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

'I'm much obliged, aunt; I am indeed; but I'd rather not.' And the
bank-note was left on the parlour table.

CHAPTER LVIII - DOROTHY AT HOME

Dorothy was received at home with so much affection and such
expressions of esteem as to afford her much consolation in her misery.
Both her mother and her sister approved of her conduct. Mrs Stanbury's
approval was indeed accompanied by many expressions of regret as to the
good things lost. She was fully alive to the fact that life in the
Close at Exeter was better for her daughter than life in their little
cottage at Nuncombe Putney. The outward appearance which Dorothy bore
on her return home was proof of this. Her clothes, the set of her hair,
her very gestures and motions had framed themselves on town ideas. The
faded, wildered, washed-out look, the uncertain, purposeless bearing
which had come from her secluded life and subjection to her sister had
vanished from her. She had lived among people, and had learned
something of their gait and carriage. Money we know will do almost
everything, and no doubt money had had much to do with this. It is very
pretty to talk of the alluring simplicity of a clean calico gown; but
poverty will shew itself to be meagre, dowdy, and draggled in a woman's
dress, let the woman be ever so simple, ever so neat, ever so
independent, and ever so high-hearted. Mrs Stanbury was quite alive to
all that her younger daughter was losing. Had she not received two
offers of marriage while she was at Exeter? There was no possibility
that offers of marriage should be made in the cottage at Nuncombe
Putney. A man within the walls of the cottage would have been
considered as much out of place as a wild bull. It had been matter of
deep regret to Mrs Stanbury that her daughter should not have found
herself able to marry Mr Gibson. She knew that there was no matter for
reproach in this, but it was a misfortune a great misfortune. And in
the mother's breast there had been a sad, unrepressed feeling of regret
that young people should so often lose their chances in the world
through over-fancifulness, and ignorance as to their own good. Now when
she heard the story of Brooke Burgess, she could not but think that had
Dorothy remained at Exeter, enduring patiently such hard words as her
aunt might speak, the love affair might have been brought at some
future time to a happy conclusion. She did not say all this; but there
came on her a silent melancholy, made expressive by constant little
shakings of the head and a continued reproachful sadness of demeanour,
which was quite as intelligible to Priscilla as would have been any
spoken words. But Priscilla's approval of her sister's conduct was
clear, outspoken, and satisfactory. She had been quite sure that her
sister had been right about Mr Gibson; and was equally sure that she
was now right about Brooke Burgess. Priscilla had in her mind an idea
that if B. B., as they called him, was half as good as her sister
represented him to be for indeed Dorothy endowed him with every virtue
consistent with humanity he would not be deterred from his pursuit
either by Dolly's letter or by Aunt Stanbury's commands. But of this
she thought it wise to say nothing. She paid Dolly the warm and
hitherto unaccustomed compliment of equality, assuming to regard her
sister's judgment and persistent independence to be equally strong with
her own; and, as she knew well, she could not have gone further than
this. 'I never shall agree with you about Aunt Stanbury,' she said. 'To
me she seems to be so imperious, so exacting, and also so unjust, as to
be unbearable.'

'But she is affectionate,' said Dolly.

'So is the dog that bites you, and, for aught I know, the horse that
kicks you. But it is ill living with biting dogs and kicking horses.
But all that matters little as you are still your own mistress. How
strange these nine months have been, with you in Exeter, while we have
been at the Clock House. And here we are, together again in the old
way, just as though nothing had happened.' But Dorothy knew well that a
great deal had happened, and that her life could never be as it had
been heretofore. The very tone in which her sister spoke to her was
proof of this. She had an infinitely greater possession in herself than
had belonged to her before her residence at Exeter; but that possession
was so heavily mortgaged and so burthened as to make her believe that
the change was to be regretted.

At the end of the first week there came a letter from Aunt Stanbury to
Dorothy. It began by saying that Dolly had left behind her certain
small properties which had now been made up in a parcel and sent by the
railway, carriage paid. 'But they weren't mine at all,' said Dolly,
alluding to certain books in which she had taken delight.' She means to
give them to you,' said Priscilla, 'and I think you must take them.'
'And the shawl is no more mine than it is yours, though I wore it two
or three times in the winter.' Priscilla was of opinion that the shawl
must be taken also. Then the letter spoke of the writer's health, and
at last fell into such a strain of confidential gossip that Mrs
Stanbury, when she read it, could not understand that there had been a
quarrel. 'Martha says that she saw Camilla French in the street to-day,
such a guy in her new finery as never was seen before except on
May-day.' Then in the postscript Dorothy was enjoined to answer this
letter quickly. 'None of your short scraps, my dear,' said Aunt
Stanbury.

'She must mean you to go back to her,' said Mrs Stanbury.

'No doubt she does,' said Priscilla; 'but Dolly need not go because my
aunt means it. We are not her creatures.'

But Dorothy answered her aunt's letter in the spirit in which it had
been written. She asked after her aunt's health, thanked her aunt for
the gift of the books in each of which her name had been clearly
written, protested about the shawl, sent her love to Martha and her
kind regards to Jane, and expressed a hope that C. F. enjoyed her new
clothes. She described the cottage, and was funny about the cabbage
stumps in the garden, and at last succeeded in concocting a long
epistle. 'I suppose there will he a regular correspondence,' said
Priscilla.

Two days afterwards, however, the correspondence took altogether
another form. The cottage in which they now lived was supposed to be
beyond the beat of the wooden-legged postman, and therefore it was
necessary that they should call at the post-office for their letters.
On the morning in question Priscilla obtained a thick letter from
Exeter for her mother, and knew that it had come from her aunt. Her
aunt could hardly have found it necessary to correspond with Dorothy's
mother so soon after that letter to Dorothy had been written had there
not arisen some very peculiar cause. Priscilla, after much meditation,
thought it better that the letter should be opened in Dorothy's
absence, and in Dorothy's absence the following letter was read both by
Priscilla and her mother.

'The Close, March 19, 186-.

DEAR SISTER STANBURY,

After much consideration, I think it best to send under cover to you
the enclosed letter from Mr Brooke Burgess, intended for your daughter
Dorothy. You will see that I have opened it and read it as I was
clearly entitled to do, the letter having been addressed to my niece
while she was supposed to be under my care. I do not like to destroy
the letter, though, perhaps, that would be best; but I would advise you
to do so, if it be possible, without shewing it to Dorothy. I have told
Mr Brooke Burgess what I have done.

I have also told him that I cannot sanction a marriage between him and
your daughter. There are many reasons of old date not to speak of
present reasons also which would make such a marriage highly
inexpedient. Mr Brooke Burgess is, of course, his own master, but your
daughter understands completely how the matter stands.

Yours truly,

JEMIMA STANBURY.'

'What a wicked old woman!' said Priscilla. Then there arose a question
whether they should read Brooke's letter, or whether they should give
it unread to Dorothy. Priscilla denounced her aunt in the strongest
language she could use for having broken the seal. "Clearly entitled,"
because Dorothy had been living with her!' exclaimed Priscilla. 'She
can have no proper conception of honour or of honesty. She had no more
right to open Dorothy's letter than she had to take her money.' Mrs
Stanbury was very, anxious to read Brooke's letter, alleging that they
would then be able to judge whether it should be handed over to
Dorothy. But Priscilla's sense of right would not admit of this.
Dorothy must receive the letter from her lover with no further stain
from unauthorised eyes than that to which it had been already
subjected. She was called in, therefore, from the kitchen, and the
whole packet was given to her. 'Your aunt has read the enclosure,
Dolly; but we have not opened it.'

Dorothy took the packet without a word and sat herself down. She first
read her aunt's letter very slowly. 'I understand perfectly,' she said,
folding it up, almost listlessly, while Brooke's letter lay still
unopened on her lap. Then she took it up, and held it awhile in both
hands, while her mother and Priscilla watched her. 'Priscilla,' she
said, 'do you read it first.'

Priscilla was immediately at her side, kissing her. 'No, my darling;
no,' she said; 'it is for you to read it.' Then Dorothy took the
precious contents from the envelope, and opened the folds of the paper.
When she had read a dozen words, her eyes were so suffused with tears,
that she could hardly make herself mistress of the contents of the
letter; but she knew that it contained renewed assurances of her
lover's love, and assurance on his part that he would take no refusal
from her based on any other ground than that of her own indifference to
him. He had written to Miss Stanbury to the same effect; but he had not
thought it necessary to explain this to Dorothy; nor did Miss Stanbury
in her letter tell them that she had received any communication from
him.'shall I read it now?' said Priscilla, as soon as Dorothy again
allowed the letter to fall into her lap.

Both Priscilla and Mrs Stanbury read it, and for awhile they sat with
the two letters among them without much speech about them. Mrs Stanbury
was endeavouring to make herself believe that her sister-in-law's
opposition might be overcome, and that then Dorothy might be married.
Priscilla was inquiring of herself whether it would be well that
Dorothy should defy her aunt so much, at any rate, would he well and
marry the man, even to his deprivation of the old woman's fortune.
Priscilla had her doubts about this, being very strong in her ideas of
self-denial. That her sister should put up with the bitterest
disappointment rather than injure the man she loved was right but then
it would also be so extremely right to defy Aunt Stanbury to her teeth!
But Dorothy, in whose character was mixed with her mother's softness
much of the old Stanbury strength, had no doubt in her mind. It was
very sweet to be so loved. What gratitude did she not owe to a man who
was so true to her! What was she that she should stand in his way? To
lay herself down that she might be crushed in his path was no more than
she owed to him. Mrs Stanbury was the first to speak.

'I suppose he is a very good young man,' she said.

'I am sure he is a noble, true-hearted man,' said Priscilla.

'And why shouldn't he marry whom he pleases, as long as she is
respectable?' said Mrs Stanbury.

'In some people's eyes poverty is more disreputable than vice,' said
Priscilla.

'Your aunt has been so fond of Dorothy,' pleaded Mrs Stanbury.

'Just as she is of her servants,' said Priscilla.

But Dorothy said nothing. Her heart was too full to enable her to
defend her aunt; nor at the present moment was she strong enough to
make her mother understand that no hope was to be entertained. In the
course. of the day she walked out with her sister on the road towards
Ridleigh, and there, standing among the rocks and ferns, looking down
upon the river, with the buzz of the little mill within her ears, she
explained the feelings of her heart and her many thoughts with a flow
of words stronger, as Priscilla thought, than she had ever used before.

'It is not what he would suffer now, Pris, or what he would feel, but
what he would feel ten, twenty years hence, when he would know that his
children would have been all provided for, had, he not lost his fortune
by marrying me.'

'He must be the only judge whether he prefers you to the old woman's
money,' said Priscilla.

'No, dear; not the only judge. And it isn't that, Pris not which he
likes best now, but which it is best for him that he should have. What
could I do for him?'

'You can love him.'

'Yes I can do that.' And Dorothy paused a moment, to think how
exceedingly well she could do that one thing. 'But what is that? As you
said the other day, a dog can do that. I am not clever. I can't play,
or talk French, or do things that men like their wives to do. And I
have lived here all my life; and what am I, that for me he should lose
a great fortune?'

'That is his look out.'

'No, dearest it is mine, and I will look out. I shall be, able, at any
rate, to remember always that I have loved him, and have not injured
him. He may be angry with me now,' and there was a feeling of pride at
her heart, as she thought that he would be angry with her, because she
did not go to him 'but he will know at last that I have been as good to
him as I knew how to be.'

Then Priscilla wound her arms round Dorothy, and kissed her. 'My
sister,' she said; 'my own sister!' They walked on further, discussing
the matter in all its bearings, talking of the act of self-denial which
Dorothy was called on to perform, as though it were some abstract
thing, the performance of which was, or perhaps was not, imperatively
demanded by the laws which should govern humanity; but with no idea on
the mind of either of them that there was any longer a doubt as to this
special matter in hand. They were away from home over three hours; and,
when they returned, Dorothy at once wrote her two letters. They were
very simple, and very short. She told Brooke, whom she now addressed as
'Dear Mr Burgess,' that it could not be as he would have it; and she
told her aunt with some terse independence of expression, which Miss
Stanbury quite understood that she had considered the matter, and had
thought it right to refuse Mr Burgess's offer.

'Don't you think she is very much changed?' said Mrs Stanbury to her
eldest daughter.

'Not changed in the least, mother; but the sun has opened the bud, and
now we see the fruit.'

CHAPTER LIX - MR BOZZLE AT HOME

It had now come to pass that Trevelyan had not a friend in the world to
whom he could apply in the matter of his wife and family. In the last
communication which he had received from Lady Milborough she had
scolded him, in terms that were for her severe, because he had not
returned to his wife and taken her off with him to Naples. Mr
Bideawhile had found himself obliged to decline to move in the matter
at all. With Hugh Stanbury, Trevelyan had had a direct quarrel. Mr and
Mrs Outhouse he regarded as bitter enemies, who had taken the part of
his wife without any regard to the decencies of life. And now it had
come to pass that his sole remaining ally, Mr Samuel Bozzle, the
ex-policeman, was becoming weary of his service. Trevelyan remained in
the north of Italy up to the middle of March, spending a fortune in
sending telegrams to Bozzle, instigating Bozzle by all the means in his
power to obtain possession of the child, desiring him at one time to
pounce down upon the parsonage of St. Diddulph's with a battalion of
policemen armed to the teeth with the law's authority, and at another
time suggesting to him to find his way by stratagem into Mr Outhouse's
castle and carry off the child in his arms. At last he sent word to say
that he himself would be in England before the end of March, and would
see that the majesty of the law should be vindicated in his favour.

Bozzle had in truth made but one personal application for the child at
St. Diddulph's. In making this he had expected no success, though, from
the energetic nature of his disposition, he had made the attempt with
some zeal. But he had never applied again at the parsonage,
disregarding the letters, the telegrams, and even the promises which
had come to him from his employer with such frequency. The truth was
that Mrs Bozzle was opposed to the proposed separation of the mother
and the child, and that Bozzle was a man who listened to the words of
his wife. Mrs Bozzle was quite prepared to admit that Madame T. as Mrs
Trevelyan had come to be called at No. 55, Stony Walk was no better
than she should be. Mrs Bozzle was disposed to think that ladies of
quality, among whom Madame T. was entitled in her estimation to take
rank, were seldom better than they ought to be, and she was quite
willing that her husband should earn his bread by watching the lady or.
the lady's lover. She had participated in Bozzle's triumph when he had
discovered that the Colonel had gone to Devonshire, and again when he
had learned that the Lothario had been at St. Diddulph's. And had the
case been brought before the judge ordinary by means of her husband's
exertions, she would have taken pleasure in reading every word of the
evidence, even though her husband should have been ever so roughly
handled by the lawyers. But now, when a demand was made upon Bozzle to
violate the sanctity of the clergyman's house, and withdraw the child
by force or stratagem, she began to perceive that the palmy days of the
Trevelyan affair were over for them, and that it would be wise on her
husband's part gradually to back out of the gentleman's employment.
'Just put it on the fire-back, Bozzle,' she said one morning, as her
husband stood before her reading for the second time a somewhat lengthy
epistle which had reached him from Italy, while he held the baby over
his shoulder with his left arm. He had just washed himself at the sink,
and though his face was clean, his hair was rough, and his shirt
sleeves were tucked up.

'That's all very well, Maryanne; but when a party has took a gent's
money, a party is bound to go through with the job.'

'Gammon, Bozzle.'

'It's all very well to say gammon; but his money has been took and
there's more to come.'

'And ain't you worked for the money down to Hexeter one time, across
the water pretty well day and night watching that ere clergyman's 'ouse
like a cat? What more'd he have? As to the child, I won't hear of it,
B. The child shan't come here. We'd all be shewed up in the papers as
that black, that they'd hoot us along the streets. It ain't the regular
line of business, Bozzle; and there ain't no good to be got, never, by
going off the regular line.' Whereupon Bozzle scratched his head and
again read the letter. A distinct promise of a hundred pounds was made
to him, if he would have the child ready to hand over to Trevelyan on
Trevelyan's arrival in England.

'It ain't to be done, you know,' said Bozzle.

'Of course it ain't,' said Mrs Bozzle.

'It ain't to be done anyways not in my way of business. Why didn't he
go to Skint, as I told him, when his own lawyer was too dainty for the
job? The paternal parent has a right to his hinfants, no doubt.' That
was Bozzle's law.

'I don't believe it, B.'

'But he have, I tell you.'

'He can't suckle 'em can he? I don't believe a bit of his rights.'

'When a married woman has followers, and the husband don't go the wrong
side of the post too, or it ain't proved again him that he do, they'll
never let her have nothing to do with the children. It's been before
the court a hundred times. He'll get the child fast enough if he'll go
before, the court.'

'Anyways it ain't your business, Bozzle, and don't you meddle nor make.
The money's good money as long as it's honest earned; but when you come
to rampaging and breaking into a gent's house, then I say money may be
had a deal, too hard.' In this special letter, which had now come to
hand, Bozzle was not instructed to 'rampage.' He was simply desired to
make a further official requisition for the boy at the parsonage, and
to explain to Mr Outhouse, Mrs Outhouse, and Mrs Trevelyan, or to as
many of them as he could contrive to see, that Mr Trevelyan was
immediately about to return to London, and that he would put the law
into execution if his son were not given up to him at once. 'I'll tell
you what it is, B.,' exclaimed Mrs Bozzle, 'it's my belief as he ain't
quite right up here;' and Mrs Bozzle touched her forehead.

'It's love for her as has done it then,' said Bozzle, shaking his head.

'I'm not a taking of her part, B. A woman as has a husband as finds her
with her wittels regular, and with what's decent and comfortable
beside, ought to be contented. I've never said no other than that. I
ain't no patience with your saucy madames as can't remember as they're
eating an honest man's bread. Drat 'em all; what is it they wants? They
don't know what they wants. It's just hidleness cause there ain't a
ha'porth for 'em to do. It's that as makes 'em, I won't say what. But
as for this here child, B. . . .' At that moment there came a knock at
the door. Mrs Bozzle going into the passage, opened it herself, and saw
a strange gentleman. Bozzle, who had stood at the inner door, saw that
the gentleman was Mr Trevelyan.

The letter, which was still in the ex-policeman's hand, had reached
Stony Walk on the previous day; but the master of the house had been
absent, finding out facts, following up his profession, and earning an
honest penny. Trevelyan had followed his letter quicker than he had
intended when it was written, and was now with his prime minister,
before his prime minister had been able to take any action on the last
instruction received. 'Does one Mr Samuel Bozzle live here?' asked
Trevelyan. Then Bozzle came forward and Introduced his wife. There was
no one else present except the baby, and Bozzle intimated that let
matters be as delicate as they might, they could be discussed with
perfect security in his wife's presence. But Trevelyan was of a
different opinion, and he was disgusted and revolted most unreasonably
by the appearance of his minister's domestic arrangements. Bozzle had
always waited upon him with a decent coat, and a well-brushed hat, and
clean shoes. It is very much easier for such men as Mr Bozzle to carry
decency of appearance about with them than to keep it at home.
Trevelyan had never believed his ally to be more than an ordinary
ex-policeman, but he had not considered how unattractive might be the
interior of a private detective's private residence. Mrs Bozzle had set
a chair for him, but he had declined to sit down. The room was dirty,
and very close as though no breath of air was ever allowed to find
entrance there. 'Perhaps you could put on your coat, and walk out with
me for a few minutes,' said Trevelyan. Mrs Bozzle, who well understood
that business was business, and that wives were not business, felt no
anger at this, and handed her husband his best coat. The well-brushed
hat was fetched from a cupboard, and it was astonishing to see how
easily and how quickly the outer respectability of Bozzle was restored.

'Well?' said Trevelyan, as soon as they were together in the middle of
Stony Walk.

'There hasn't been nothing to be done, sir,' said Bozzle.

'Why not?' Trevelyan could perceive at once that the authority which he
had once respected had gone from the man. Bozzle away from his own
home, out on business, with his coat buttoned over his breast, and his
best hat in his hand, was aware that he commanded respect and he could
carry himself accordingly. He knew himself to be somebody, and could be
easy, self-confident, confidential, severe, authoritative, or even
arrogant, as the circumstances of the moment might demand. But he had
been found with his coat off, and a baby in his arms, and he could not
recover himself. 'I do not suppose that anybody will question my right
to have the care of my own child,' said Trevelyan.

'If you would have gone to Mr Skint, sir ,' suggested Bozzle. 'There
ain't no smarter gent in all the profession, sir, than Mr Skint.'

Mr Trevelyan made no reply to this, but walked on in silence, with his
minister at his elbow. He was very wretched, understanding well the
degradation to which he was subjecting himself in discussing his wife's
conduct with this man but with whom else could he discuss it? The man
seemed to be meaner now than he had been before he had been seen in his
own home. And Trevelyan was conscious too that he himself was not in
outward appearance as he used to be that he was ill-dressed, and
haggard, and worn, and visibly a wretched being. How can any man care
to dress himself with attention who is always alone, and always
miserable when alone? During the months which had passed over him since
he had sent his wife away from him, his very nature had been altered,
and he himself was aware of the change. As he went about, his eyes were
ever cast downwards, and he walked with a quick shuffling gait, and he
suspected others, feeling that he himself was suspected. And all work
had ceased with him. Since she had left him he had not read a single
book that was worth the reading. And he knew it all. He was conscious
that he was becoming disgraced and degraded. He would sooner have shot
himself than have walked into his club, or even have allowed himself to
be seen by daylight in Pall Mall, or Piccadilly. He had taken in his
misery to drinking little drops of brandy in the morning, although he
knew well that there was no shorter road to the devil than that opened
by such a habit. He looked up for a moment at Bozzle, and then asked
him a question. 'Where is he now?'