
their early dinner.

So Priscilla went into the garden and sat hers down under an old cedar
that she might discuss the matter with herself in all its bearings. She
felt that no woman could be called upon to write a letter that should
be of more importance. The whole welfare in life of the person who was
dearest to her would probably depend upon it. The weight upon her was
so great that she thought for a while she would take counsel with her
mother; but she felt sure that her mother would recommend the marriage;
and that if she afterwards should find herself bound to oppose it, then
her mother would be a miserable woman. There could be no use to her
taking counsel with her mother, because her mother's mind was known to
her beforehand. The responsibility was thrown upon her, and she alone
must bear it.

She tried hard to persuade herself to write at once and tell her sister
to marry the man. She knew her sister's heart so well as to be sure
that Dorothy would learn to love the man who was her husband. It was
almost impossible that Dorothy should not love those with whom she
lived. And then her sister was so well adapted to be a wife and a
mother. Her temper was so sweet, she was so pure, so unselfish, so
devoted, and so healthy withal! She was so happy when she was acting
for others; and so excellent in action when she had another one to
think for her! She was so trusting and trustworthy that any husband
would adore her! Then Priscilla walked slowly into the house, got her
prayer-book, and returning to her seat under the tree, read the
marriage service. It was one o'clock when she went upstairs to write
her letter, and it had not yet struck eleven when she first seated
herself beneath the tree. Her letter, when written, was as follows:

'Nuncombe Putney, August 25, 186-.

DEAREST DOROTHY,

I got your letter this morning, and I think it is better to answer it
at once, as the time is very short. I have been thinking about it with
all my mind, and I feel almost awe-stricken lest I should advise you
wrongly. After all, I believe that your own dear sweet truth and
honesty would guide you better than anybody else can guide you. You may
be sure of this, that whichever way it is, I shall think that you have
done right. Dearest sister, I suppose there can be no doubt that for
most women a married life is happier than a single one. It is always
thought so, as we may see by the anxiety of others to get married; and
when an opinion becomes general, I think that the world is most often
right. And then, my own one, I feel sure that you are adapted both for
the cares and for the joys of married life. You would do your duty as a
married woman happily, and would be a comfort to your husband not a
thorn in his side, as are so many women.