He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📖
- Author: Anthony Trollope
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sent the letter back under a blank envelope to her nephew.
She was a thorough Tory of the old school. Had Hugh taken to
writing for a newspaper that had cost sixpence, or even threepence
for its copies, she might perhaps have forgiven him. At any rate
the offence would not have been so flagrant. And had the paper been
conservative instead of liberal, she would have had some qualms
of conscience before she gave him up. But to live by writing for
a newspaper! and for a penny newspaper!! and for a penny radical
newspaper!!! It was more than she could endure. Of what nature
were the articles which he contributed it was impossible that she
should have any idea, for no consideration would have induced her
to look at a penny newspaper, or to admit it within her doors. She
herself took in the John Bull and the Herald, and daily groaned
deeply at the way in which those once great organs of true British
public feeling were becoming demoralised and perverted. Had any
reduction been made in the price of either of them, she would at
once have stopped her subscription. In the matter of politics she
had long since come to think that every thing good was over. She
hated the name of Reform so much that she could not bring herself
to believe in Mr Disraeli and his bill. For many years she had
believed in Lord Derby. She would fain believe in him still if she
could. It was the great desire of her heart to have some one in
whom she believed. In the bishop of her diocese she did believe,
and annually sent him some little comforting present from her own
hand. And in two or three of the clergymen around her she believed,
finding in them a flavour of the unascetic godliness of ancient
days which was gratifying to her palate. But in politics there
was hardly a name remaining to which she could fix her faith and
declare that there should be her guide. For awhile she, thought
she would cling to Mr Lowe; but, when she made inquiry, she found
that there was no base there of really well-formed conservative
granite. The three gentlemen who had dissevered themselves from
Mr Disraeli when Mr Disraeli was passing his Reform bill, were
doubtless very good in their way; but they were not big enough to
fill her heart. She tried to make herself happy with General Peel,
but General Peel was after all no more than a shade to her. But
the untruth of others never made her untrue, and she still talked
of the excellence of George III and the glories of the subsequent
reign. She had a bust of Lord Eldon before which she was accustomed
to stand with hands closed and to weep or to think that she wept.
She was a little woman, now nearly sixty years of age, with bright
grey eyes, and a strong Roman nose, and thin lips, and a sharp-cut
chin. She wore a head-gear that almost amounted to a mob-cap, and
beneath it her grey hair was always frizzled with the greatest care.
Her dress was invariably of black silk, and she had five gowns:
one for church, one for evening parties, one for driving out, and
one for evenings at home and one for mornings. The dress, when
new, always went to church. Nothing, as she was wont to say, was
too good for the Lord’s house. In the days of crinolines she had
protested that she had never worn one—a protest, however, which
was hardly true; and now, in these later days, her hatred was
especially developed in reference to the headdresses of young women.
‘Chignon’ was a word which she had never been heard to pronounce.
She would talk of ‘those bandboxes which the sluts wear behind their
noddles;’ for Miss Stanbury allowed herself the use of much strong
language. She was very punctilious in all her habits, breakfasting
ever at half-past eight, and dining always at six. Half-past five
had been her time, till the bishop, who, on an occasion, was to be
her guest, once signified to her that such an hour cut up the day
and interfered with clerical work. Her lunch was always of bread
and cheese, and they who lunched with her either eat that or the
bread without the cheese. An afternoon ‘tea’ was a thing horrible
to her imagination. Tea and buttered toast at half-past eight in
the evening was the great luxury of her life. She was as strong
as a horse, and had never hitherto known a day’s illness. As a
consequence of this, she did not believe in the illness of other
people, especially not in the illness of women. She did not like a
girl who could not drink a glass of beer with her bread and cheese
in the middle of the day, and she thought that a glass of port after
dinner was good for everybody. Indeed, she had a thorough belief
in port wine, thinking that it would go far to cure most miseries.
But she could not put up with the idea that a woman, young or old,
should want the stimulus of a glass of sherry to support her at any
odd time of the day. Hot concoctions of strong drink at Christmas
she would allow to everybody, and was very strong in recommending
such comforts to ladies blessed, or about to be blessed, with
babies. She took the sacrament every month, and gave away exactly
a tenth of her income to the poor. She believed that there was a
special holiness in a tithe of a thing, and attributed the commencement
of the downfall of the Church of England to rent charges, and the
commutation of clergymen’s incomes. Since Judas, there had never
been, to her thinking, a traitor so base, or an apostate so sinful,
as Colenso; and yet, of the nature of Colenso’s teaching she was
as ignorant as the towers of the cathedral opposite to her.
She believed in Exeter, thinking that there was no other provincial
town in England in which a maiden lady could live safely and
decently. London to her was an abode of sin; and though, as we have
seen, she delighted to call herself one of the county set, she did
not love the fields and lanes. And in Exeter the only place for
a lady was the Close. Southernhay and Northernhay might be very
well, and there was, doubtless a respectable neighbourhood on the
Heavitree side of the town; but for the new streets, and especially
for the suburban villas, she had no endurance. She liked to deal
at dear shops; but would leave any shop, either dear or cheap, in
regard to which a printed advertisement should reach her eye. She
paid all her bills at the end of each six months, and almost took
a delight in high prices. She would rejoice that bread should be
cheap, and grieve that meat should be dear, because of the poor; but
in regard to other matters no reduction in the cost of an article
ever pleased her. She had houses as to which she was told by her
agent that the rents should be raised; but she would not raise them.
She had others which it was difficult to let without lowering the
rents, but she would not lower them. All change was to her hateful
and unnecessary.
She kept three maidservants, and a man came in every day to clean
the knives and boots. Service with her was well requited, and
much labour was never exacted. But it was not every young woman
who could live with her. A rigidity as to hours, as to religious
exercises, and as to dress, was exacted, under which many poor girls
altogether broke down; but they who could stand this rigidity came
to know that their places were very valuable. No one belonging to
them need want for aught, when once the good opinion of Miss Stanbury
had been earned. When once she believed in her servant there was
nobody like that servant. There was not a man in Exeter could clean
a boot except Giles Hickbody and if not in Exeter, then where else?
And her own maid Martha, who had lived with her now for twenty
years, and who had come with her to the brick house when she first
inhabited it, was such a woman that no other servant anywhere was
fit to hold a candle to her. But then Martha had great gifts, was
never ill, and really liked having sermons read to her.
Such was Miss Stanbury, who had now discarded her nephew Hugh. She
had never been tenderly affectionate to Hugh, or she would hardly
have asked him to live in London on a hundred a year. She had never
really been kind to him since he was a boy, for although she had
paid for him, she had been almost penurious in her manner of doing
so, and had repeatedly-given him to understand, that in the event
of her death not a shilling would be left to him. Indeed, as to
that matter of bequeathing her money, it was understood that it
was her purpose to let it all go back to the Burgess family. With
the Burgess family she had kept up no sustained connection, it
being quite understood that she was never to be asked to meet the
only one of them now left in Exeter. Nor was it as yet known to
any one in what manner the money was to go back, how it was to be
divided, or who were to be the recipients. But she had declared
that it should go back, explaining that she had conceived it to be
a duty to let her own relations know that they would not inherit
her wealth at her death.
About a week after she had sent back poor Hugh’s letter with the
endorsement on it as to unworthy bread, she summoned Martha to the
back parlour in which she was accustomed to write her letters. It
was one of the theories of her life that different rooms should be
used only for the purposes for which they were intended. She never
allowed pens and ink up into the bedrooms, and had she ever heard
that any guest in her house was reading in bed, she would have
made an instant personal attack upon that guest, whether male or
female, which would have surprised that guest. Poor Hugh would have
got on better with her had he not been discovered once smoking in
the garden. Nor would she have writing materials in the drawing-room
or dining-room. There was a chamber behind the dining-room in which
there was an inkbottle, and if there was a letter to be written, let
the writer go there and write it. In the writing of many letters,
however, she put no confidence, and regarded penny postage as one
of the strongest evidences of the coming ruin.
‘Martha,’ she said, ‘I want to speak to you. Sit down. I think I am
going to do something.’ Martha sat down, but did not speak a word.
There had been no question asked of her, and the time for speaking
had not come. ‘I am writing to Mrs Stanbury, at Nuncombe Putney;
and what do you think I am saying to her?’
Now the question had been asked, and it was Martha’s duty to reply.
‘Writing to Mrs Stanbury, ma’am?’
‘Yes, to Mrs Stanbury.’
‘It ain’t possible for me to say, ma’am, unless it’s to put Mr Hugh
from going on with the newspapers.’
‘When. my nephew won’t be controlled by me, I shan’t go elsewhere
to look for control over him; you may be sure of that, Martha.
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