He Knew He Was Right, Anthony Trollope [children's ebooks free online .TXT] 📗
- Author: Anthony Trollope
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character. But her daughter was imperative, and she gave way.
‘It shall be mild enough in words,’ said Priscilla, ‘and very short.’
Then she wrote her letter as follows:
‘Nuncombe Putney, August 1, 186-.
Dear Aunt Stanbury,
You have found a mare’s nest. The gentleman you speak of has never been
here at all, and the people who bring you news have probably hoaxed
you. I don’t think that mamma has ever disgraced the family, and you
can have no reason for thinking that she ever will. You should, at any
rate, be sure of what you are saying before you make such cruel
accusations,
Yours truly,
‘Priscilla Stanbury.
P.S. Another gentleman did call here not to see Mrs Trevelyan; but
I suppose mamma’s house need not be closed against all visitors.’
Poor Dorothy had passed evil hours from the moment in which her aunt
had so far certified herself as to Colonel Osborne’s visit to Nuncombe
as to make her feel it to be incumbent on her to interfere. After much
consideration Miss Stanbury had told her niece the dreadful news, and
had told also what she intended to do. Dorothy, who was in truth
horrified at the iniquity of the fact which was related, and who never
dreamed of doubting the truth of her aunt’s information, hardly knew
how to interpose. ‘I am sure mamma won’t let there be anything wrong,’
she had said.
‘And you don’t call this wrong?’ said Miss Stanbury, in a tone of
indignation.
‘But perhaps mamma will tell them to go.’
‘I hope she will. I hope she has. But he was allowed to be there for
hours. And now three days have passed and there is no sign of anything
being done. He came and went and may come again when he pleases.’ Still
Dorothy pleaded. ‘I shall do my duty,’ said Miss Stanbury.
‘I am quite sure mamma will do nothing wrong,’ said Dorothy. But the
letter was written and sent, and the answer to the letter reached the
house in the Close in due time.
When Miss. Stanbury had read 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 Trevelyan’s lover. Miss Stanbury was very
unhappy, and at last sent for Giles Hickbody. Giles Hickbody had never
pretended to know the name. He had seen the man and had described him,
‘Quite a swell, ma’am; and a Lon’oner, and one as’d be up to anything;
but not a young ‘un; no, not just a young ‘un, zartainly.’ He was
cross-examined again now, and said that all he knew about the man’s
name was that there was a handle to it. This was ended by Miss Stanbury
sending him down to Lessboro’ to learn the very name of the gentleman,
and by his coming back with that of the Honourable George Glascock
written on a piece of paper. ‘They 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-in-law 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-in-law 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!
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
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