Books: He Knew He Was Right

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He was to wait at Turin till tidings should come from Bozzle, and after
that he would go on to Venice; but he would not move from Turin till he
should have received his first communication from England. When he had
been three days at Turin they came to him, and, among other letters in
Bozzle's packet, there was a letter addressed in his wife's
handwriting. The letter was simply directed to Bozzle's house. In what
possible way could his wife have found out ought of his dealings with
Bozzle where Bozzle lived, or could have learned that letters intended
for him should be sent to the man's own residence? Before, however, we
inspect the contents of Mr Bozzle's dispatch, we will go back and see
how Mrs Trevelyan had discovered the manner of forwarding a letter to
her husband.

The matter of the address was, indeed, very simple. All letters for
Trevelyan were to be redirected from the house in Curzon Street, and
from the chambers in Lincoln's Inn, to the Acrobats' Club; to the
porter of the Acrobats' Club had been confided the secret, not of
Bozzle's name, but of Bozzle's private address, No. 55, Stony Walk,
Union Street, Borough. Thus all letters reaching the Acrobats' were
duly sent to Mr Bozzle's house. It may be remembered that Hugh
Stanbury, on the occasion of his last visit to the parsonage of St.
Diddulph's, was informed that Mrs Trevelyan had a letter from her
father for her husband, and that she knew not whither to send it. It
may well be that, had the matter assumed no interest in Stanbury's eyes
than that given to it by Mrs Trevelyan's very moderate anxiety to have
the letter forwarded, he would have thought nothing about it; but
having resolved, as he sat upon the knifeboard of the omnibus the
reader will, at any rate, remember those resolutions made on the top of
the omnibus while Hugh was smoking his pipe having resolved that a deed
should be done at St. Diddulph's, he resolved also that it should be
done at once. He would not allow the heat of his purpose to be cooled
by delay. He would go to St. Diddulph's at once, with his heart in his
hand. But it might, he thought, be as well that he should have an
excuse for his visit. So he called upon the porter at the Acrobats',
and was successful in learning Mr Trevelyan's address. 'Stony Walk,
Union Street, Borough,' he said to himself, wondering; then it occurred
to him that Bozzle, and Bozzle only among Trevelyan's friends, could
live at Stony Walk in the Borough. Thus armed, he set out for St.
Diddulph's and, as one of the effects of his visit to the East, Sir
Marmaduke's note was forwarded to Louis Trevelyan at Turin.

CHAPTER XXXIX - MISS NORA ROWLEY IS MALTREATED

Hugh Stanbury, when he reached the parsonage, found no difficulty in
making his way into the joint presence of Mrs Outhouse, Mrs Trevelyan,
and Nora. He was recognised by the St. Diddulph's party as one who had
come over to their side, as a friend of Trevelyan who had found himself
constrained to condemn his friend in spite of his friendship, and was
consequently very welcome. And there was no difficulty about giving the
address. The ladies wondered how it came to pass that Mr Trevelyan's
letters should be sent to such a locality, and Hugh expressed his
surprise also. He thought it discreet to withhold his suspicions about
Mr Bozzle, and simply expressed his conviction that letters sent in
accordance with the directions given by the club-porter would reach
their destination. Then the boy was brought down, and they were all
very confidential and very unhappy together. Mrs Trevelyan could see no
end to the cruelty of her position, and declared that her father's
anger against her husband was so great that she anticipated his coming
with almost more of fear than of hope. Mrs Outhouse expressed an
opinion that Mr Trevelyan must surely be mad; and Nora suggested that
the possibility of such perversity on the part of a man made it almost
unwise in any woman to trust herself to the power of a husband, 'But
there are not many like him, thank God,' said Mrs Outhouse, bridling in
her wrath. Thus they were very friendly together, and Hugh was allowed
to feel that he stood upon comfortable terms in the parsonage but he
did not as yet see how he was to carry out his project for the present
day.

At last Mrs Trevelyan went away with the child. Hugh felt that he ought
to go, but stayed courageously. He thought he could perceive that Nora
suspected the cause of his assiduity; but it was quite evident that Mrs
Outhouse did not do so. Mrs Outhouse, having reconciled herself to the
young man, was by no means averse to his presence. She went on talking
about the wickedness of Trevelyan, and her brother's anger, and the
fate of the little boy, till at last the little boy's mother came back
into the room. Then Mrs Outhouse went. They must excuse her for a few
minutes, she said. If only she would have gone a few minutes sooner,
how well her absence might have been excused. Nora understood it all
now; and though she became almost breathless, she was not surprised,
when Hugh got up from his chair and asked her sister to go away. 'Mrs
Trevelyan,' he said, 'I want to speak a few words to your sister, I
hope you will give me the opportunity.'

'Nora!' exclaimed Mrs Trevelyan.

'She knows nothing about it,' said Hugh.

'Am I to go?' said Mrs Trevelyan to her sister. But Nora said never a
word. She sat perfectly fixed, not turning her eyes from the object on
which she was gazing.

'Pray pray do,' said Hugh.

'I cannot think that it will be for any good,' said Mrs Trevelyan; 'but
I know that she may be trusted. And I suppose it ought to be so, if you
wish it.'

'I do wish it, of all things,' said Hugh, still standing up, and almost
turning the elder sister out of the room by the force of his look and
voice. Then, with another pause of a moment, Mrs Trevelyan rose from
her chair and left the room, closing the door after her.

Hugh, when he found that the coast was clear for him, immediately began
his task with a conviction that not a moment was to be lost. He had
told himself a dozen times that the matter was hopeless, that Nora had
shown him by every means in her power that she was indifferent to him,
that she with all her friends would know that such a marriage was out
of the question; and he had in truth come to believe that the mission
which he had in hand was one in which success was not possible. But he
thought that it was his duty to go on with it. 'If a man love a woman,
even though it be the king and the beggar-woman reversed though it be a
beggar and a queen, he should tell her of it. If it be so, she has a
right to know it and to take her choice. And he has a right to tell
her, and to say what he can for himself.' Such was Hugh's doctrine in
the matter; and, acting upon it, he found himself alone with his
mistress.

'Nora,' he said, speaking perhaps with more energy than the words
required, 'I have come here to tell you that I love you, and to ask you
to be my wife.'

Nora, for the last ten minutes, had been thinking that this would come
that it would come at once; and yet she was not at all prepared with an
answer. It was now weeks since she had confessed to herself frankly
that nothing else but this this one thing which was now happening, this
one thing which had now happened that nothing else could make her
happy, or could touch her happiness. She had refused a man whom she
otherwise would have taken, because her heart had been given to Hugh
Stanbury. She had been bold enough to tell that other suitor that it
was so, though she had not mentioned the rival's name. She had longed
for some expression of love from this man when they had been at
Nuncombe together, and had been fiercely angry with him because no such
expression had come from him. Day after day, since she had been with
her aunt, she had told herself that she was a broken-hearted woman,
because she had given away all that she had to give and had received
nothing in return. Had he said a word that might have given her hope,
how happy could she have been in hoping. Now he had come to her with a
plain-spoken offer, telling her that he loved her, and asking her to be
his wife and she was altogether unable to answer. How could she consent
to be his wife, knowing as she did that there was no certainty of an
income on which they could live? How could she tell her father and
mother that she had engaged herself to marry a man who might or might
not make 400 pounds a year, and who already had a mother and sister
depending on him?

In truth, had he come more gently to her, his chance of a happy answer
of an answer which might be found to have in it something of happiness
would have been greater. He might have said a word which she could not
but have answered softly and then from that constrained softness other
gentleness would have followed, and so he would have won her in spite
of her discretion. She would have surrendered gradually, accepting on
the score of her great love all the penalties of a long and precarious
engagement. But when she was asked to come and be his wife, now and at
once, she felt that in spite of her love it was impossible that she
should accede to a request so sudden, so violent, so monstrous. He
stood over her as though expecting an instant answer; and then, when
she had sat dumb before him for a minute, he repeated his demand. 'Tell
me, Nora, can you love me? If you knew how thoroughly I have loved you,
you would at least feel something for me.'

To tell him that she did not love him was impossible to her. But how
was she to refuse him without telling him either a lie, or the truth?
Some answer she must give him; and as to that matter of marrying him,
the answer must be a negative. Her education had been of that nature
which teaches girls to believe that it is a crime to marry a man
without an assured income. Assured morality in a husband is a great
thing. Assured good temper is very excellent. Assured talent, religion,
amiability, truth, honesty, are all desirable. But an assured income is
indispensable. Whereas, in truth, the income may come hereafter; but
the other things, unless they be there already, will hardly be
forthcoming. 'Mr Stanbury,' she said, 'your suddenness has quite
astounded me.'

'Ah, yes; but how should I not be sudden? I have come here on purpose
to say this to you. If I do not say it now--'

'You heard what Emily said.'

'No what did she say?'

'She said that it would not be for good that you should speak to me
thus.'

'Why not for good? But she is unhappy, and looks gloomily at things.'

'Yes, indeed.'

'But all the world need not be sad for ever because she has been
unfortunate.'

'Not all the world, Mr Stanbury but you must not be surprised if it
affects me.'

'But would that prevent your loving me if you did love me? But, Nora, I
do not expect you to love me not yet. I do not say that I expect it
ever. But if you would--. Nora, I can do no more than tell you the
simple truth. Just listen to me for a minute. You know how I came to be
intimate with you all in Curzon Street. The first day I saw you I loved
you; and there has come no change yet. It is months now since I first
knew that I loved you. Well; I told myself more than once when I was
down at Nuncombe for instance that I had no right to speak to you. What
right can a poor devil like me have, who lives from hand to mouth, to
ask such a girl as you to be his wife? And so I said nothing though it
was on my lips every moment that I was there.' Nora remembered at the
moment how she had looked to his lips, and had not seen the words
there. 'But I think there is something unmanly in this. If you cannot
give me a grain of hope if you tell me that there never can be hope, it
is my misfortune. It will be very grievous, but I will bear it. But
that will be better than puling and moping about without daring to tell
my tale. I am not ashamed of it. I have fallen in love with you, Nora,
and I think it best to come for an answer.'

He held out his arms as though he thought that she might perhaps come
to him. Indeed he had no idea of any such coming on her part; but she,
as she looked at him, almost thought that it was her duty to go. Had
she a right to withhold herself from him, she who loved him so dearly?
Had he stepped forward and taken her in his arms, it might be that all
power of refusal would soon have been beyond her power.

'Mr Stanbury,' she said, 'you have confessed yourself that it is
impossible.'

'But do you love me do you think that it is possible that you should
ever love me?'

'You know, Mr Stanbury, that you should not say anything further. You
know that it cannot be.'

'But do you love me?'

'You are ungenerous not to take an answer without driving me to be
uncourteous.'

'I do not care for courtesy. Tell me the truth. Can you ever love me?
With one word of hope I will wait, and work, and feel myself to be a
hero. I will not go till you tell me that you cannot love me.'

'Then I must tell you so.'

'What is it you will tell me, Nora? Speak it. Say it. If I knew that a
girl disliked me, nothing should make me press myself upon her. Am I
odious to you, Nora?'

'No; not odious but very, very unfair.'

'I will have the truth if I be ever so unfair,' he said. And by this
time probably some inkling of the truth had reached his intelligence.
There was already a tear in Nora's eye, but he did not pity her. She
owed it to him to tell him the truth, and he would have it from her if
it was to be reached. 'Nora,' he said, 'listen to me again. All my
heart and soul are in this. It is everything to me. If you can love me
you are bound to say so. By Jove, I will believe you do, unless you
swear to me that it is not so!' He was now holding her by the hand and
looking closely into her face.

'Mr Stanbury,' she said, 'let me go; pray, pray let me go.'

'Not till you say that you love me. Oh, Nora, I believe that you love
me. You do; yes; you do love me. Dearest, dearest Nora, would you not
say a word to make me the happiest man in the world?' And now he had
his arm round her waist.

'Let me go,' she said, struggling through her tears and covering her
face with her hands. 'You are very, very wicked. I will never speak to
you again. Nay, but you shall let me go!' And then she was out of his
arms and had escaped from the room before he had managed to touch her
face with his lips.

As he was thinking how he also might escape now might escape and
comfort himself with his triumph Mrs Outhouse returned to the chamber.
She was very demure, and her manner towards him was considerably
changed since she had left the chamber. 'Mr Stanbury,' she said, 'this
kind of thing mustn't go any further indeed at least not in my house.'

'What kind of thing, Mrs Outhouse?'

'Well what my elder niece has told me. I have not seen Miss Rowley
since she left you. I am quite sure she has behaved with discretion.'

'Indeed she has, Mrs Outhouse.'

'The fact is my nieces are in grief and trouble, and this is no time or
place for love-making. I am sorry to be uncivil, but I must ask you not
to come here any more.'

'I will stay away from this house, certainly, if you bid me.'

'I am very sorry; but I must bid you. Sir Marmaduke will be home in the
spring, and if you have anything to say to him of course you can see
him.'

Then Hugh Stanbury took his leave of Mrs Outhouse; but as he went home,
again on the knifeboard of an omnibus, he smoked the pipe of triumph
rather than the pipe of contemplation.

CHAPTER XL - 'C. G.'

The Miss Spaldings were met at the station at Florence by their uncle,
the American Minister by their cousin, the American Secretary of
Legation, and by three or four other dear friends and relations, who
were there to welcome the newcomers to sunny Italy. Mr Glascock,
therefore, who ten minutes since had been, and had felt himself to be,
quite indispensable to their comfort, suddenly became as though he were
nothing and nobody. Who is there that has not felt these sudden
disruptions to the intimacies and friendships of a long journey? He
bowed to them, and they to him, and then they were whirled away in
their grandeur. He put himself into a small, open hackney-carriage, and
had himself driven to the York Hotel, feeling himself to be deserted
and desolate. The two Miss Spaldings were the daughters of a very
respectable lawyer at Boston, whereas Mr Glascock was heir to a
peerage, to an enormous fortune, and to one of the finest places in
England. But he thought nothing of this at the time. As he went, he was
meditating which young woman was the most attractive, Nora Rowley or
Caroline Spalding. He had no doubt but that Nora was the prettier, the
pleasanter in manner, the better dressed, the more engaging in all that
concerned the outer woman; but he thought that he had never met any
lady who talked better than Caroline Spalding. And what was Nora
Rowley's beauty to him? Had she not told him that she was the property
of some one else; or, for the matter of that, what was Miss Spalding to
him? They had parted, and he was going on to Naples in two days. He had
said some half-defined word as to calling at the American Embassy, but
it had not been taken up by either of the ladies. He had not pressed
it, and so they had parted without an understanding as to a future
meeting.

The double journey, from Turin to Bologna and from Bologna to Florence,
is very long, and forms ample time for a considerable intimacy. There
had, too, been a long day's journeying together before that; and with
no women is a speedy intimacy so possible, or indeed so profitable, as
with Americans. They fear nothing neither you nor themselves; and talk
with as much freedom as though they were men. It may, perhaps, be
assumed to be true as a rule, that women's society is always more
agreeable to men than that of other men except for the lack of ease. It
undoubtedly is so when the women be young and pretty. There is a
feeling, however, among pretty women in Europe that such freedom is
dangerous, and it is withheld. There is such danger, and more or less
of such withholding is expedient; but the American woman does not
recognise the danger; and, if she withhold the grace of her countenance
and the pearls of her speech, it is because she is not desirous of the
society which is proffered to her. These two American sisters had not
withholden their pearls from Mr Glascock. He was much their senior in
age; he was gentle in his manners, and they probably recognised him to
be a safe companion. They had no idea who he was, and had not heard his
name when they parted from him. But it was not probable that they
should have been with him so long, and that they should leave him
without further thought of him, without curiosity, or a desire to know
more of him. They had seen 'C. G.' in large letters, on his
dressing-bag, and that was all they had learned as to his identity. He
had known their names well, and had once called Olivia by hers, in the
hurry of speaking to her sister. He had apologised, and there had been
a little laugh, and a discussion about the use of Christian names such
as is very conducive to intimacy between gentlemen and ladies. When you
can talk to a young lady about her own Christian name, you are almost
entitled for the nonce to use it.

Mr Glascock went to his hotel, and was very moody and desolate. His
name was very soon known there, and he received the honours due to his
rank and station. 'I should like to travel in America,' he said to
himself, 'if I could be sure that no one would find out who I was.' He
had received letters at Turin, stating that his father was better, and,
therefore, he intended to remain two days at Florence. The weather was
still very hot, and Florence in the middle of September is much
preferable to Naples.

That night, when the two Miss Spaldings were alone together, they
discussed their fellow-traveller thoroughly. Something, of course, had
been said about him to their uncle the minister, to their aunt the
minister's wife, and to their cousin the secretary of legation. But
travellers will always observe that the dear new friends they have made
on their journey are not interesting to the dear old friends whom they
meet afterwards. There may be some touch of jealousy in this; and then,
though you, the traveller, are fully aware that there has been
something special in the case which has made this new friendship more
peculiar than others that have sprung up in similar circumstances,
fathers and brothers and wives and sisters do not see it in that light.
They suspect, perhaps, that the new friend was a bagman, or an opera
dancer, and think that the affair need not be made of importance. The
American Minister had cast his eye on Mr Glascock during that momentary
parting, and had not thought much of Mr Glascock. 'He was, certainly, a
gentleman,' Caroline had said. 'There are a great many English
gentlemen,' the minister had replied.

'I thought you would have asked him to call,' Olivia said to her
sister. 'He did offer.'

'I know he did. I heard it.'

'Why didn't you tell him he might come?'

'Because we are not in Boston, Livy. It might be the most horrible
thing in the world to do here in Florence; and it may make a
difference, because Uncle Jonas is minister.'

'Why should that make a difference? Do you mean that one isn't to see
one's own friends? That must be nonsense.'

'But he isn't a friend, Livy.'

'It seems to me as if I'd known him for ever. That soft, monotonous
voice, which never became excited and never disagreeable, is as
familiar to me as though I had lived with it all my life.'

'I thought him very pleasant.'

'Indeed, you did, Carry. And he thought you pleasant too. Doesn't it
seem odd? You were mending his glove for him this very afternoon, just
as if he were your brother.'

'Why shouldn't I mend his glove?'

'Why not, indeed? He was entitled to have everything mended after
getting us such a good dinner at Bologna. By-the-bye, you never paid
him.'

'Yes, I did when you were not by.'

'I wonder who he is! C. G.! That fine man in the brown coat was his
servant, you know. I thought at first that C. G. must have been
cracked, and that the tall man was his keeper.'

'I never knew any one less like a madman.'

'No but the man was so queer. He did nothing, you know. We hardly saw
him, if you remember, at Turin. All he did was to tie the shawls at
Bologna. What can any man want with another man about with him like
that, unless he is cracked either in body or mind?'

'You'd better ask C. G. yourself.'

'I shall never see C. G. again, I suppose. I should like to see him
again. I guess you would too, Carry. Eh?'

'Of course, I should why not?'

'I never knew a man so imperturbable, and who had yet so much to say
for himself. I wonder what he is! Perhaps he's on business, and that
man was a kind of a clerk.'

'He had livery buttons on,' said Carry.

'And does that make a difference?'

'I don't think they put clerks into livery, even in England.'

'Nor yet mad doctors,' said Olivia. 'Well, I like him very much; and
the only thing against him is that he should have a man, six feet high,
going about with him doing nothing.'

'You'll make me angry, Livy, if you talk in that way. It's
uncharitable.'

'In what way?'

'About a mad doctor.'

'It's my belief,' said Olivia, 'that he's an English swell, a lord, or
a duke and it's my belief, too, that he's in love with you.'

'It's my belief, Livy, that you're a regular ass;' and so the
conversation was ended on that occasion.

On the next day, about noon, the American Minister, as a part of the
duty which he owed to his country, read in a publication of that day,
issued for the purpose, the names of the new arrivals at Florence.
First and foremost was that of the Honourable Charles Glascock, with
his suite, at the York Hotel, en route to join his father, Lord
Peterborough, at Naples. Having read the news first to himself, the
minister read it out loud in the presence of his nieces.

'That's our friend C. G.,' said Livy.

'I should think not,' said the minister, who had his own ideas about an
English lord.

'I'm sure it is, because of the tall man with the buttons,' said
Olivia.

'It's very unlikely,' said the secretary of legation. 'Lord
Peterborough is a man of immense wealth, very old, indeed. They say he
is dying at Naples. This man is his eldest son.'

'Is that any reason why he shouldn't have been civil to us?' asked
Olivia.

'I don't think he is the sort of man likely to sit up in the banquette;
and he would have posted over the Alps. Moreover, he had his suite with
him.'

'His suite was Buttons,' said Olivia. 'Only fancy, Carry, we've been
waited on for two days by a lord as is to be, and didn't know it! And
you have mended the tips of his lordship's glove!' But Carry said
nothing at all.

Late on that same evening, they met Mr Glascock close to the Duomo,
under the shade of the Campanile. He had come out as they had done, to
see by moonlight that loveliest of all works made by man's hands. They
were with the minister, but Mr Glascock came up and shook hands with
them.