Books: He Knew He Was Right

A >> Anthony Trollope >> He Knew He Was Right

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56 | 57 | 58 | 59 | 60 | 61 | 62 | 63 | 64 | 65 | 66 | 67 | 68 | 69 | 70 | 71 | 72

'There are people who fancy that nobody cares for them,' said Brooke.

'Indeed there are, Mr Burgess; and it is so natural.'

'Why natural?'

'Just as it is natural that there should be dogs and cats that are
petted and loved and made much of, and others that have to crawl
through life as they can, cuffed and kicked and starved.'

'That depends on the accident of possession,' said Brooke.

'So does the other. How many people there are that don't seem to belong
to anybody and if they do, they're no good to anybody. They're not
cuffed exactly, or starved; but--'

'You mean that they don't get their share of affection?'

'They get perhaps as much as they deserve,' said Dorothy.

'Because they're cross-grained, or ill-tempered, or disagreeable?'

'Not exactly that.'

'What then?' asked Brooke.

'Because they're just nobodies. They are not anything particular to
anybody, and so they go on living till they die. You know what I mean,
Mr Burgess. A man who is a nobody can perhaps make himself somebody or,
at any rate, he can try; but a woman has no means of trying. She is a
nobody and a nobody she must remain. She has her clothes and her food,
but she isn't wanted anywhere. People put up with her, and that is
about the best of her luck. If she were to die somebody perhaps would
be sorry for her, but nobody would be worse off. She doesn't earn
anything or do any good. She is just there and that's all.'

Brooke had never heard her speak after this fashion before, had never
known her to utter so many consecutive words, or to put forward any
opinion of her own with so much vigour. And Dorothy herself, when she
had concluded her speech, was frightened by her own energy and grew red
in the face, and shewed very plainly that she was half ashamed of
herself. Brooke thought that he had never seen her look so pretty
before, and was pleased by her enthusiasm. He understood perfectly that
she was thinking of her own position, though she had entertained no
idea that he would so read her meaning; and he felt that it was
incumbent on him to undeceive her, and make her know that she was not
one of those women who are 'just there and that's all.' 'One does see
such a woman as that now and again,' he said.

'There are hundreds of them,' said Dorothy. 'And of course it can't be
helped.'

'Such as Arabella French,' said he, laughing.

'Well yes; if she is one. It is very easy to see the difference. Some
people are of use and are always doing things. There are others,
generally women, who have nothing to do, but who can't be got rid of.
It is a melancholy sort of feeling.'

'You at least are not one of them.'

'I didn't mean to complain about myself,' she said. 'I have got a great
deal to make me happy.'

'I don't suppose you regard yourself as an Arabella French,' said he.

'How angry Miss French would be if she heard you.. She considers
herself to be one of the reigning beauties of Exeter.'

'She has had a very long reign, and dominion of that sort to be
successful ought to be short.'

'That is spiteful, Mr Burgess.'

'I don't feel spiteful against her, poor woman. I own I do not love
Camilla. Not that I begrudge Camilla her present prosperity.'

'Nor I either, Mr Burgess.'

'She and Mr Gibson will do very well together, I dare say.'

'I hope they will,' said Dorothy, 'and I do not see any reason against
it. They have known each other a long time.'

'A very long time,' said Brooke. Then he paused for a minute, thinking
how he might best tell her that which he had now resolved should be
told on this occasion. Dorothy finished her tea and got up as though
she were about to go to her duty upstairs. She had been as yet hardly
an hour in the room, and the period of her relief was not fairly over.
But there had come something of a personal flavour in their
conversation which prompted her, unconsciously, to leave him. She had,
without any special indication of herself, included herself among that
company of old maids who are born and live and die without that vital
interest in the affairs of life which nothing but family duties, the
care of children, or at least of a husband, will give to a woman. If
she had not meant this she had felt it. He had understood her meaning,
or at least her feeling, and had taken upon himself to assure her that
she was not one of the company whose privations she had endeavoured to
describe. Her instinct rather than her reason put her at once upon her
guard, and she prepared to leave the room. 'You are not going yet,' he
said.

'I think I might as well. Martha has so much to do, and she comes to me
again at five in the morning.'

'Don't go quite yet,' he said, pulling Out his watch. 'I know all about
the hours, and it wants twenty minutes to the proper time.'

'There is no proper time, Mr Burgess.'

'Then you can remain a few minutes longer. The fact is, I've got
something I want to say to you.'

He was now standing between her and the door, so that she could not get
away from him; but at this moment she was absolutely ignorant of his
purpose, expecting nothing of love from him more than she would from
Sir Peter Mancrudy. Her face had become flushed when she made her long
speech, but there was no blush on it as she answered him now. 'Of
course, I can wait,' she said, 'if you have anything to say to me.'

'Well I have. I should have said it before, only that that other man
was here.' He was blushing now up to the roots of his hair, and felt
that he was in a difficulty. There are men, to whom such moments of
their lives are pleasurable, but Brooke Burgess was not one of them. He
would have been glad to have had it done and over so that then he might
take pleasure in it.

'What man?' asked Dorothy, in perfect innocence.

'Mr Gibson, to be sure. I don't know that there is anybody else.'

'Oh, Mr Gibson. He never comes here now, and I don't suppose he will
again. Aunt Stanbury is so very angry with him.'

'I don't care whether he comes or not. What I mean is this. When I was
here before, I was told that you were going to marry him.'

'But I wasn't.'

'How was I to know that, when you didn't tell me? I certainly did know
it after I came back from Dartmoor.' He paused a moment, as though she
might have a word to say. She had no word to say, and did not in the
least know what was coming. She was so far from anticipating the truth,
that she was composed and easy in her mind. 'But all that is of no use
at all,' he continued. 'When I was here before Miss Stanbury wanted you
to marry Mr Gibson; and, of course, I had nothing to say about it. Now
I want you to marry me.'

'Mr Burgess!'

'Dorothy, my darling, I love you better than all the world. I do,
indeed.' As soon as he had commenced his protestations he became
profuse enough with them, and made a strong attempt to support them by
the action of his hands. But she retreated from him step by step, till
she had regained her chair by the tea-table, and there she seated
herself safely, as she thought; but he was close to her, over her
shoulder, still continuing his protestations, offering up his vows, and
imploring her to reply to him. She, as yet, had not answered him by a
word, save by that one half-terrified exclamation of his name. 'Tell
me, at any rate, that you believe me, when I assure you that I love
you,' he said. The room was going round with Dorothy, and the world was
going round, and there had come upon her so strong a feeling of the
disruption of things in general, that she was at the moment anything
but happy. Had it been possible for her to find that the last ten
minutes had been a dream, she would at this moment have wished that it
might become one. A trouble had come upon her, out of which she did not
see her way. To dive among the waters in warm weather is very pleasant;
there is nothing pleasanter. But when the young swimmer first feels the
thorough immersion of his plunge, there comes upon him a strong desire
to be quickly out again. He will remember afterwards how joyous it was;
but now, at this moment, the dry land is everything to him. So it was
with Dorothy. She had thought of Brooke Burgess as one of those bright
ones of the world, with whom everything is happy and pleasant, whom
everybody loves, who may have whatever they please, whose lines have
been laid in pleasant places. She thought of him as a man who might
some day make some woman very happy as his wife. To be the wife of such
a man was, in Dorothy's estimation, one of those blessed chances which
come to some women, but which she never regarded as being within her
own reach. Though she had thought much about him, she had never thought
of him as a possible possession for herself; and now that he was
offering himself to her, she was not at once made happy by his love.
Her ideas of herself and of her life were all dislocated for the
moment, and she required to be alone, that she might set herself in
order, and try herself all over, and find whether her bones were
broken.'say that you believe me,' he repeated.

'I don't know what to say,' she whispered.

'I'll tell you what to say. Say at once that you will be my wife.'

'I can't say that, Mr Burgess.'

'Why not? Do you mean that you cannot love me?'

'I think, if you please, I'll go up to Aunt Stanbury. It is time for
me; indeed it is; and she will be wondering, and Martha will be put
out. Indeed I must go up.'

'And will you not answer me?'

'I don't know what to say. You must give me a little time to consider.
I don't quite think you're serious.'

'Heaven and earth!' began Brooke.

'And I'm sure it would never do. At any rate, I must go now. I must,
indeed.'

And so she escaped, and went up to her aunt's room, which she reached
at ten minutes after her usual time, and before Martha had begun to be
put out. She was very civil to Martha, as though Martha had been
injured; and she put her hand on her aunt's arm, with a soft,
caressing, apologetic touch, feeling conscious that she had given cause
for offence. 'What has he been saying to you?' said her aunt, as soon
as Martha had closed the door. This was a question which Dorothy,
certainly, could not answer. Miss Stanbury meant nothing by it nothing
beyond a sick woman's desire that something of the conversation of
those who were not sick should be retailed to her; but to Dorothy the
question meant so much! How should her aunt have known that he had said
anything? She sat herself down and waited, giving no answer to the
question. 'I hope he gets his meals comfortably,' said Miss Stanbury.

'I am sure he does,' said Dorothy, infinitely relieved. Then, knowing
how important it was that her aunt should sleep, she took up the volume
of Jeremy Taylor, and, with so great a burden on her mind, she went on
painfully and distinctly with the second sermon on the Marriage Ring.
She strove valiantly to keep her mind to the godliness of the
discourse, so that it might be of some possible service to herself; and
to keep her voice to the tone that might be of service to her aunt.
Presently she heard the grateful sound which indicated her aunt's
repose, but she knew of experience that were she to stop, the sound and
the sleep would come to an end also. For a whole hour she persevered,
reading the sermon of the Marriage Ring with such attention to the
godly principles of the teaching as she could give with that terrible
burden upon her mind.

'Thank you thank you; that will do, my dear. Shut it up,' said the sick
woman. 'It's time now for the draught.' Then Dorothy moved quietly
about the room, and did her nurse's work with soft hand, and soft
touch, and soft tread. After that her aunt kissed her, and bade her sit
down and sleep.

'I'll go on reading, aunt, if you'll let me,' said Dorothy. But Miss
Stanbury, who was not a cruel woman, would have no more of the reading,
and Dorothy's mind was left at liberty to think of the proposition that
had been made to her. To one resolution she came very quickly. The
period of her aunt's illness could not be a proper time for marriage
vows, or the amenities of love-making. She did not feel that he, being
a man, had offended; but she was quite sure that were she, a woman, the
niece of so kind an aunt, the nurse at the bedside of such an invalid
were she at such a time to consent to talk of love, she would never
deserve to have a lover. And from this resolve she got great comfort.
It would give her an excuse for making no more assured answer at
present, and would enable her to reflect at leisure as to the reply she
would give him, should he ever, by any chance, renew his offer. If he
did not and probably he would not then it would have been very well
that he should not have been made the victim of a momentary generosity.
She had complained of the dullness of her life, and that complaint from
her had produced his noble, kind, generous, dear, enthusiastic
benevolence towards her. As she thought of it all and by degrees she
took great pleasure in thinking of it her mind bestowed upon him all
manner of eulogies. She could not persuade herself that he really loved
her, and yet she was full at heart of gratitude to him for the
expression of his love. And as for herself, could she love him? We who
are looking on of course know that she loved him that from this moment
there was nothing belonging to him, down to his shoe-tie, that would
not be dear to her heart and an emblem so tender as to force a tear
from her. He had already become her god, though she did not know it.
She made comparisons between him and Mr Gibson, and tried to convince
herself that the judgment, which was always pronounced very clearly in
Brooke's favour, came from anything but her heart. And thus through the
long watches of the night she became very happy, feeling but not
knowing that the whole aspect of the world was changed to her by those
few words which her lover had spoken to her. She thought now that it
would be consolation enough to her in future to know that such a man as
Brooke Burgess had once asked her to be the partner of his life, and
that it would be almost ungenerous in her to push her advantage further
and attempt to take him at his word. Besides, there would be obstacles.
Her aunt would dislike such a marriage for him, and he would be bound
to obey her aunt in such a matter. She would not allow herself to think
that she could ever become Brooke's wife, but nothing could rob her of
the treasure of the offer which he had made her. Then Martha came to
her at five o'clock, and she went to her bed to dream for an hour or
two of Brooke Burgess and her future life.

On the next morning she met him at breakfast. She went down stairs
later than usual, not till ten, having hung about her aunt's room,
thinking that thus she would escape him for the present. She would wait
till he was gone out, and then she would go down. She did wait; but she
could not hear the front door, and then her aunt murmured something
about Brooke's breakfast. She was told to go down, and she went. But
when on the stairs she slunk back to her own room, and stood there for
awhile, aimless, motionless, not knowing what to do. Then one of the
girls came to her, and told her that Mr Burgess was waiting breakfast
for her. She knew not what excuse to make, and at last descended slowly
to the parlour. She was very happy, but had it been possible for her to
have run away she would have gone.

'Dear Dorothy,' he said at once. 'I may call you so, may I not?'

'Oh yes.'

'And you will love me and be my own, own wife?'

'No, Mr Burgess.'

'No?'

'I mean that is to say--'

'Do you love me, Dorothy?'

'Only think how ill Aunt Stanbury is, Mr Burgess; perhaps dying! How
can I have any thought now except about her? It wouldn't be right would
it?'

'You may say that you love me.'

'Mr Burgess, pray, pray don't speak of it now. If you do I must go
away.'

'But do you love me?'

'Pray, pray don't, Mr Burgess!'

There was nothing more to be got from her during the whole day than
that. He told her in the evening that as soon as Miss Stanbury was
well, he would come again that in any case he would come again. She sat
quite still as he said this, with a solemn face but smiling at heart,
laughing at heart, so happy! When she got up to leave him, and was
forced to give him her hand, he seized her in his arms and kissed her.
'That is very, very wrong,' she said, sobbing, and then ran to her room
the happiest girl in all Exeter. He was to start early on the following
morning, and she knew that she would not be forced to see him again.
Thinking of him was so much pleasanter than seeing him!

CHAPTER LII - MR OUTHOUSE COMPLAINS THAT IT'S HARD

Life had gone on during the winter at St Diddulph's Parsonage in a
dull, weary, painful manner. There had come a letter in November from
Trevelyan to his wife, saying that as he could trust neither her nor
her uncle with the custody of his child, he should send a person armed
with due legal authority, addressed to Mr Outhouse, for the recovery of
the boy, and desiring that little Louis might be at once surrendered to
the messenger. Then of course there had arisen great trouble in the
house. Both Mrs Trevelyan and Nora Rowley had learned by this time
that, as regarded the master of the house, they were not welcome guests
at St Diddulph's. When the threat was shewn to Mr Outhouse, he did not
say a word to indicate that the child should be given up. He muttered
something, indeed, about impotent nonsense, which seemed to imply that
the threat could be of no avail; but there was none of that reassurance
to be obtained from him which a positive promise on his part to hold
the bairn against all corners would have given. Mrs Outhouse told her
niece more than once that the child would be given to no messenger
whatever; but even she did not give the assurance with that energy
which the mother would have liked. 'They shall drag him away from me by
force if they do take him!' said the mother, gnashing her teeth. Oh, if
her father would but come! For some weeks she did not let the boy out
of her sight; but when no messenger had presented himself by Christmas
time, they all began to believe that the threat had in truth meant
nothing that it had been part of the ravings of a madman.

But the threat had meant something. Early on one morning in January Mr
Outhouse was told that a person in the hall wanted to see him, and Mrs
Trevelyan, who was sitting at breakfast, the child being at the moment
upstairs, started from her seat. The maid described the man as being
'All as one as a gentleman,' though she would not go so far as to say
that he was a gentleman in fact. Mr Outhouse slowly rose from his
breakfast, went out to the man in the passage, and bade him follow into
the little closet that was now used as a study. It is needless perhaps
to say that the man was Bozzle.

'I dare say, Mr Houthouse, you don't know me,' said Bozzle. Mr
Outhouse, disdaining all complimentary language, said that he certainly
did not. 'My name, Mr Houthouse, is Samuel Bozzle, and I live at No.
55, Stony Walk, Union Street, Borough. I was in the Force once, but I
work on my own 'ook now.'

'What do you want with me, Mr Bozzle?'

'It isn't so much with you, sir, as it is with a lady as is under your
protection; and it isn't so much with the lady as it is with her
infant.'

'Then you may go away, Mr Bozzle,' said Mr Outhouse, impatiently. 'You
may as well go away at once.'

'Will you please read them few lines, sir,' said Mr Bozzle. 'They is in
Mr Trewilyan's handwriting, which will no doubt be familiar characters
leastways to Mrs T., if you don't know the gent's fist.' Mr Outhouse,
after looking at the paper for a minute, and considering deeply what in
this emergency he had better do, did take the paper and read it. The
words ran as follows: 'I hereby give full authority to Mr Samuel
Bozzle, of 55, Stony Walk, Union Street, Borough, to claim and to
enforce possession of the body of my child, Louis Trevelyan; and I
require that any person whatsoever who may now have the custody of the
said child, whether it be my wife or any of her friends, shall at once
deliver him up to Mr Bozzle on the production of this authority LOUIS
TREVELYAN.' It may be explained that before this document had been
written there had been much correspondence on the subject between
Bozzle and his employer. To give the ex-policeman his due, he had not
at first wished to meddle in the matter of the child. He had a wife at
home who expressed an opinion with much vigour that the boy should be
left with its mother, and that he, Bozzle, should he succeed in getting
hold of the child, would not know what to do with it. Bozzle was aware,
moreover, that it was his business to find out facts, and not to
perform actions. But his employer had become very urgent with him. Mr
Bideawhile had positively refused to move in the matter; and Trevelyan,
mad as he was, had felt a disinclination to throw his affairs into the
hands of a certain Mr Skint, of Stamford Street, whom Bozzle had
recommended to him as a lawyer. Trevelyan had hinted, moreover, that if
Bozzle would make the application in person, that application, if not
obeyed, would act with usefulness as a preliminary step for further
personal measures to be taken by himself. He intended to return to
England for the purpose, but he desired that the order for the child's
rendition should be made at once. Therefore Bozzle had come. He was an
earnest man, and had now worked himself up. to a certain degree of
energy in the matter. He was a man loving power, and specially anxious
to enforce obedience from those with whom he came in contact by the
production of the law's mysterious authority. In his heart he was ever
tapping people on the shoulder, and telling them that they were wanted.
Thus, when he displayed his document to Mr Outhouse, he had taught
himself at least to desire that that document should be obeyed.

Mr Outhouse read the paper and turned up his nose at it. 'You had
better go away,' said he, as he thrust it back into Bozzle's hand.

'Of course I shall go away when I have the child.'

'Psha!' said Mr Outhouse.

'What does that mean, Mr Houthouse? I presume you'll not dispute the
paternal parent's legal authority?'

'Go away, sir,' said Mr Outhouse.

'Go away!'

'Yes out of this house. It's my belief that you're a knave.'

'A knave, Mr Houthouse?'

'Yes a knave. No one who was not a knave would lend a hand towards
separating a little child from its mother. I think you are a knave, but
I don't think you are fool enough to suppose that the child will he
given up to you.'

'It's my belief that knave is hactionable,' said Bozzle whose respect,
however, for the clergyman was rising fast. 'Would you mind ringing the
bell, Mr Houthouse, and calling me a knave again before the young
woman?'

'Go away,' said Mr Outhouse.

'If you have no objection, sir, I should be glad to see the lady before
I goes.'

'You won't see any lady here; and if you don't get out of my house when
I tell you, I'll send for a real policeman.' Then was Bozzle conquered;
and, as he went, he admitted to himself that he had sinned against all
the rules of his life in attempting to go beyond the legitimate line of
his profession. As long as he confined himself to the getting up of
facts nobody could threaten him with 'a real policeman.' But one fact
he had learned to-day. The clergyman of St Diddulph's, who had been
represented to him as a weak, foolish man, was anything but that.
Bozzle was much impressed in favour of Mr Outhouse, and would have been
glad to have done that gentleman a kindness had an opportunity come in
his way.

'What does he want, Uncle Oliphant?' said Mrs Trevelyan at the foot of
the stairs, guarding the way up to the nursery. At this moment the
front door had just been closed behind the back of Mr Bozzle.

'You had better ask no questions,' said Mr Outhouse.

'But is it about Louis?'

'Yes, he came about him.'

'Well? Of course you must tell me, Uncle Oliphant. Think of my
condition.'

'He had some stupid paper in his hand from your husband, but it meant
nothing.'

'He was the messenger, then?'

'Yes, he was the messenger. But I don't suppose he expected to get
anything. Never mind. Go up and look after the child.' Then Mrs
Trevelyan returned to her boy, and Mr Outhouse went back to his papers.

It was very hard upon him, Mr Outhouse thought very hard. He was
threatened with an action now, and most probably would become subject
to one. Though he had been spirited enough in presence of the enemy, he
was very much out of spirits at this moment. Though he had admitted to
himself that his duty required him to protect his wife's niece, he had
never taken the poor woman to his heart with a loving, generous feeling
of true guardianship. Though he would not give up the child to Bozzle,
he thoroughly wished that the child was out of his house. Though he
called Bozzle a knave and Trevelyan a madman, still he considered that
Colonel Osborne was the chief sinner, and that Emily Trevelyan had
behaved badly. He constantly repeated to himself the old adage, that
there was no smoke without fire; and lamented the misfortune that had
brought him into close relation with things and people that were so
little to his taste. He sat for awhile, with a pen in his hand, at the
miserable little substitute for a library table which had been provided
for him, and strove to collect his thoughts and go on with his work.
But the effort was in vain. Bozzle would be there, presenting his
document, and begging that the maid might be rung for, in order that
she might hear him called a knave. And then he knew that on this very
day his niece intended to hand him money, which he could not refuse. Of
what use would it be to refuse it now, after it had been once taken? As
he could not write a word, he rose and went away to his wife.