名酒品牌酒和国内和进口红酒品鉴级别有哪些品牌性价比最高的红酒哪些
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pter 1 Shewing How Wrath Began
When Louis Trevelyan was twenty
If the infliction of pai
d and re-read the very short reply which her niece had written, she became at first pale with dismay, and then red with renewed vigour and obstinacy. She had made herself, as she thought, quite certain of her facts before she had acted on her information. There was some equivocation, some most unworthy deceit in Priscilla’s letter. Or could it be possible that she herself had been mistaken? Another gentleman had been there not, however, with the object of seeing Mrs Trevelyan! So said Priscilla. But she had made herself sure that the man in question was a man from London, a middle-aged, man from London, who had specially asked for Mrs Trevelyan, and who had at once been known to Mrs Clegg, at the Lessboro’ inn, to be Mrs Trevel
“Oh yes, more than ever: trouble has drawn us closer. Papa, in the midst of our sorrow, how much we have to be thankful for to the Giver of all good things!”
“Yes, little angel: and you must improve Heaven’s goodness by working on your brother’s affection, and persuading him to this continental tour.”
Thus appealed to, Jane promised warmly: and the man of the world, finding he had a blind and willing instrument in the one creature he loved, kissed her on the forehead, and told her to run away, for here was Mr. Skinner, who no doubt wanted to speak on business.
Skinner, who had in fact been holding respectfully aloof for some time, came forward on Jane’s retiring, and in a very obsequious tone requested a private interview. Mr. Hardie led the way into the little dining-room.
They were no sooner alone than Skinner left off fawning, very abruptly; and put on a rugged resolute manner that was new to him: “I am come for my commission,” said he sturdily.
Mr. Hardie looked an inquiry.
“Oh, you don’t know what I mean, of course,” said the little clerk almost brutally: “I’ve waited, and waited, to see if you would have the decency, and the gratitude, and the honesty, t
or some study long relished and pursued.”
18 Luminous.
Jane asked leave to note these all down in her note-book.
Mr. Hardie assented adroitly; for he was thinking whether he could not sift some grain out of all this chaff. Should Alfred blab his suspicions, here were two gentlemen who would at all events help him to throw ridicule on them.
Dr. Wycherley having politely aided Jane Hardie to note down the “preliminary process of the Incubation of disorders of the Intellect,” resumed: “Now, sir, your son appears to be in a very inchoate stage of the malady: he has cerebral Kephalalgia and Insomnia ——”
“And, oh, doctor,” said Jane, “he knits his brows often and has given up his studies; won’t go back to Oxford this term.”
“Exactly; and seeks isolation, and is a prey to morbid distraction and reverie: but has no palpable illusions, has he?”
“Not that I know of,” said Mr. Hardie.
“Well, but,” objected Jane, “did not he say something to you very curious the other night about Captain Dodd and fourteen thous
a soft word from you would have put it all right.’
‘A soft word! How do you know what soft words I used?’
‘A soft word now would do it. You have only to bid her co
d have you took up for a thief; as you are.”
“But I haven’t got it on me.”
“That’s a lie: you carry it where he did; close to your heart: I can see it bulge: there, Job was a patient man, but his patience went at last.” With this he ran to the window and threw it open.
Hardie entreated him to be calm. “I’ll give it you, Skinner,” said he, “and with pleasure, if you will give me some security that you will not turn round, as soon as you have got it, and be my enemy.”
“Enemy of a gent that pays me a thousand pounds? Nonsense! Why should I? We are in the same boat: behave like a man, and you know you have nothing to fear from me: but I will — not — go halves in a theft for nothing: would you? Come, how is it to be, peace or war? Will you be content with thirteen thousand pounds that don’t belong to you, not a shilling of it, or will you go to jail a felon, and lose it every penny?”
Mr. Hardie groaned aloud, but there was no help for it. Skinner was on sale: and must be bought.
He took out two notes for five hundred pounds each, and laid them on the table, after taking their numbers.
Skinner’s eyes glistened: “Thank you, sir,” said he. He put them in his pocket. Then he said quietly, “Now you have taken the numbers, sir; so I’ll trouble you for a line to make me safe against the criminal law. You are a deep one; you might say I robbed you.”
“That is a very unworthy suspicion, Skinner, and a childish one.”
“Oh, it is diamond cut diamond. A single line, sir, just to say that in return for his faithful services, you have given Noah Skinner two notes for L. 500, Nos. 1084 and 85.”
“With all my heart — on your giving me a receipt for them.”
It was Skinner’s turn to hesitate. After reflecting, however, on all the possible consequences, he saw nothing to fear; so he consented.
The business completed, a magic change took place in the little clerk. “Now we are friends again, sir: and I’ll give you a piece of advice. Mind your eye with Mr. Alfred: he is down on us.”
“What do you mean?” inquired Mr. Hardie with ill-disguised anxiety.
“I’ll tell you, sir. He met me this morning: and says he to me, ‘Skinner, old boy, I want to speak a word to you.’ He puts his hands on my shoulder, and turns me round, and says he all at one time, ‘The fourteen thousand pounds!’ You might have knocked me down with a feather. And he looked me through like a gimlet mind ye. ‘Come now,’ says he, ‘you see I know all; make a clean breast of it.’ So then I saw he didn’t know all, and I brazened up a bit: told him I hadn’t a notion what he meant. ‘Oh yes, I did,’ he said, ‘Captain Dodd’s fourteen thousand pounds! It had passed through my hands.’ Then I began to funk again at his knowing that: perhaps he only guessed it after all: but at the time I thought he knew it; I was flustered, ye see. But I said, ‘I’d look at the books; but I didn’t think his deposit was anything like that.’ ‘You little equivocating humbu
An unheard-of shock threw the speaker and all the rest in a mass on the floor, smashed every lamp, put out every light; and, with a fierce grating noise, the ship was hard and fast on the French coast, with her stern to the sea.
One awful moment of silence; then, amidst shrieks of agony, the sea struck her like a rolling rock, solid to crush, liquid to drown, and the comb of a wave smashed the cabin windows and rushed in among them as they floundered on the floor, and wetted and chilled them to the marrow. A voice in the dark cried, “O God! we are dead men.”
Chapter 13
“ON deck for your lives!” cried Dodd, forgetting in that awful moment he was not the captain; and drove them all up, Robarts included, and caught hold of Mrs. Beresford and Freddy at their cabin door and half carried them with him. Just as they got on deck the third wave, a high one, struck the ship and lifted her bodily up, canted her round, and dashed her down again some yards to leeward, throwing them down on the hard and streaming deck.
At this tremendous shock the ship seemed a live thing, shrieking and wailing, as well as quivering with the blow.
But one voice dissented loudly from the general dismay. “All right men,” cried Dodd, firm and trumpet-like. “She is broadside on now. Captain Robarts, look alive, sir; speak to the men! don’t go to sleep!”
Robarts was in a lethargy of fear. At this appeal he started into a fury of ephemeral courage. “Stick to the ship,” he yelled; “there is no danger if you stick to the ship,” and with this snatched a life-buoy, and hurled himself into the sea.
Dodd caught up the trumpet that fell from his hand and roared, “I command this ship. Officers come round me! Men to your quarters! Come, bear a hand here and fire a gun. That will show us where we are, and let the Frenchmen know.”
The carronade was fired, and its momentary flash revealed that the ship was ashore in a little bay; the land abeam was low and some eighty yards off; but there was something black and rugged nearer the ship’s stern.
Their situation was awful. To windward huge black waves rose like tremendous ruins, and came rolling
‘So I was told.’
‘But your sister didn’t see it,’ said Brooke.
‘So I understand,’ said Stanbury. ‘I believe my aunt was exceedingly liberal,’ and meant to do the best she could for poor Dorothy; but, if she didn’t like him, I suppose she was right not to have him,’ said Hugh.
‘Of course she was right,’ said Brooke, with a good deal of enthusiasm.
‘I believe Gibson to be a very decent sort of fellow,’ said Stanbury.
‘A mean, paltry dog,’ said Brooke. There had been a little whisky-toddy after the oysters, and Mr Burgess was perhaps moved to a warmer expression of feeling than he might have displayed had he discussed this branch of the subject before supper. ‘I knew from the first that she would have nothing to say to him. He is such a poor creature!’
‘I always thought well of him,’ said Stanbury, ‘and was inclined to think that Dolly might have done worse.’
‘It is hard to say what is the worst a girl might do; but I think she might do, perhaps, a little better.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Hugh.
‘I think I shall go down, and ask her to take myself.’
‘Do you mean it in earnest?’
‘I do,’ said Brooke. ‘Of course, I hadn’t a chance when I was there. She told me —’
‘Who told you, Dorothy?’
‘No, your aunt she told me that Mr Gibson was to marry your sister. You know your aunt’s way. She spoke of it as though the thing were settled as soon as she had got it into her own head; and she was as hot upon it as though Mr Gibson had been an archbishop. I had nothing to do then but to wait and see.’
‘I had no idea of Dolly being fought for by rivals.’
‘Brothers never think much of their sisters,’ said Brooke Burgess.
‘I can assure you I think a great deal of Dorothy,’ said Hugh. ‘I believe her to be as sweet a woman as God ever made. She hardly knows that she has a self belonging to herself.’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t,’ said Brooke.
‘She is a dear, loving, sweet-tempered creature, who is only too ready to yield in all things.’
‘But she wouldn’t yield about Gibson,’ said Brooke.
‘How did she and my aunt manage?’
‘Your sister simply said she couldn’t and then that she wouldn’t. I never thought from the first moment that she’d take that fellow. In the first place he can’t say boo to a goose.’
‘But Dolly wouldn’t want a man to say boo.’
‘I’m not so sure of that, old fellow. At any rate I mean to try myself. Now what’ll the old woman say?’
‘She’ll be pleased as Punch, I should think,’ said Stanbury.
‘Either that or else she’ll swear that she’ll never speak another word to either of us. However, I shall go on with it.’
‘Does Dorothy know anything of this?’ asked Stanbury.
‘Not a word,’ said Brooke. ‘I came away a day or so after Gibson was settled; and as I had been talked to all through the affair by both of them, I couldn’t turn round and offer myself the moment he was gone. You won’t object will you?’
‘Who; I?’ said Stanbury. ‘I shall have no objection as long as Dolly pleases herself. Of course you know that we haven’t as much as a brass farthing among us?’
‘That won’t matter if the old lady takes it kindly,’ said Brooke. Then they parted,
ther information. Facts, in such cases, will not unravel themselves without much patience on the part of the investigators.
Chapter 34 Priscilla’s Wisdom
On the night after the dinner party in the Close, Dorothy was not the only person in the house who laid awake thinking of what had taken place. Miss Stanbury also was full of anxiety, and for hour after hour could not sleep as she remembered the fruitlessness of her efforts on behalf of her nephew and niece.
It had never occurred to her when she had first proposed to herself that Dorothy should become Mrs Gibson that Dorothy herself would have any objection to such a step in life. Her fear had been that Dorothy would have become over-radiant with triumph at the idea of having a husband, and going to that husband with a fortune of her own. That Mr Gibson might hesitate, she had thought very likely. It is thus, in general, that women regard the feelings, desires, and aspirations of other women. You will hardly ever meet an elderly lady who will not speak of her juniors as living in a state of breathless anxiety to catch husbands. And the elder lady will speak of the younger as though any kind of choice in such catching was quite disregarded. The man must be a gentleman or, at least, gentlemanlike and there must be bread. Let these things be given, and what girl won’t jump into what man’s arms? Female reader, is it not thus that the elders of your sex speak of the younger? When old Mrs Stanbury heard that Nora Rowley had refused Mr Glascock, the thing was to her unintelligible; and it was now quite unintelligible to Miss Stanbury that Dorothy should prefer a single life to matrimony with Mr Gibson.
It must be acknowledged, on Aunt Stanbury’s behalf, that Dorothy was one of those yielding, hesitating, submissive young women, trusting others but doubting ever of themselves, as to whom it is natural that their stronger friends should find it expedient to decide for them. Miss Stanbury was almost justified in thinking that unless she were to find a husband for her niece, her niece would never find one for herself. Dorothy would drift into being an old maid, like Priscilla, simply because she would never assert herself, never put her best foot foremost. Aunt Stanbury had therefore taken upon herself to put out a foot; and having carefully found that Mr Gibson was ‘willing,’ had conceived that all difficulties were over. She would be enabled to do her duty by her niece, and establish comfortably in life, at any rate, one of her brother’s children. And now Dorothy was taking upon herself to say that she did not like the gentleman! Such conduct was almost equal to writing for a penny newspaper!
On the following morning, after breakfast, when Brooke Burgess was gone out to call upon his uncle, which he insisted upon doing openly, and not under the rose, in spite of Miss Stanbury’s great gravity on the occasion, there was a very serious conversation, and poor Dorothy had found herself to be almost silenced. She did argue for a time; but her arguments seemed, even to herself, to amount to so little! Why shouldn’t she love Mr Gibson? That was a question which she found it impossible to answer. And though she did not actually yield, though she did not say that she would accept the man, still, when she was told that three days were to be allowed to her for consideration, and that then the offer would be made to her in form, she felt that, as regarded the anti-Gibson interest, she had not a leg to stand upon. Why should not such an insignificant creature, as was she, love Mr Gibson or any other man, who had bread to give her, and was in some degree like a gentleman? On that night, she wrote the following letter to her sister:
‘The Close, Tuesday
DEAREST PRISCILLA,
I do so wish that you could be with me, so that I could talk to you again. Aunt Stanbury is the most affectionate and kindest friend in the world; but she has always been so able to have her own way, because she is both clever and good, that I find myself almost like a baby with her. She has been talking to me again about Mr Gibson; and it seems that Mr Gibson really does mean it. It is certainly very strange; but I do think now that it is true. He is to come on Friday. It seems very odd that it should all be settled for him in that way; but then Aunt Stanbury is so clever at settling things!
He sat next to me almost all the evening yesterday but he didn’t say anything about it, except that he hoped I agreed with him about going to church, and all that. I suppose I do; and I am quite sure that if I were to be a clergyman’s wife, I should endeavour to do whatever my husband thought right about religion. One ought to try to do so, even if the clergyman is not one’s husband. Mr Burgess has come, and he was so very amusing all the evening, that perhaps that was the reason Mr Gibson said so little. Mr Burgess is a very nice man, and I think Aunt Stanbury is more fond of him than of anybody. He is not at all the sort of person that I expected.
But if Mr Gibson does come on Friday, and do really mean it, what am I to say to him? Aunt Stanbury will be very angry if I do not take her advice. I am quite sure that she intends it all for my happiness; and then, of course, she knows so much more about the world than I do. She asks me what it is that I expect. Of course, I do not expect anything. It is a great compliment from Mr Gibson, who is a clergyman, and thought well of by everybody. And nothing could be more respectable. Aunt Stanbury says that with the money she would give us we should be quite comfortable; and she wants us to live in this house. She says that there are thirty girls round Exeter who would give their eyes for such a chance; and, looking at it in that light, of course, it is a very great thing for me. Only think how poor we have been! And then, dear Priscilla, perhaps he would let me be good to you and dear mamma!
But, of course, he will ask me whether I love him; and what am I to say? Aunt Stanbury says that I am to love him. “Begin to love him at once,” she said this morning. I would if I could, partly for her sake, and because I do feel that it would be so respectable. When I think of it, it does seem such a pity that poor I should throw away such a chance. And I must say that Mr Gibson is very good, and most obliging; and everybody says that he has an excellent temper, and that he is a most prudent, well-dispositioned man. I declare, dear Priscilla, when I think of it, I cannot bring myself to believe that such a man should want me to be his wife.
But what ought I to do? I suppose when a girl is in love she is very unhappy if the gentleman does not propose to her. I am sure it would not make me at all unhappy if I were told that Mr Gibson had changed his mind.
Dearest Priscilla, you must write at once; because he is to be here on Friday. Oh, dear; Friday does seem to be so near! And I shall never know what to say to him, either one way or the other.
Your most affectionate sister,
DOROTHY STANBURY.
P.S. Give my kindest love to mamma; but you need not tell her unless you think it best.’
Priscilla received this letter on the Wednesday morning, and felt herself bound to answer it on that same afternoon. Had she postponed her reply for a day, it would still have been in Dorothy’s hands before Mr Gibson could have come to her on the dreaded Friday morning. But still that would hardly give her time enough to consider the matter with any degree of deliberation after she should have been armed with what wisdom Priscilla might be able to send her. The post left Nuncombe Putney at three; and therefore the letter had to be written before their early dinner.
So Priscilla went into the garden and sat hers down under an old cedar that she might discuss the matter with herself in all its bearings. She felt that no woman could be called upon to write a letter that should be of more importance. The whole welfare in life of the person who was dearest to her would probably depend upon it. The weight upon her was so great that she thought for a while she would take counsel with her mother; but she felt sure that her mother would recommend the marriage; and that if she afterwards should find herself bound to oppose it, then her mother would be a miserable woman. There could be no use to her taking counsel with her mother, because her mother’s mind was known to her beforehand. The responsibility was thrown upon her, and she alone must bear it.
She tried hard to persuade herself to write at once and tell her sister to marry the man. She knew her sister’s heart so well as to be sure that Dorothy would learn to love the man who was her husband. It was almost impossible that Dorothy should not love those with whom she lived. And then her sister was so well adapted to be a wife and a mother. Her temper was so sweet, she was so pure, so unselfish, so devoted, and so healthy withal! She was so happy when she was acting for others; and so excellent in action when she had another one to think for her! She was so trusting and trustworthy that any husband would adore her! Then Priscilla walked slowly into the house, got her prayer-book, and returning to her seat under the tree, read the marriage service. It was one o’clock when she went upstairs to write her letter, and it had not yet struck eleven when she first seated herself beneath the tree. Her letter, when written, was as follows:
‘Nuncombe Putney, August 25, 186-.
DEAREST DOROTHY,
I got your letter this morning, and I think it is better to answer it at once, as the time is very short. I have been thinking about it with all my mind, and I feel almost awe-stricken lest I should advise you wrongly. After all, I believe that your own dear sweet truth and honesty would guide you better than anybody else can guide you. You may be sure of this, that whichever way it is, I shall think that you have done right. Dearest sister, I suppose there can be no doubt that for most women a married life is happier than a single one. It is always thought so, as we may see by the anxiety of others to get married; and when an opinion becomes general, I think that the world is most often right. And then, my own one, I feel sure that you are adapted both for the cares and for the joys of married life. You would do your duty as a married woman happily, and would be a comfort to your husband not a thorn in his side, as are so many women.
‘But, my pet, do not let that reasoning of Aunt Stanbury’s about the thirty young
uctions, and so perverse a disregard to the opinion of the world at large.
But I do not write now for the sake of finding fault with you. It is too late for me to have any hope that I can do so with good effect, either as regards your credit or my happiness. Nevertheless, it is my duty to protect both you and myself from further shame; and I wish to tell you what are my intentions with that view. In the first place, I warn you that I keep a watch on you. The doing so is very painful to me, but it is absolutely necessary. You cannot see Colonel Osborne, or write to him, without my knowing it. I pledge you my word that in either case — that is, if you correspond with him or see him — I will at once take our boy away from you. I will not allow him to remain, even with a mother, who shall so misconduct herself. Should Colonel Osborne address a letter to you, I desire that you will put it under an envelope addressed to me.
If you obey my commands on this
‘But this about disgracing you. Do you think that you must say that?’
‘I think I must, because it is true. If I do not tell her the truth, who is there that will do so? It may be bitter now, but I think that it is for her welfare.’
‘Dear, dear, dear!’
‘I want nothing for myself, Lady Milborough.’
‘I am sure of that, Louis.’
‘My whole happiness was in my home. No man cared less for going out than I did. My child and my wife were everything to me. I don’t suppose that I was ever seen at a club in the evening once throughout a season. And she might have had anything that she liked — anything! It is hard; Lady Milborough; is it not?’
Lady Milborough, who had seen the angry brow, did not dare to suggest Naples again. But yet, if any word might be spoken to prevent this utter wreck of a home, how good a thing it would be! He had got up to leave her, but she stopped him by holding his hand.
‘For better, for worse, Louis; remember that.’
‘Why has she forgotten it?’
‘She is flesh of your flesh, bone of your bone. And for the boy’s sake! Think of your boy, Louis. Do not send that letter. Sleep on it, Louis, and think of it.’
‘I have slept on it.’
‘There is no promise in it of forgiveness after a while. It is written as though you intended that she should never come back to you.’.
‘That shall be as she behaves herself.’
‘But tell her so. Let there be some one bright spot in what you say to her, on which her mind may fix itself. If she be not altogether hardened, that letter will drive her to despair.’
But Trevelyan would not give up the letter, nor indicate by a word that he would reconsider the question of its propriety. He escaped as soon as he could from Lady Milborough’s room, and almost declared as he did so, that he would never enter her doors again. She had utterly failed to see the matter in the proper light. When she talked of Naples she must surely have been unable to comprehend the extent of the ill-usage to which he, the husband, had been subjected. How was it possible that he should live under the same roof with a wife who claimed to herself the right of receiving visitors of whom he disapproved — a visitor, a gentleman, one whom the world called her lover? He gnashed his teeth and clenched his fist as he thought of his old friend’s ignorance of the very first law in a married man’s code of laws.
But yet when he was out in the streets he did not post his letter at once; but thought of it throughout the whole day, trying to prove the weight of every phrase that he had used. Once or twice his heart almost relented. Once he had the letter in his hand, that he might tear it. But he did not tear it. He put it back into his pocket, and thought again of his grievance. Surely it was his first duty in such an emergency to be firm!
It was certainly a wretched life that he was leading. In the evening he went all alone to an eating-house for his dinner, and then, sitting with a miserable glass of sherry before him, he again read and re-read the epistle which he had written. Every harsh word that it contained was, in some sort, pleasant to his ear. She had hit him hard, and should he not hit her again? And then, was it not his bounden duty to let her know the truth? Yes; it was his duty to be firm.
So he went out and posted the letter.
Chapter 28 Great Tribulation
Trevelyan’s letter to his wife fell like a thunderbolt among them at Nuncombe Putney. Mrs Trevelyan was altogether unable to keep it to herself; indeed she made no attempt at doing so. Her husband had told her that she was to be banished from the Clock House because her present hostess was unable to endure her misconduct, and of course she demanded the reasons of the charge that was thus brought against her. When she first read the letter, which she did in the presence of her sister, she towered in her passion.
‘Disgraced him! I have never disgraced him. It is he that has disgraced me. Correspondence! Yes he shall see it all. Unjust, ignorant, foolish man! He does not remember that the last instructions he really gave me, were to bid me see Colonel Osborne. Take my boy away! Yes. Of course, I am a woman and must suffer. I will write to Colonel Osborne, and will tell him the truth, and will send my letter to Louis. He shall know how he has ill-treated me! I will not take a penny of his money, not a penny. Maintain you! I believe he thinks that we are beggars. Leave this house because of my conduct! What can Mrs Stanbury have said? What can any of them have said? I will demand to be told. Free himself from the connection! Oh, Nora, Nora! that it should come to this! that I should be thus threatened, who have been as innocent as a baby! If it were not for my child, I think that I should destroy myself!’
Nora said what she could to comfort her sister, insisting chiefly on the promise that the child should not be taken away. There was no doubt as to the husband’s power in the mind of either of them; and though, as regarded herself, Mrs Trevelyan would have defied her husband, let his power be what it might, yet she acknowledged to herself that she was in some degree restrained by the fear that she would find herself deprived of her only comfort.
‘We must just go where he bids us till papa comes,’ said Nora.
‘And when papa is here, what help will there be then? He will not let me go back to the islands with my boy. For myself I might die, or get out of his way anywhere. I can see that. Priscilla Stanbury is right when she says that no woman should trust herself to any man. Disgraced! That I should live to be told by my husband that I had disgraced him by a lover!’
There was some sort of agreement made between the two sisters as to the manner in which Priscilla should be interrogated respecting the sentence of banishment which had been passed. They both agreed that it would be useless to make inquiry of Mrs Stanbury. If anything had really been said to justify the statement made in Mr Trevelyan’s letter, it must have come from Priscilla, and have reached Trevelyan through Priscilla’s brother. They, both of them, had sufficiently learned the ways of the house to be sure that Mrs Stanbury had not been the person active in the matter. They went down, therefore, together, and found Priscilla seated at her desk in the parlour. Mrs Stanbury was also in the room, and it had been presumed between the sisters that the interrogation should be made in that lady’s absence; but Mrs Trevelyan was too hot in the matter for restraint, and she at once opened out her budget of grievance.
‘I have a letter from my husband,’ she said and then paused. But Priscilla, seeing from the fire in her eyes that she was much moved, made no reply, but turned to listen to what might further be said. ‘I do not know why I should trouble you with his suspicions,’ continued Mrs Trevelyan, ‘or read to you what he says about Colonel Osborne.’ As she spoke she was holding her husband’s letter open in her hands. ‘There is nothing in it that you do not know. He says I have corresponded with him. So I have and he shall see the correspondence. He says that Colonel Osborne visited me. He did come to see me and Nora.’
‘As any other old man might have done,’ said Nora.
‘It was not likely that I should openly confess myself to be afraid to see my father’s old friend. But the truth is, my husband does not know what a woman is.’
She had begun by declaring that she would not trouble her friend with any statement of her husband’s complaints against her; but now she had made her way to the subject, and could hardly refrain herself. Priscilla understood this, and thought that it would be wise to interrupt her by a word that might bring her back to her original purpose. ‘Is there anything,’ said she, ‘which we can do to help you?’
‘To help me? No God only can help me. But Louis informs me that I am to be turned out of this house, because you demand that we should go.’
‘Who says that?’ exclaimed Mrs Stanbury.
‘My husband. Listen; this is what he says “I am greatly grieved to hear from my friend Mr Stanbury that your conduct in reference to Colonel Osborne has been such as to make it necessary that you should leave Mrs Stanbury’s house.” Is that true? Is that true?’ In her general mode of carrying herself, and of enduring the troubles of her life, Mrs Trevelyan was a strong woman; but now her grief was too much for her, and she burst out into tears. ‘I am the most unfortunate woman that ever was born!’ she sobbed out through her tears.
‘I never said that you were to go,’ said Mrs Stanbury.
‘But your son has told Mr Trevelyan that we must go,’ said Nora, who felt that her sense of injury against Hugh Stanbury was greatly increased by what had taken place. To her mind he was the person most important in the matter. Why had he desired that they should be sent away from the Clock House? She was very angry with him, and declared to herself that she hated him with all her heart. For this man she had sent away that other lover, a lover who had really loved her! And she had even confessed that it was so!
‘There is a misunderstanding about this,’ said Priscilla.
stand her feelings and her mind,’ said he; ‘and if so, any such correspondence would be incompatible with her previous conduct.’ Trevelyan only smiled at this or pretended to smile. He would not discuss the question; but believed implicitly what Bozzle had told him in spite of all Stanbury’s arguments. ‘I can say nothing further,’ said Stanbury.
‘No, my dear fellow. There is nothing further to be said, except this, that I will have my unfortunate wife removed from the decent protection of your mother’s roof with the least possible delay. I feel that I owe Mrs Stanbury the deepest apology for having sent such an inmate to trouble her repose.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘That is what I feel.’
‘And I say that it is nonsense. If you had never sent that wretched blackguard down to fabricate lies at Nuncombe Putney, my mother’s repose would have been all right. As it is, Mrs Trevelyan can remain where she is till after Christmas. There is not the least necessity for removing her at once. I only meant to say that the arrangement should not be regarded as altogether permanent. I must go to my work now. Goodbye.’
‘Good-bye, Stanbury.’
Stanbury paused at the door, and then once more turned round. ‘I suppose it is of no use my saying anything further; but I wish you to understand fully that I regard your wife as a woman much ill-used, and I think you are punishing her, and yourself, too, with a cruel severity for an indiscretion of the very slightest kind.’
Chapter 27 Mr Trevelyan’s Letter to His Wife
Trevelyan, when he was left alone, sat for above a couple of hours contemplating the misery of his position, and endeavouring to teach himself by thinking what ought to be his future conduct. It never occurred to him during these thoughts that it would be well that he should at once take back his wife, either as a matter of duty, or of welfare, for himself or for her. He had taught himself to believe that she had disgraced him; and, though this feeling of disgrace made him so wretched that he wished that he were dead, he would allow himself to make no attempt at questioning the correctness of his conviction. Though he were to be shipwrecked for ever, even that seemed to be preferable to supposing that he had been wrong. Nevertheless, he loved his wife dearly, and, in the white heat of his anger endeavoured to be merciful to her. When Stanbury accused him of severity, he would not condescend to defend himself; but he told himself then of his great mercy. Was he not as fond of his own boy as any other father, and had he not allowed her to take the child because he had felt that a mother’s love was more imperious, more craving in its nature, than the love of a father? Had that been severe? And had he not resolved to allow her every comfort which her unfortunate position the self-imposed misfortune of her position would allow her to enjoy? She had come to him without a shilling; and yet, bad as her treatment of him had been, he was willing to give enough not only to support her, but her sister also, with every comfort. Severe! No; that, at least, was an undeserved accusation. He had been anything but severe. Foolish he might have been, in taking a wife from a home in which she had been unable to learn the discretion of a matron; too trusting he had been, and too generous but certainly not severe. But, of course, as he said to himself, a young man like Stanbury would take the part of a woman with whose sister he was in love. Then he turned his thoughts upon Bozzle, and there came over him a crushing feeling of ignominy, shame, moral dirt, and utter degradation, as he reconsidered his dealings with that ingenious gentleman. He was paying a rogue to watch the steps of a man whom he hated, to pry into the home secrets, to read the letters, to bribe the servants, to record the movements of this rival, this successful rival, in his wife’s affections! It was a filthy thing and yet what could he do? Gentlemen of old, his own grandfather or his father, would have taken such a fellow as Colonel Osborne by the throat and have caned him, and afterwards would have shot him, or have stood to be shot.
All that was changed now, but it was not his fault that it was changed. He was willing enough to risk his life, could any opportunity of risking it in this cause be obtained for him. But were he to cudgel Colonel Osborne, he would be simply arrested, and he would then be told that he had disgraced himself foully by striking a man old enough to be his father!
How was he to have avoided the employment of some such man as Bozzle? He had also employed a gentleman, his friend, Stanbury; and what was the result? The facts were not altered. Even Stanbury did not attempt to deny that there had been a correspondence, and that there had been a visit. But Stanbury was so blind to all impropriety, or pretended such blindness, that he defended that which all the world agreed in condemning. Of what use had Stanbury been to him? He had wanted facts, not advice. Stanbury had found out no facts for him; but Bozzle, either by fair means or foul, did get at the truth. He did not doubt but that Bozzle was right about that letter written only yesterday, and received on that very morning. His wife, who had probably been complaining of her wrongs to Stanbury, must have retired from that conversation to her chamber, and immediately have written this letter to her lover! With such a woman as that what can be done in these days otherwise than by the aid of such a one as Bozzle? He could not confine his wife in a dungeon. He could not save himself from the disgrace of her misconduct by any rigours of surveillance on his own part. As wives are managed nowadays, he could not forbid to her the use of the post-office, could not hinder her from seeing this hypocritical scoundrel, who carried on his wickedness under the false guise of family friendship. He had given her every chance to amend her conduct; but, if she were resolved on disobedience, he had no means of enforcing obedience. The facts, however, it was necessary that he should know.
And now, what should he do? How should he go to work to make her understand that she could not write even a letter without his knowing it; and that if she did either write to the man or see him he would immediately take the child from her, and provide for her only in such fashion as the law should demand from him? For himself, and his own life, he thought that he had determined what he would do. It was impossible that he should continue to live in London. He was ashamed to enter a club. He had hardly a friend to whom it was not an agony to speak. They who knew of him, knew also of his disgrace, and no longer asked him to their houses. For days past he had eaten alone, and sat alone, and walked alone. All study was impossible to him. No pursuit was open to him. He spend his time in thinking of his wife, and of the disgrace which she had brought upon him. Such a life as this, he knew, was unmanly and shameful, and it was absolutely necessary for him that he should in some way change it. He would go out of England, and would travel if only he could so dispose of his wife that she might be safe from any possible communication with Colonel Osborne. If that could be effected, nothing that money could do should be spared for her. If that could not be effected he would remain at home and crush her.
That night before he went to bed he wrote a letter to his wife, which was as follows:
Dear Emily,
I have learned, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that you have correspo
ey says now as he was arter the other young ‘ooman,’ said Giles Hickbody. Then was the confusion of Miss Stanbury complete.
It was late when Giles returned from Lessboro’, and nothing could be done that night. It was too late to write a letter for the next morning’s post. Miss Stanbury, who was as proud of her own discrimination as she was just and true, felt that a day of humiliation had indeed come for her. She hated Priscilla almost as vigorously as Priscilla hated her. To Priscilla she would not write to own her fault; but it was incumbent on her to confess it to Mrs Stanbury. It was incumbent on her also to confess it to Dorothy. All that night she did not sleep, and the next morning she went about abashed, wretched, hardly mistress of her own maids. She must confess it also to Martha, and Martha would be very stern to her. Martha had poob-poohed the whole story of the lover, seeming to think that there could be no reasonable objection to a lover past fifty.
‘Dorothy,’ she said at last, about noon, ‘I have been over hasty about your mother and this man. I am sorry for it, and must beg everybody’s pardon.’
‘I knew mamma would do nothing wrong,’ said Dorothy.
‘To do wrong is human, and she, I suppose, is not more free than others; but in this matter I was misinformed. I shall write and beg her pardon; and now I beg your pardon.’
‘Not mine, Aunt Stanbury.’
‘Yes, yours and your mother’s, and the lady’s also for against her has the fault been most grievous. I shall write to your mother and express my contrition.’ She put off the evil hour of writing as long as she could, but before dinner the painful letter had been written, and carried by herself to the post. It was as follows:
‘The Close, August 9, 186-.
Dear Sister Stanbury,
I have now learned that the information was false on which my former letter was based. I am heartily sorry for any annoyance I may have given you. I can only inform you that my intentions were good and upright. Nevertheless, I humbly beg your pardon.
Yours truly,
Jemima Stanbury.’
Mrs Stanbury, when she received this, was inclined to let the matter drop. That her sister-inlaw should express such abject contrition was to her such a lowering of the great ones of the earth, that the apology conveyed to her more pain than pleasure. She could not hinder herself from sympathising with all that her sister-inlaw had felt when she had found herself called upon to humiliate herself. But it was not so with Priscilla. Mrs Stanbury did not observe that her daughter’s name was scrupulously avoided in the apology; but Priscilla observed it. She would not let the matter drop, without an attempt at the last word. She therefore wrote back again as follows:
‘Nuncombe Putney, August 4, 186-.
DEAR AUNT STANBURY,
I am glad you have satisfied yourself about the gentleman who has so much disquieted you. I do not know that the whole affair would be worth a moment’s consideration, were it not that mamma and I, living as we do so secluded a life, are peculiarly apt to feel any attack upon our good name which is pretty nearly all that is left to us. If ever there were women who should be free from attack, at any rate from those of their own family, we are such women. We never interfere with you, or with anybody; and I think you might abstain from harassing us by accusations.
Pray do not write to mamma in such a strain again, unless you are quite sure of your ground.
Yours truly,
PRISCILLA STANBURY.’
‘Impudent vixen!’ said Miss Stanbury to Martha, when she had read the letter. ‘Ill-conditioned, impudent vixen!’
‘She was provoked, miss,’ said Martha.
‘Well; yes; yes and I suppose it is right that you should tell me of it. I dare say it is part of what I ought to bear for being an old fool, and too cautious about my own flesh and blood. I will bear it. There. I was wrong, and I will say that I have been justly punished. There there!’
How very much would Miss Stanbury’s tone have been changed had she known that at that very moment Colonel Osborne was eating his breakfast at Mrs Crocket’s inn, in Nuncombe Putney!
Chapter 19 Bozzle, the Ex-Policeman
When Mr Trevelyan had gone through the miserable task of breaking up his establishment in Curzon Street, and had seen all his furniture packed, including his books, his pictures, and his pet Italian ornaments, it was necessary that he should go and live somewhere. He was very wretched at this time so wretched that life was a burden to him. He was a man who loved his wife, to whom his child was very dear; and he was one too to whom the ordinary comforts of domestic life were attractive and necessary. There are men to whom release from the constraint imposed by family ties will be, at any rate for a time, felt as a release. But he was not such a man. There was no delight to him in being able to dine at his club, and being free to go whither he pleased in the evening. As it was, it pleased him to go nowhere in the evenings; and his mornings were equally blank to him. He went so often to Mr Bideawhile, that the poor old lawyer became quite tired of the Trevelyan family quarrel. Even Lady Milborough, with all her power of sympathising, began to feel that she would almost prefer on any morning that her dear young friend, Louis Trevelyan, should not be announced. Nevertheless, she always saw him when he came, and administered comfort according to her light. Of course he would have his wife back before long. That was the only consolation she was able to offer; and she offered it so often that he began gradually to feel that something might be done towards bringing about so desirable an event. After what had occurred they could not live again in Curzon Street nor even in London for awhile; but Naples was open to them. Lady Milborough said so much to him of the advantages which always came in such circumstances from going to Naples, that he began to regard such a trip as almost the natural conclusion of his adventure. But then there came that very difficult question what step should be first taken? Lady Milborough proposed that he should go boldly down to Nuncombe Putney, and make the arrangement. ‘She will only be too glad to jump into your arms,’ said Lady Milborough. Trevelyan thought that if he went to Nuncombe Putney, his wife might perhaps jump into his arms; but what would come after that? How would he stand then in reference to his authority? Would she own that she had been wrong? Would she promise to behave better in future? He did not believe that she was yet sufficiently broken in spirit to make any such promise. And he told himself again and again that it would be absurd in him to allow her to return to him without such subjection, after all that he had gone through in defence of his marital rights. If he were to write to her a long letter, argumentative, affectionate, exhaustive, it might be better. He was inclined to believe of himself that he was good at writing long, affectionate, argumentative, and exhaustive letters. But he would not do even this as yet. He had broken up his house, and scattered all his domestic gods to the winds, because she had behaved badly to him; and the thing done was too important to allow of redress being found so easily.
So he lived on, a wretched life in London. He could hardly endure to show himself at his club, fearing that every one would be talking of him as the man who was separated from his wife, perhaps as the man of whose wife Colonel Osborne was the dear friend. No doubt for a day or two there had been much of such conversation; but it had died away from the club long before his consciousness had become callous. At first he had gone into a lodging in Mayfair; but this had been but for a day or two. After that he had taken a set of furnished chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, immediately under those in which Stanbury lived; and thus it came to pass that he and Stanbury were very much thrown together. As Trevelyan would always talk of his wife this was rather a bore; but our friend bore with it, and would even continue to instruct the world through the columns of the D. R. while Trevelyan was descanting on the peculiar cruelty of his own position.
‘I wish to be just, and even generous; and I do love her with all my heart,’ he said one afternoon, when Hugh was very hard at work.
‘It is all very well for gentlemen to call themselves reformers,’ Hugh was writing, ‘but have these gentlemen ever realised to themselves the meaning of that word? We think that they have never done so as long as —’ ‘Of course you love her,’ said Hugh, with his eyes still on the paper, still leaning on his pen, but finding by the cessation of sound that Trevelyan had paused, and therefore knowing that it was necessary that he should speak.
‘As much as ever,’ said Trevelyan, with energy.
‘As long as they follow such a leader, in such a cause, into whichever lobby he may choose to take them’—‘Exactly so, exactly,’ said Stanbury; ‘just as much as ever.’
‘You are not listening to a word,’ said Trevelyan.
‘I haven’t missed a single expression you have used,’ said Stanbury. ‘But a fellow has to do two things at a time when he’s on the daily press.’
‘I beg your pardon for interrupting you,’ said Trevelyan, angrily, getting up, taking his hat, and stalking off to the house of Lady Milborough. In this way he became rather a bore to his friends. He could not divest his mind of the injury which had accrued to him from his wife’s conduct, nor could he help talking of the grief with which his mind was laden. And he was troubled with sore suspicions, which, as far as they concerned his wife, had certainly not been merited. It had seemed to him that she had persisted in her intimacy with Colonel Osborne in a manner that was not compatible with that wife-like indifference which he regarded as her duty. Why had she written to him and received letters from him when her husband had plainly told her that any such communication was objectionable? She had done so, and as far as Trevelyan could remember her words, had plainly declared that she would continue to do so. He had sent her away, into the most remote retirement he could find for her; but the post was open to her. He had heard much of Mrs Stanbury, and Priscilla, from his friend Hugh, and thoroughly believed that his wife was in respectable hands. But what was to prevent Colonel Osborne from going after her if he chose to do so? And if he did so choose, Mrs Stanbury could not prevent their meeting. He was racked with jealousy, and yet he did not cease to declare to himself that he knew his wife too well to believe that she would sin. He could not rid himself of his jealousy, but he tried with all his might to make the man whom he hated the object of it, rather than the woman whom he loved.
He hated Colonel Osborne with all his heart. It was a regret to him that the days of duelling were over; so that he could not shoot the man. And yet, had duelling been possible to him, Colonel Osborne had done nothing that would have justified him in calling his enemy out or would even have enabled him to do so with any chance of inducing his enemy to fight. Circumstances, he thought, were cruel to him beyond compare, in that he should have been made to suffer so great torment without having any of the satisfaction of revenge. Even Lady Milborough, with all her horror as to the Colonel, could not tell him that the Colonel was amenable to any punishment. He was advised that he must take his wife away and live at Naples because of this man, that he must banish himself entirely if he chose to repossess himself of his wife and child; and yet nothing could be done to the unprincipled rascal by whom all his wrong and sufferings were occasioned! Thinking it very possible that Colonel Osborne would follow his wife, he had a watch set upon the Colonel. He had found a retired policeman, a most discreet man, as he
n and misery is, as I believe, the worst form of crime, this retention of
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