Books: He Knew He Was Right

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'We never speak evil of anybody,' said Camilla; 'never. It is a rule
with us.' Then Brooke took his leave, and the three ladies were cordial
and almost affectionate in their farewell greetings.

Brooke was to start on the following morning before anybody would be up
except Martha, and Miss Stanbury was very melancholy during the
evening. 'We shall miss him very much; shall we not?' she said,
appealing to Dorothy. 'I am sure you will miss him very much,' said
Dorothy. 'We are so stupid here alone,' said Miss Stanbury. 'When they
had drank their tea, she sat nearly silent for half an hour, and then
summoned him up into her own room.'so you are going, Brooke?' she said.

'Yes; I must go now. They would dismiss me if I stayed an hour longer.'

'It was good of you to come to the old woman; and you must let me hear
of you from time to time.'

'Of course I'll write.'

'And, Brooke--'

'What is it, Aunt Stanbury?'

'Do you want any money, Brooke?'

'No none, thank you. I've plenty for a bachelor.'

'When you think of marrying, Brooke, mind you tell me.'

'I'll be sure to tell you but I can't promise yet when that will be.'
She said nothing more to him, though she paused once more as though she
were going to speak. She kissed him and bade him good-bye, saying that
she would not go down-stairs again that evening. He was to tell Dorothy
to go to bed. And so they parted.

But Dorothy did not go to bed for an hour after that. When Brooke came
down into the parlour with his message she intended to go at once, and
put up her work, and lit her candle, and put out her hand to him, and
said good-bye to him. But, for all that, she remained there for an hour
with him. At first she said very little, but by degrees her tongue was
loosened, and she found herself talking with a freedom which she could
hardly herself understand. She told him how thoroughly she believed her
aunt to be a good woman how sure she was that her aunt was at any rate
honest. 'As for me,' said Dorothy, 'I know that I have displeased her
about Mr Gibson and I would go away, only that I think she would be so
desolate.' Then Brooke begged her never to allow the idea of leaving
Miss Stanbury to enter her head. Because Miss Stanbury was capricious,
he said, not on that account should her caprices either be indulged or
permitted. That was his doctrine respecting Miss Stanbury, and he
declared that, as regarded himself, he would never be either
disrespectful to her or submissive. 'It is a great mistake,' he said,
'to think that anybody is either an angel or a devil.' When Dorothy
expressed an opinion that with some people angelic tendencies were
predominant, and with others diabolic tendencies, he assented; but
declared that it was not always easy to tell the one tendency from the
other. At last, when Dorothy had made about five attempts to go, Mr
Gibson's name was mentioned. 'I am very glad that you are not going to
be Mrs Gibson,' said he.

'I don't know why you should be glad.'

'Because I should not have liked your husband not as your husband.'

'He is an excellent man, I'm sure,' said Dorothy.

'Nevertheless I am very glad. But I did not think you would accept him,
and I congratulate you on your escape. You would have been nothing to
me as Mrs Gibson.'

'Shouldn't I?' said Dorothy, not knowing what else to say.

'But now I think we shall always be friends.'

'I'm sure I hope so, Mr Burgess. But indeed I must go now. It is ever
so late, and you will hardly get any sleep. Good night.' Then he took
her hand, and pressed it very warmly, and referring to a promise before
made to her, he assured her that he would certainly make acquaintance
with her brother as soon as he was back in London. Dorothy, as she went
up to bed, was more than ever satisfied with herself, in that she had
not yielded in reference to Mr Gibson.

CHAPTER XLV - TREVELYAN AT VENICE

Trevelyan passed on moodily and alone from Turin to Venice, always
expecting letters from Bozzle, and receiving from time to time the
dispatches which that functionary forwarded to him, as must be
acknowledged, with great punctuality. For Mr Bozzle did his work, not
only with a conscience, but with a will. He was now, as he had declared
more than once, altogether devoted to Mr Trevelyan's interest; and as
he was an active, enterprising man, always on the alert to be doing
something, and as he loved the work of writing dispatches, Trevelyan
received a great many letters from Bozzle. It is not exaggeration to
say that every letter made him for the time a very wretched man. This
ex-policeman wrote of the wife of his bosom of her who had been the
wife of his bosom, and who was the mother of his child, who was at this
very time the only woman whom he loved with an entire absence of
delicacy. Bozzle would have thought reticence on his part to he
dishonest. We remember Othello's demand of Iago. That was the demand
which Bozzle understood that Trevelyan had made of him, and he was
minded to obey that order. But Trevelvan, though he had in truth given
the order, was like Othello also in this that he would have preferred
before all the prizes of the world to have had proof brought home to
him exactly opposite to that which he demanded. But there was nothing
so terrible to him as the grinding suspicion that he was to be kept in
the dark. Bozzle could find out facts. Therefore he gave, in effect,
the same order that Othello gave and Bozzle went to work determined to
obey it. There came many dispatches to Venice, and at last there came
one, which created a correspondence which shall be given here at
length. The first is a letter from Mr Bozzle to his employer:

'55, Stony Walk, Union Street, Borough,

September 29, 186-, 4.30 p.m.

HOND. SIR,

Since I wrote yesterday morning, something has occurred which, it may
be, and I think it will, will help to bring this melancholy affair to a
satisfactory termination and conclusion. I had better explain, Mr
Trewilyan, how I have been at work from the beginning about watching
the Colonel. I couldn't do nothing with the porter at the Albany, which
he is always mostly muzzled with beer, and he wouldn't have taken my
money, not on the square. So, when it was tellegrammed to me as the
Colonel was on the move in the North, I put on two boys as knows the
Colonel, at eighteenpence a day, at each end, one Piccadilly end, and
the other Saville Row end, and yesterday morning, as quick as ever
could be, after the Limited Express Edinburgh Male Up was in, there
comes the Saville Row End Boy here to say as the Colonel was lodged
safe in his downey. Then I was off immediate myself to St. Diddulph's,
because I knows what it is to trust to inferiors when matters gets
delicate. Now, there hadn't been no letters from the Colonel, nor none
to him as I could make out, though that mightn't be so sure. She might
have had 'em addressed to A. Z., or the like of that, at any of the
Post-offices as was distant, as nobody could give the notice to 'em
all. Barring the money, which I know ain't an object when the end is so
desirable, it don't do to be too ubiketous, because things will go
astray. But I've kept my eye uncommon open, and I don't think there
have been no letters since that last which was sent, Mr Trewilyan, let
any of 'em, parsons or what not, say what they will. And I don't see as
parsons are better than other folk when they has to do with a lady as
likes her fancy-man.'

Trevelyan, when he had read as far as this, threw down the letter and
tore his hair in despair. 'My wife,' he exclaimed, 'Oh, my wife!' But
it was essential that he should read Bozzle's letter, and he
persevered.

'Well; I took to the ground myself as soon as ever I heard that the
Colonel was among us, and I hung out at the Full Moon. They had been
quite on the square with me at the Full Moon, which I mention, because,
of course, it has to be remembered, and it do come up as a hitem. And
I'm proud, Mr Trewilyan, as I did take to the ground myself; for what
should happen but I see the Colonel as large as life ringing at the
parson's bell at 1.47 p.m. He was let in at 1.49, and he was let out at
2.17. He went away in a cab which it was kept, and I followed him till
he was put down at the Arcade, and I left him having his 'ed washed and
greased at Trufitt's rooms, half-way up. It was a wonder to me when I
see this, Mr Trewilyan, as he didn't have his 'ed done first, as they
most of 'em does when they're going to see their ladies; but I couldn't
make nothing of that, though I did try to put too and too together, as
I always does.

What he did at the parson's, Mr Trewilyan, I won't say I saw, and I
won't say I know. It's my opinion the young woman there isn't on the
square, though she's been remembered too, and is a hitem of course.
And, Mr Trewilyan, it do go against the grain with me when they're
remembered and ain't on the square. I doesn't expect too much of Human
Nature, which is poor, as the saying goes; but when they're remembered
and ain't on the square after that, it's too bad for Human Nature. It's
more than poor. It's what I calls beggarly.

He ain't been there since, Mr Trewilyan, and he goes out of town
to-morrow by the 1.15 p.m. express to Bridport. So he lets on; but of
course I shall see to that. That he's been at St. Diddulph's, in the
house from 1.47 to 2.17, you may take as a fact. There won't be no
shaking of that, because I have it in my mem. book, and no Counsel can
get the better of it. Of course he went there to see her, and it's my
belief he did. The young woman as was remembered says he didn't, but
she isn't on the square. They never is when a lady wants to see her
gentleman, though they comes round afterwards, and tells up everything
when it comes before his ordinary lordship.

If you ask me, Mr Trewilyan, I don't think it's ripe yet for the court,
but we'll have it ripe before long. I'll keep a look-out, because it's
just possible she may leave town. If she do, I'll be down upon them
together, and no mistake.

Yours most respectful,

S. BOZZLE.'

Every word in the letter had been a dagger to Trevelyan, and yet he
felt himself to be under an obligation to the man who had written it.
No one else would or could make facts known to him. If she were
innocent, let him know that she were innocent, and he would proclaim
her innocence, and believe in her innocence and sacrifice himself to
her innocence, if such sacrifice were necessary. But if she were
guilty, let him also know that. He knew how bad it was, all that
bribing of postmen and maidservants, who took his money, and her money
also, very likely. It was dirt, all of it. But who had put him into the
dirt? His wife had, at least, deceived him had deceived him and
disobeyed him, and it was necessary that he should know the facts. Life
without a Bozzle would now have been to him a perfect blank.

The Colonel had been to the parsonage at St. Diddulph's, and had been
admitted! As to that he had no doubt. Nor did he really doubt that his
wife had seen the visitor. He had sent his wife first into a remote
village on Dartmoor, and there she had been visited by her lover! How
was he to use any other word? Iago oh, Iago! The pity of it, Iago!
Then, when she had learned that this was discovered, she had left the
retreat in which he had placed her without permission from him and had
taken herself to the house of a relative of hers. Here she was visited
again by her lover! Oh, Iago; the pity of it, Iago! And then there had
been between them an almost constant correspondence. So much he had
ascertained as fact; but he did not for a moment believe that Bozzle
had learned all the facts. There might be correspondence, or even
visits, of which Bozzle could learn nothing. How could Bozzle know
where Mrs Trevelyan was during all those hours which Colonel Osborne
passed in London? That which he knew, he knew absolutely, and on that
he could act; but there was, of course, much of which he knew nothing.
Gradually the truth would unveil itself, and then he would act. He
would tear that Colonel into fragments, and throw his wife from him
with all the ignominy which the law made possible to him.

But in the meantime he wrote a letter to Mr Outhouse. Colonel Osborne,
after all that had been said, had been admitted at the parsonage, and
Trevelyan was determined to let the clergyman know what he thought
about it. The oftener he turned the matter in his mind, as he walked
slowly up and down the piazza of St. Mark, the more absurd it appeared
to him to doubt that his wife had seen the man. Of course she had seen
him. He walked there nearly the whole night, thinking of it, and as he
dragged himself off at last to his inn, had almost come to have but one
desire namely, that he should find her out, that the evidence should be
conclusive, that it should be proved, and so brought to an end. Then he
would destroy her, and destroy that man and afterwards destroy himself,
so bitter to him would be his ignominy. He almost revelled in the idea
of the tragedy he would make. It was three o'clock before he was in his
bedroom, and then he wrote his letter to Mr Outhouse before he took
himself to his bed. It was as follows:

'Venice, Oct. 4, 186-.

Sir

Information of a certain kind, on which I can place a firm reliance,
has reached me, to the effect that Colonel Osborne has been allowed to
visit at your house during the sojourn of my wife under your roof. I
will thank you to inform me whether this be true; as, although I am
confident of my facts, it is necessary, in reference to my ulterior
conduct, that I should have from you either an admission or a denial of
my assertion. It is of course open to you to leave my letter
unanswered. Should you think proper to do so, I shall know also how to
deal with that fact.

As to your conduct in admitting Colonel Osborne into your house while
my wife is there after all that has passed, and all that you know that
has passed I am quite unable to speak with anything like moderation of
feeling. Had the man succeeded in forcing himself into your residence,
you should have been the first to give me notice of it. As it is, I
have been driven to ascertain the fact from other sources. I think that
you have betrayed the trust that a husband has placed in you, and that
you will find from the public voice that you will be regarded as having
disgraced yourself as a clergyman.

In reference to my wife herself, I would wish her to know, that after
what has now taken place, I shall not feel myself justified in leaving
our child longer in her hands, even tender as are his years. I shall
take steps for having him removed. What further I shall do to vindicate
myself, and extricate myself as far as may be possible from the slough
of despond in which I have been submerged, she and you will learn in
due time.

Your obedient servant,

L. TREVELYAN.

A letter addressed "poste restante, Venice," will reach me here.'

If Trevelyan was mad when he wrote this letter, Mr Outhouse was very
nearly as mad when he read it. He had most strongly desired to have
nothing to do with his wife's niece when she was separated from her
husband. He was a man honest, charitable, and sufficiently
affectionate; but he was timid, and disposed to think ill of those
whose modes of life were strange to him. Actuated by these feelings, he
would have declined to offer the hospitality of his roof to Mrs
Trevelyan, had any choice been left to him. But there had been no
choice. She had come thither unasked, with her boy and baggage, and he
could not send her away. His wife had told him that it was his duty to
protect these women till their father came, and he recognised the truth
of what his wife said. There they were, and there they must remain
throughout the winter. It was hard upon him especially as the
difficulties and embarrassments as to money were so disagreeable to him
but there was no help for it. His duty must be done though it were ever
so painful. Then that horrid Colonel had come. And now had come this
letter, in which he was not only accused of being an accomplice between
his married niece and her lover, but was also assured that he should be
held up to public ignominy and disgrace. Though he had often declared
that Trevelyan was mad, he would not remember that now. Such a letter
as he had received should have been treated by him as the production of
a madman. But he was not sane enough himself to see the matter in that
light. He gnashed his teeth, and clenched his fist, and was almost
beside himself as he read the letter a second time.

There had been a method in Trevelyan's madness; for, though he had
declared to himself that without doubt Bozzle had been right in saying
that as the Colonel had been at the parsonage, therefore, as a
certainty, Mrs Trevelyan had met the Colonel there, yet he had not so
stated in his letter. He had merely asserted that Colonel Osborne had
been at the house, and had founded his accusation upon that alleged
fact. The alleged fact had been in truth a fact. So far Bozzle had been
right. The Colonel had been at the parsonage; and the reader knows how
far Mr Outhouse had been to blame for his share in the matter! He
rushed off to his wife with the letter, declaring at first that Mrs
Trevelyan, Nora, and the child, and the servant, should be sent out of
the house at once. But at last Mrs Outhouse succeeded in showing him
that he would not be justified in ill-using them because Trevelyan had
ill-used him. 'But I will write to him,' said Mr Outhouse. 'He shall
know what I think about it.' And he did write his letter that day, in
spite of his wife's entreaties that he would allow the sun to set upon
his wrath. And his letter was as follows:

'St. Diddulph's, October 8, 186-.

'Sir,

I have received your letter of the 4th, which is more iniquitous,
unjust, and ungrateful, than anything I ever before saw written. I have
been surprised from the first at your gross cruelty to your unoffending
wife; but even that seems to me more intelligible than your conduct in
writing such words as those which you have dared to send to me.

For your wife's sake, knowing that she is in a great degree still in
your power, I will condescend to tell you what has happened. When Mrs
Trevelyan found herself constrained to leave Nuncombe Putney by your
aspersions on her character, she came here, to the protection of her
nearest relatives within reach, till her father and mother should be in
England. Sorely against my will I received them into my home, because
they had been deprived of other shelter by the cruelty or madness of
him who should have been their guardian. Here they are, and here they
shall remain till Sir Marmaduke Rowley arrives. The other day, on the
29th of September, Colonel Osborne, who is their father's old friend,
called, not on them, but on me. I may truly say that I did not wish to
see Colonel Osborne. They did not see him, nor did he ask to see them.
If his coming was a fault and I think it was a fault they were not
implicated in it. He came, remained a few. minutes, and went without
seeing any one but myself. That is the history of Colonel Osborne's
visit to my house.

I have not thought fit to show your letter to your wife, or to make her
acquainted with this further proof of your want of reason. As to the
threats which you hold out of removing her child from her, you can of
course do nothing except by law. I do not think that even you will be
sufficiently audacious to take any steps of that description. Whatever
protection the law may give her and her child from your tyranny and
misconduct cannot be obtained till her father shall be here.

I have only further to request that you will not address any further
communication to me. Should you do so, it will be refused.

Yours, in deep indignation,

OLIPHANT OUTHOUSE.'

Trevelyan had also written two other letters to England, one to Mr
Bideawhile, and the other to Bozzle. In the former he acquainted the
lawyer that he had discovered that his wife still maintained her
intercourse with Colonel Osborne, and that he must therefore remove his
child from her custody. He then inquired what steps would be necessary
to enable him to obtain possession of his little boy. In the letter to
Bozzle he sent a cheque, and his thanks for the ex-policeman's watchful
care. He desired Bozzle to continue his precautions, and explained his
intentions about his son. Being somewhat afraid that Mr Bideawhile
might not be zealous on his behalf, and not himself understanding
accurately the extent of his power with regard to his own child, or the
means whereby he might exercise it, he was anxious to obtain assistance
from Bozzle also on this point, he had no doubt that Bozzle knew all
about it. He had great confidence in Bozzle. But still he did not like
to consult the ex policeman. He knew that it became him to have some
regard for his own dignity. He therefore put the matter very astutely
to Bozzle asking no questions, but alluding to his difficulty in a way
that would enable Bozzle to offer advice.

And where was he to get a woman to take charge of his child? If Lady
Milborough would do it, how great would be the comfort! But he was
almost sure that Lady Milborough would not do it. All his friends had
turned against him, and Lady Milborough among the number. There was
nobody left to him, but Bozzle. Could he entrust Bozzle to find some
woman for him who would take adequate charge of the little fellow, till
he himself could see to the child's education? He did not put this
question to Bozzle in plain terms; but he was very astute, and wrote in
such a fashion that Bozzle could make a proposal, if any proposal were
within his power.

The answer from Mr Outhouse came first. To this Mr Trevelyan paid very
little attention. It was just what he expected. Of course, Mr
Outhouse's assurance about Colonel Osborne went for nothing. A man who
would permit intercourse in his house between a married lady and her
lover, would not scruple to deny that he had Permitted it. Then came Mr
Bideawhile's answer, which was very short. Mr Bideawhile said that
nothing could be done about the child till Mr Trevelyan should return
to England and that he could give no opinion as to what should be done
then till he knew more of the circumstances. It was quite clear to
Trevelyan that he must employ some other lawyer. Mr Bideawhile had
probably been corrupted by Colonel Osborne. Could Bozzle recommend a
lawyer?

From Bozzle himself there came no other immediate reply than, 'his
duty, and that he would make further inquiries.'

CHAPTER XLVI - THE AMERICAN MINISTER

In the second week in October, Mr Glascock returned to Florence,
intending to remain there till the weather should have become bearable
at Naples. His father was said to be better, but was in such a
condition as hardly to receive much comfort from his son's presence.
His mind was gone, and he knew no one but his nurse; and, though Mr
Glascock was unwilling to put himself altogether out of the reach of
returning at a day's notice, he did not find himself obliged to remain
in Naples during the heat of the autumn. So Mr Glascock returned to the
hotel at Florence, accompanied by the tall man who wore the buttons.
The hotel-keeper did not allow such a light to remain long hidden under
a bushel, and it was soon spread far and wide that the Honourable
Charles Glascock and his suite were again in the beautiful city.

And the fact was soon known to the American Minister and his family. Mr
Spalding was a man who at home had been very hostile to English
interests. Many American gentlemen are known for such hostility. They
make anti-English speeches about the country, as though they thought
that war with England would produce certain triumph to the States,
certain increase to American trade, and certain downfall to a tyranny
which no Anglo-Saxon nation ought to endure. But such is hardly their
real opinion. There, in the States, as also here in England, you shall
from day to day hear men propounding, in very loud language, advanced
theories of political action, the assertion of which is supposed to be
necessary to the end which they have in view. Men whom we know to have
been as mild as sucking doves in the political aspiration of their
whole lives, suddenly jump up, and with infuriated gestures declare
themselves the enemies of everything existing. When they have obtained
their little purpose or have failed to do so they revert naturally into
their sucking-dove elements. It is so with Americans as frequently as
with ourselves and there is no political subject on which it is
considered more expedient to express pseudo-enthusiasm than on that of
the sins of England. It is understood that we do not resent it. It is
presumed that we regard it as the Irishman regarded his wife's cuffs.
In the States a large party, which consists chiefly of those who have
lately left English rule, amid who are keen to prove to themselves how
wise they have been in doing so, is pleased by this strong language
against England; and, therefore, the strong language is spoken. But the
speakers, who are, probably, men knowing something of the world, mean
it not at all; they have no more idea of war with England than they
have of war with all Europe; and their respect for England and for
English opinion is unbounded. In their political tones of speech and
modes of action they strive to be as English as possible. Mr Spalding's
aspirations were of this nature. He had uttered speeches against
England which would make the hair stand on end on the head of an
uninitiated English reader. He had told his countrymen that Englishmen
hugged their chains, and would do so until American hammers had knocked
those chains from off their wounded wrists and bleeding ankles. He had
declared that, if certain American claims were not satisfied, there was
nothing left for Americans to do but to cross the ferry with such a
sheriff's officer as would be able to make distraint on the great
English household. He had declared that the sheriff's officer would
have very little trouble. He had spoken of Canada as an outlying
American territory, not yet quite sufficiently redeemed from savage
life to be received into the Union as a State. There is a multiplicity
of subjects of this kind ready to the hand of the American orator. Mr
Spalding had been quite successful, and was now Minister at Florence;
but, perhaps, one of the greatest Pleasures coming to him from his
prosperity was the enjoyment of the society of well-bred Englishmen, in
the capital to which he had been sent. When, therefore, his wife and
nieces pointed out to him the fact that it was manifestly his duty to
call upon Mr Glascock after what had passed between them on that night
under the Campanile, he did not rebel for an instant against the order
given to him. His mind never reverted for a moment to that opinion
which had gained for him such a round of applause, when expressed on
the platform of the Temperance Hall at Nubbly Creek, State of Illinois,
to the effect that the English aristocrat, thorough-born and thorough-
bred, who inherited acres and title from his father, could never be
fitting company for a thoughtful Christian American citizen. He at once
had his hat brushed, and took up his best gloves and umbrella, and went
off to Mr Glascock's hotel. He was strictly enjoined by the ladies to
fix a day on which Mr Glascock would come and dine at the American
embassy.