Books: He Knew He Was Right

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When they met, each was so sore that no approach to terms was made by
them.

'If I am to be treated in that way, I would rather not live with you,'
said the wife. 'It is impossible to live with a husband who is
jealous.'

'All I ask of you is that you shall promise me to have no further
communication with this man.'

'I will make no promise that implies my own disgrace.'

'Then we must part; and if that be so, this house will be given up. You
may live where you please in the country, not in London; but I shall
take steps that Colonel Osborne does not see you.'

'I will not remain in the room with you to be insulted thus,' said Mrs
Trevelyan. And she did not remain, but left the chamber, slamming the
door after her as she went.

'It will be better that she should go,' said Trevelyan, when he found
himself alone. And so it came to pass that that blessing of a rich
marriage, which had as it were fallen upon them at the Mandarins from
out of heaven, had become, after an interval of but two short years,
anything but an unmixed blessing.

CHAPTER XII - MISS STANBURY'S GENEROSITY

On one Wednesday morning early in June, great preparations were being
made at the brick house in the Close at Exeter for an event which can
hardly be said to have required any preparation at all. Mrs Stanbury
and her elder daughter were coming into Exeter from Nuncombe Putney to
visit Dorothy. The reader may perhaps remember that when Miss
Stanbury's invitation was sent to her niece, she was pleased to promise
that such visits should be permitted on a Wednesday morning. Such a
visit was now to be made, and old Miss Stanbury was quite moved by the
occasion. 'I shall not see them, you know, Martha,' she had said, on
the afternoon of the preceding day.

'I suppose not, ma'am.'

'Certainly not. Why should I? It would do no good.'

'It is not for me to say, ma'am, of course.'

'No, Martha, it is not. And I am sure that I am right. It's no good
going back and undoing in ten minutes what twenty years have done.
She's a poor harmless creature, I believe.'

'The most harmless in the world, ma'am.'

'But she was as bad as poison to me when she was young, and what's the
good of trying to change it now? If I was to tell her that I loved her,
I should only be lying.'

'Then, ma'am, I would not say it.'

'And I don't mean. But you'll take in some wine and cake, you know.'

'I don't think they'll care for wine and cake.'

'Will you do as I tell you? What matters whether they care for it or
not. They need not take it. It will look better for Miss Dorothy. If
Dorothy is to remain here I shall choose that she should be respected.'
And so the question of the cake and wine had been decided overnight.
But when the morning came Miss Stanbury was still in a twitter.
Half-past ten had been the hour fixed for the visit, in consequence of
there being a train in from Lessboro', due at the Exeter station at
ten. As Miss Stanbury breakfasted always at half-past eight, there was
no need of hurry on account of the expected visit. But, nevertheless,
she was in a fuss all the morning; and spoke of the coming period as
one in which she must necessarily put herself into solitary
confinement.

'Perhaps your mamma will be cold,' she said, 'and will expect a fire.'

'Oh, dear, no, Aunt Stanbury.'

'It could be lighted of course. It is a pity they should come just so
as to prevent you from going to morning service; is it not?'

'I could go with you, aunt, and be back very nearly in time. They won't
mind waiting a quarter of an hour.'

'What; and have them here all alone! I wouldn't think of such a thing.
I shall go up-stairs. You had better come to me when they are gone.
Don't hurry them. I don't want you to hurry them at all; and if you
require anything, Martha will wait upon you. I have told the girls to
keep out of the way. They are so giddy, there's no knowing what they
might be after. Besides they've got their work to mind.'

All this was very terrible to poor Dorothy, who had not as yet quite
recovered from the original fear with which her aunt had inspired her
so terrible that she was almost sorry that her mother and sister were
coming to her. When the knock was heard at the door, precisely as the
cathedral clock was striking half-past ten to secure which punctuality,
and thereby not to offend the owner of the mansion, Mrs Stanbury and
Priscilla had been walking about the Close for the last ten minutes
Miss Stanbury was still in the parlour.

'There they are!' she exclaimed, jumping up. 'They haven't given a body
much time to run away, have they, my dear? Half a minute, Martha just
half a minute!' Then she gathered up her things as though she had been
ill-treated in being driven to make so sudden a retreat, and Martha, as
soon as the last hem of her mistress's dress had become invisible on
the stairs, opened the front door for the visitors.

'Do you mean to say you like it?' said Priscilla, when they had been
there about a quarter of an hour.

'H u sh,' whispered Mrs Stanbury.

'I don't suppose she's listening at the door,' said Priscilla.

'Indeed, she's not,' said Dorothy. 'There can't be a truer, honester
woman, than Aunt Stanbury.'

'But is she kind to you, Dolly?' asked the mother.

'Very kind; too kind. Only I don't understand her quite, and then she
gets angry with me. I know she thinks I'm a fool, and that's the worst
of it.'

'Then, if I were you, I would come home,' said Priscilla.

'She'll never forgive you if you do,' said Mrs Stanbury.

'And who need care about her forgiveness?' said Priscilla.

'I don't mean to go home yet, at any rate,' said Dorothy. Then there
was a knock at the door, and Martha entered with the cake and wine.
'Miss Stanbury's compliments, ladies, and she hopes you'll take a glass
of sherry.' Whereupon she filled out the glasses and carried them
round.

'Pray give my compliments and thanks to my sister Stanbury,' said
Dorothy's mother. But Priscilla put down the glass of wine without
touching it, and looked her sternest at the maid.

Altogether, the visit was not very successful, and poor Dorothy almost
felt that if she chose to remain in the Close she must lose her mother
and sister, and that without really making a friend of her aunt. There
had as yet been no quarrel nothing that had been plainly recognised as
disagreeable; but there had not as yet come to be any sympathy, or
assured signs of comfortable love. Miss Stanbury had declared more than
once that it would do, but had not succeeded in showing in what the
success consisted. When she was told that the two ladies were gone, she
desired that Dorothy might be sent to her, and immediately began to
make anxious inquiries.

'Well, my dear, and what do they think of it?'

'I don't know, aunt, that they think very much.'

'And what do they say about it?'

'They didn't say very much, aunt. I was very glad to see mamma and
Priscilla. Perhaps I ought to tell you that mamma gave me back the
money I sent her.'

'What did she do that for?' asked Miss Stanbury very sharply.

'Because she says that Hugh sends her now what she wants.' Miss
Stanbury, when she heard this, looked very sour. 'I thought it best to
tell you, you know.'

'It will never come to any good, got in that way never.'

'But, Aunt Stanbury, isn't it good of him to send it?'

'I don't know. I suppose it's better than drinking, and smoking, and
gambling. But I dare say he gets enough for that too. When a man, born
and bred like a gentleman, condescends to let out his talents and
education for such purposes, I dare say they are willing enough to pay
him. The devil always does pay high wages. But that only makes it so
much the worse. One almost comes to doubt whether any one ought to
learn to write at all, when it is used for such vile purposes. I've
said what I've got to say, and I don't mean to say anything more.
What's the use? But it has been hard upon me very. It was my money did
it, and I feel I've misused it. It's a disgrace to me which I don't
deserve.'

For a couple of minutes Dorothy remained quite silent, and Miss
Stanbury did not herself say anything further. Nor during that time did
she observe her niece, or she would probably have seen that the subject
was not to be dropped. Dorothy, though she was silent, was not calm,
and was preparing herself for a crusade in her brother's defence.

'Aunt Stanbury, he's my brother, you know.'

'Of course he's your brother. I wish he were not.'

'I think him the best brother in the world and the best son.'

'Why does he sell himself to write sedition?'

'He doesn't sell himself to write sedition. I don't see why it should
be sedition, or anything wicked, because it's sold for a penny.'

'If you are going to cram him down my throat, Dorothy, you and I had
better part.'

'I don't want to say anything about him, only you ought not to abuse
him before me.'

By this time Dorothy was beginning to sob, but Miss Stanbury's
countenance was still very grim and very stern. 'He's coming home to
Nuncombe Putney, and I want to see see him,' continued Dorothy.

'Hugh Stanbury coming to Exeter! He won't come here.'

'Then I'd rather go home, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Very well, very well,' said Miss Stanbury, and she got up and left the
room.

Dorothy was in dismay, and began to think that there was nothing for
her to do but to pack up her clothes and prepare for her departure. She
was very sorry for what had occurred, being fully alive to the
importance of the aid not only to herself, but to her mother and
sister, which was afforded by the present arrangement, and she felt
very angry with herself, in that she had already driven her aunt to
quarrel with her. But she had found it to be impossible to hear her own
brother abused without saying a word on his behalf. She did not see her
aunt again till dinner-time, and then there was hardly a word uttered.
Once or twice Dorothy made a little effort to speak, but these attempts
failed utterly. The old woman would hardly reply even by a
monosyllable, but simply muttered something, or shook her head when she
was addressed. Jane, who waited at table, was very demure and silent,
and Martha, who once came into the room during the meal, merely
whispered a word into Miss Stanbury's ear. When the cloth was removed,
and two glasses of port had been poured out by Miss Stanbury herself,
Dorothy felt that she could endure this treatment no longer. How was it
possible that she could drink wine under such circumstances?

'Not for me, Aunt Stanbury,' said she, with a deploring tone.

'Why not?'

'I couldn't drink it today.'

'Why didn't you say so before it was poured out? And why not today?
Come, drink it. Do as I bid you.' And she stood over her niece, as a
tragedy queen in a play with a bowl of poison. Dorothy took it and
sipped it from mere force of obedience. 'You make as many bones about a
glass of port wine as though it were senna and salts,' said Miss
Stanbury. 'Now I've got something to say to you.' By this time the
servant was gone, and the two were seated alone together in the
parlour. Dorothy, who had not as yet swallowed above half her wine, at
once put the glass down. There was an importance in her aunt's tone
which frightened her, and made her feel that some evil was coming. And
yet, as she had made up her mind that she must return home, there was
no further evil that she need dread. 'You didn't write any of those
horrid articles?' said Miss Stanbury.

'No, aunt; I didn't write them. I shouldn't know how.'

'And I hope you'll never learn. They say women are to vote, and become
doctors, and if so, there's no knowing what devil's tricks they mayn't
do. But it isn't your fault about that filthy newspaper. How he can let
himself down to write stuff that is to be printed on straw is what I
can't understand.'

'I don't see how it can make a difference as he writes it.'

'It would make a great deal of difference to me. And I'm told that what
they call ink comes off on your fingers like lamp-black. I never
touched one, thank God; but they tell me so. All the same; it isn't
your fault.'

'I've nothing to do with it, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Of course you've not. And as he is your brother it wouldn't be natural
that you should like to throw him off. And, my dear, I like you for
taking his part. Only you needn't have been so fierce with an old
woman.'

'Indeed indeed I didn't mean to be fierce, Aunt Stanbury.'

'I never was taken up so short in my life. But we won't mind that.
There; he shall come and see you. I suppose he won't insist on leaving
any of his nastiness about.'

'But is he to come here, Aunt Stanbury?'

'He may if he pleases.'

'Oh, Aunt Stanbury!'

'When he was here last he generally had a pipe in his mouth, and I dare
say he never puts it down at all now. Those things grow upon young
people so fast. But if he could leave it on the door-step just while
he's here I should be obliged to him.'

'But, dear aunt, couldn't I see him in the street?'

'Out in the street! No, my dear. All the world is not to know that he's
your brother; and he is dressed in such a rapscallion manner that the
people would think you were talking to a house-breaker.' Dorothy's face
became again red as she heard this, and the angry words were very
nearly spoken. 'The last time I saw him,' continued Miss Stanbury, 'he
had on a short, rough jacket, with enormous buttons, and one of those
flipperty-flopperty things on his head, that the butcher-boys wear.
And, oh, the smell of tobacco! As he had been up in London I suppose he
thought Exeter was no better than a village, and he might do just as he
pleased. But he knew that if I'm particular about anything, it is about
a gentleman's hat in the streets. And he wanted me me to walk with him
across to Mrs MacHugh's! We should have been hooted about the Close
like a pair of mad dogs and so I told him.'

'All the young men seem to dress like that now, Aunt Stanbury.'

'No, they don't. Mr Gibson doesn't dress like that.'

'But he's a clergyman, Aunt Stanbury.'

'Perhaps I'm an old fool. I dare say I am, and of course that's what
you mean. At any rate I'm too old to change, and I don't mean to try. I
like to see a difference between a gentleman and a house-breaker. For
the matter of that I'm told that there is a difference, and that the
house-breakers all look like gentlemen now. It may be proper to make us
all stand on our heads, with our legs sticking up in the air; but I for
one don't like being topsy-turvey, and I won't try it. When is he to
reach Exeter?'

'He is coming on Tuesday next, by the last train.'

'Then you can't see him that night. That's out of the question. No
doubt he'll sleep at the Nag's Head, as that's the lowest radical
public-house in the city. Martha shall try to find him. She knows more
about his doings than I do. If he chooses to come here the following
morning before he goes down to Nuncombe Putney, well and good. I shall
wait up till Martha comes back from the train on Tuesday night, and
hear.' Dorothy was of course full of gratitude and thanks; but yet she
felt almost disappointed by the result of her aunt's clemency on the
matter. She had desired to take her brother's part, and it had seemed
to her as though she had done so in a very lukewarm manner. She had
listened to an immense number of accusations against him, and had been
unable to reply to them because she had been conquered by the promise
of a visit. And now it was out of the question that she should speak of
going. Her aunt had given way to her, and of course had conquered her.

Late on the Tuesday evening, after ten o'clock, Hugh Stanbury was
walking round the Close with his aunt's old servant. He had not put up
at that dreadfully radical establishment of which Miss Stanbury was so
much afraid, but had taken a bed-room at the Railway Inn. From there he
had walked up to the Close with Martha, and now was having a few last
words with her before he would allow her to return to the house.

'I suppose she'd as soon see the devil as see me,' said Hugh.

'If you speak in that way, Mr Hugh, I won't listen to you.'

'And yet I did everything I could to please her; and I don't think any
boy ever loved an old woman better than I did her.'

'That was while she used to send you cakes, and ham, and jam to school,
Mr Hugh.'

'Of course it was, and while she sent me flannel waistcoats to Oxford.
But when I didn't care any longer for cakes or flannel then she got
tired of me. It is much better as it is, if she'll only be good to
Dorothy.'

'She never was bad to any body, Mr Hugh. But I don't think an old lady
like her ever takes to a woman as she does to a young man, if only
he'll let her have a little more of her own way than you would. It's my
belief that you might have had it all for your own some day, if you'd
done as you ought.'

'That's nonsense, Martha. She means to leave it all to the Burgesses.
I've heard her say so.'

'Say so; yes. People don't always do what they say. If you'd managed
rightly you might have it all and so you might now.'

'I'll tell you what, old girl; I shan't try. Live for the next twenty
years under her apron strings, that I may have the chance at the end of
it of cutting some poor devil out of his money! Do you know the meaning
of making a score off your own bat, Martha?'

'No, I don't; and if it's anything you're like to do, I don't think I
should be the better for learning by all accounts. And now if you
please, I'll go in.'

'Good night, Martha. My love to them both, and say I'll be there
tomorrow exactly at half-past nine. You'd better take it. It won't turn
to slate-stone. It hasn't come from the old gentleman.'

'I don't want anything of that kind, Mr Hugh indeed I don't.'

'Nonsense. If you don't take it you'll offend me. I believe you think
I'm not much better than a schoolboy still.'

'I don't think you're half so good, Mr Hugh,' said the old servant,
sticking the sovereign which Hugh had given her in under her glove as
she spoke.

On the next morning that other visit was made at the brick house, and
Miss Stanbury was again in a fuss. On this occasion, however, she was
in a much better humour than before, and was full of little jokes as to
the nature of the visitation. Of course, she was not to see her nephew
herself, and no message was to be delivered from her, and none was to
be given to her from him. But an accurate report was to be made to her
as to his appearance, and Dorothy was to be enabled to answer a variety
of questions respecting him after he was gone. 'Of course, I don't want
to know anything about his money,' Miss Stanbury said, 'only I should
like to know how much these people can afford to pay for their penny
trash.' On this occasion she had left the room and gone up-stairs
before the knock came at the door, but she managed, by peeping over the
balcony, to catch a glimpse of the 'flipperty-flopperty' hat which her
nephew certainly had with him on this occasion.

Hugh Stanbury had great news for his sister. The cottage in which Mrs
Stanbury lived at Nuncombe Putney, was the tiniest little dwelling in
which a lady and her two daughters ever sheltered themselves. There
was, indeed, a sitting-room, two bed-rooms, and a kitchen; but they
were all so diminutive in size that the cottage was little more than a
cabin. But there was a house in the village, not large indeed, but
eminently respectable, three stories high, covered with ivy, having a
garden behind it, and generally called the Clock House, because there
had once been a clock upon it. This house had been lately vacated, and
Hugh informed his sister that he was thinking of taking it for his
mother's accommodation. Now, the late occupants of the Clock House, at
Nuncombe Putney, had been people with five or six hundred a-year. Had
other matters been in accordance, the house would almost have entitled
them to consider themselves as county people. A gardener had always
been kept there and a cow!

'The Clock House for mamma!'

'Well, yes. Don't say a word about it as yet to Aunt Stanbury, as
she'll think that I've sold myself altogether to the old gentleman.'

'But, Hugh, how can mamma live there?'

'The fact is, Dorothy, there is a secret. I can't tell you quite yet.
Of course, you'll know it, and everybody will know it, if. the thing
comes about. But as you won't talk, I will tell you what most concerns
ourselves.'

'And am I to go back?'

'Certainly not if you will take my advice. Stick to your aunt. You
don't want to smoke pipes, and wear Tom-and-Jerry hats, and write for
the penny newspapers.'

Now Hugh Stanbury's secret was this that Louis Trevelyan's wife and
sister-in-law were to leave the house in Curzon Street, and come and
live at Nuncombe Putney, with Mrs Stanbury and Priscilla. Such, at
least, was the plan to be carried out, if Hugh Stanbury should be
successful in his present negotiations.

CHAPTER XIII - THE HONOURABLE MR GLASCOCK

By the end of July Mrs Trevelyan with her sister was established in the
Clock House, at Nuncombe Putney, under the protection of Hugh's mother;
but before the reader is made acquainted with any of the circumstances
of their life there, a few words must be said of an occurrence which
took place before those two ladies left Curzon Street.

As to the quarrel between Trevelyan and his wife things went from bad
to worse. Lady Milborough continued to interfere, writing letters to
Emily which were full of good sense, but which, as Emily said herself,
never really touched the point of dispute. 'Am I, who am altogether
unconscious of having done anything amiss, to confess that I have been
in the wrong? If it were about a small matter, I would not mind, for
the sake of peace. But when it concerns my conduct in reference to
another man I would rather die first,' That had been Mrs Trevelyan's
line of thought and argument in the matter; but then old Lady
Milborough in her letters spoke only of the duty of obedience as
promised at the altar. 'But I didn't promise to tell a lie,' said Mrs
Trevelyan. And there were interviews between Lady Milborough and
Trevelyan, and interviews between Lady Milborough and Nora Rowley. The
poor dear old dowager was exceedingly busy and full of groans,
prescribing Naples, prescribing a course of extra prayers, prescribing
a general course of letting bygones be bygones to which, however,
Trevelyan would by no means assent without some assurance, which he
might regard as a guarantee prescribing retirement to a small town in
the west of France, if Naples would not suffice; but she could effect
nothing.

Mrs Trevelyan, indeed, did a thing which was sure of itself to render
any steps taken for a reconciliation ineffectual. In the midst of all
this turmoil while she and her husband were still living in the same
house, but apart because of their absurd quarrel respecting Colonel
Osborne, she wrote another letter to that gentleman. The argument by
which she justified this to herself, and to her sister after it was
done, was the real propriety of her own conduct throughout her whole
intimacy with Colonel Osborne. 'But that is just what Louis doesn't
want you to do,' Nora had said, filled with anger and dismay. 'Then let
Louis give me an order to that effect, and behave to me like a husband,
and I will obey him,' Emily had answered. And she had gone on to plead
that in her present condition she was under no orders from her husband.
She was left to judge for herself, and judging for herself she knew, as
she said, that it best that she should write to Colonel Osborne.
Unfortunately there was no ground for hoping that Colonel Osborne was
ignorant of this insane jealousy on the part of her husband. It was
better, therefore, she said, that she should write to him whom on the
occasion she took care to name to her sister as 'papa's old friend' and
explain to him what she would wish him to do, and what not to do.
Colonel Osborne answered the letter very quickly, throwing much more of
demonstrative affection than he should have done into his 'Dear Emily'
and his 'Dearest Friend.' Of course Mrs Trevelyan had burned this
answer, and of course Mr Trevelyan had been told of the correspondence.
His wife, indeed, had been especially careful that there should be
nothing secret about the matter that it should be so known in the house
that Mr Trevelyan should be sure to hear of it. And he had heard of it,
and been driven almost mad by it. He had flown off to Lady Milborough,
and had reduced his old friend to despair by declaring that, after all,
he began to fear that his wife was was was infatuated by that d
scoundrel. Lady Milborough forgave the language, but protested that he
was wrong in his suspicion. 'To continue to correspond with him after
what I have said to her!' exclaimed Trevelyan. 'Take her to Naples at
once,' said Lady Milborough at once!' 'And have him after me?' said
Trevelyan. Lady Milborough had no answer ready, and not having thought
of this looked very blank. 'I should find it harder to deal with her
there even than here,' continued Trevelyan. Then it was that Lady
Milborough spoke of the small town in the west of France, urging as her
reason that such a man as Colonel Osborne would certainly not follow
them there; but Trevelyan had become indignant at this, declaring that
if his wife's good name could be preserved in no other manner than
that, it would not be worth preserving at all. Then Lady Milborough had
begun to cry, and had continued crying for a very long time. She was
very unhappy as unhappy as her nature would allow her to be. She would
have made almost any sacrifice to bring the two young people together
would have willingly given her time, her money, her labour in the cause
would probably herself have gone to the little town in the west of
France, had her going been of any service. But, nevertheless, after her
own fashion, she extracted no small enjoyment out of the circumstances
of this miserable quarrel. The Lady Milboroughs of the day hate the
Colonel Osbornes from the very bottoms of their warm hearts and pure
souls; but they respect the Colonel Osbornes almost as much as they
hate them, and find it to be an inestimable privilege to be brought
into some contact with these roaring lions.