He Knew He Was Right, Anthony Trollope [children's ebooks free online .TXT] 📗

never yet made a guinea.

He had never made a guinea by his work as a barrister, and was

beginning to doubt of himself whether he ever would do so. Not, as

he knew well, that guineas are generally made with ease by barristers

of four years’ standing, but because, as he said to his friends, he

did not see his way to the knack of it. He did not know an attorney

in the world, and could not conceive how any attorney should ever

be induced to apply to him for legal aid. He had done his work

of learning his trade about as well as other young men, but had

had no means of distinguishing himself within his reach. He went

the Western Circuit because his aunt, old Miss Stanbury, lived at

Exeter, but, as he declared of himself, had he had another aunt living

at York, he would have had nothing whatsoever to guide him in his

choice. He sat idle in the courts, and hated himself for so sitting.

So it had been with him for two years without any consolation or

additional burden from other employment than that of his profession.

After that, by some chance, he had become acquainted with the editor

of the Daily Record, and by degrees had taken to the writing of

articles. He had been told by all his friends, and especially by

Trevelyan, that if he did this, he might as well sell his gown and

wig. He declared, in reply, that he had no objection to sell his

gown and wig. He did not see how he should ever make more money out

of them than he would do by such sale. But for the articles which

he wrote, he received instant payment, a process which he found to

be most consolatory, most comfortable, and, as he said to Trevelyan,

as warm to him as a blanket in winter.

 

Trevelyan, who was a year younger than Stanbury, had taken upon

himself to be very angry. He professed that he did not think much

of the trade of a journalist, and told Stanbury that he was sinking

from the highest to almost the lowest business by which an educated

man and a gentleman could earn his bread. Stanbury had simply replied

that he saw some bread on the one side, but none on the other; and

that bread from some side was indispensable to him. Then there had

come to be that famous war between Great Britain and the republic

of Patagonia, and Hugh Stanbury had been sent out as a special

correspondent by the editor and proprietor of the Daily Record.

His letters had been much read, and had called up a great deal of

newspaper pugnacity. He had made important statements which had

been flatly denied, and found to be utterly false; which again had

been warmly reasserted and proved to be most remarkably true to

the letter. In this way the correspondence, and he as its author,

became so much talked about that, on his return to England, he did

actually sell his gown and, wig and declare to his friends and to

Trevelyan among the number that he intended to look to journalism

for his future career.

 

He had been often at the house in Curzon Street in the

earliest happy days of his friend’s marriage, and had thus become

acquainted—intimately acquainted—with Nora Rowley. And now again,

since his return from Patagonia, that acquaintance had been renewed.

Quite lately, since the actual sale of that wig and gown had been

effected, he had not been there so frequently as before, because

Trevelyan had expressed his indignation almost too openly.

 

‘That such a man as you should be so faint-hearted,’ Trevelyan had

said, ‘is a thing that I can not understand.’

 

‘Is a man faint-hearted when he finds it improbable that he shall

be able to leap his horse over a house.’

 

‘What you had to do, had been done by hundreds before you.’

 

‘What I had to do has never yet been done by any man,’ replied

Stanbury. ‘I had to live upon nothing till the lucky hour should

strike.’

 

‘I think you have been cowardly,’ said Trevelyan.

 

Even this had made no quarrel between the two men; but Stanbury had

expressed himself annoyed by his friend’s language, and partly on

that account, and partly perhaps on another, had stayed away from

Curzon Street. As Nora Rowley had made comparisons about him, so

had he made comparisons about her. He had owned to himself that had

it been possible that he should marry, he would willingly entrust

his happiness to Miss Rowley. And he had thought once or twice

that Trevelyan had wished that such an arrangement might be made

at some future day. Trevelyan had always been much more sanguine

in expecting success for his friend at the Bar than Stanbury had

been for himself. It might well be that such a man as Trevelyan

might think that a clever rising barrister would be an excellent

husband for his sister-in-law, but that a man who earned a precarious

living as a writer for a penny paper would be by no means so

desirable a connection. Stanbury, as he thought of this, declared

to himself that he would not care two straws for Trevelyan in the

matter, if he could see his way without other impediments. But the

other impediments were there in such strength and numbers as to

make him feel that it could not have been intended by Fate that he

should take to himself a wife. Although those letters of his to

the Daily Record had been so pre-eminently successful, he had never

yet been able to earn by writing above twenty-five or thirty pounds

a month. If that might be continued to him he could live upon it

himself; but, even with his moderate views, it would not suffice

for himself and family.

 

He had told Trevelyan that while living as an expectant barrister

he had no means of subsistence. In this, as Trevelyan knew, he was

not strictly correct. There was an allowance of 100 pounds a year

coming to him from the aunt whose residence at Exeter had induced

him to devote himself to the Western Circuit. His father had been

a clergyman with a small living in Devonshire, and had now been dead

some fifteen years. His mother and two sisters were still living

in a small cottage in his late father’s parish, on the interest of

the money arising from a life insurance. Some pittance from sixty

to seventy pounds a year was all they had among them. But there was

a rich aunt, Miss Stanbury, to whom had come considerable wealth in

a manner most romantic—the little tale shall be told before this

larger tale is completed—and this aunt had undertaken to educate

and place out in the world her nephew Hugh. So Hugh had been sent

to Harrow, and then to Oxford, where he had much displeased his

aunt by not accomplishing great things, and then had been set down

to make his fortune as a barrister in London, with an allowance

of 100 pounds a year, his aunt having paid, moreover, certain fees

for entrance, tuition, and the like. The very hour in which Miss

Stanbury learned that her nephew was writing for a penny newspaper

she sent off a dispatch to tell him that he must give up her or

the penny paper. He replied by saying that he felt himself called

upon to earn his bread in the only line from which, as it seemed to

him, bread would be forthcoming. By return of post he got another

letter to say that he might draw for the quarter then becoming due,

but that that would be the last. And it was the last.

 

Stanbury made an ineffectual effort to induce his aunt to make over

the allowance or at least a part of it to his mother and sisters,

but the old lady paid no attention whatever to the request. She

never had given, and at that moment did not intend to give, a shilling

to the widow and daughters of her brother. Nor did she intend, or

had she ever intended, to leave a shilling of her money to Hugh

Stanbury, as she had very often told him. The money was, at her

death, to go back to the people from whom it had come to her.

 

When Nora Rowley made those comparisons between Mr Hugh Stanbury and

Mr Charles Glascock, they were always wound up very much in favour

of the briefless barrister. It was not that he was the handsomer

man, for he was by no means handsome, nor was he the bigger man,

for Mr Glascock was six feet tall; nor was he better dressed, for

Stanbury was untidy rather than otherwise in his outward person.

Nor had he any air of fashion or special grace to recommend him,

for he was undoubtedly an awkward-mannered man. But there was a

glance of sunshine in his eye, and a sweetness in the curl of his

mouth when he smiled, which made Nora feel that it would have been

all up with her had she not made so very strong a law for her own

guidance. Stanbury was a man about five feet ten, with shoulders

more than broad in proportion, stout limbed, rather awkward of his

gait, with large feet and hands, with soft wavy light hair, with

light grey eyes, with a broad, but by no means ugly, nose. His

mouth and lips were large, and he rarely showed his teeth. He wore

no other beard than whiskers, which he was apt to cut away through

heaviness of his hand in shaving, till Nora longed to bid him be more

careful. ‘He doesn’t care what sort of a guy he makes of himself,

she once said to her sister, almost angrily. ‘He is a plain man,

and he knows it,’ Emily had replied. Mr Trevelyan was doubtless a

handsome man, and it was almost on Nora’s tongue to say something

ill-natured on the subject. Hugh Stanbury was reputed to be somewhat

hot in spirit and manner. He would be very sage in argument, pounding

down his ideas on politics, religion, or social life with his fist

as well as his voice. He was quick, perhaps, at making antipathies,

and quick, too, in making friendships; impressionable, demonstrative,

eager, rapid in his movements sometimes to the great detriment of

his shins and knuckles; and he possessed the sweetest temper that

was ever given to a man for the blessing of a woman. This was the

man between whom and Mr Glascock Nora Rowley found it to be impossible

not to make comparisons.

 

On the very day after Lady Milborough’s dinner party Stanbury

overtook Trevelyan in the street, and asked his friend where he was

going eastward. Trevelyan was on his way to call upon his lawyer,

and said so. But he did not say why he was going to his lawyer.

He had sent to his wife by Nora that morning to know whether she

would make to him the promise he required. The only answer which

Nora could draw from her sister was a counter question, demanding

whether he would ask her pardon for the injury he had done her.

Nora had been most eager, most anxious, most conciliatory as a

messenger; but no good had come of these messages, and Trevelyan

had gone forth to tell all his trouble to his family lawyer. Old

Mr Bideawhile had been his father’s ancient and esteemed friend,

and he could tell things to Mr Bideawhile which he could not bring

himself to tell to any other living man; and he could generally

condescend to accept Mr Bideawhile’s advice, knowing that his father

before him had been guided by the