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Read books online » Fiction » He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📖

Book online «He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📖». Author Anthony Trollope



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but

I don’t think you are fool enough to suppose that the child will he

given up to you.’

 

‘It’s my belief that knave is hactionable,’ said Bozzle whose respect,

however, for the clergyman was rising fast. ‘Would you mind ringing the

bell, Mr Houthouse, and calling me a knave again before the young

woman?’

 

‘Go away,’ said Mr Outhouse.

 

‘If you have no objection, sir, I should be glad to see the lady before

I goes.’

 

‘You won’t see any lady here; and if you don’t get out of my house when

I tell you, I’ll send for a real policeman.’ Then was Bozzle conquered;

and, as he went, he admitted to himself that he had sinned against all

the rules of his life in attempting to go beyond the legitimate line of

his profession. As long as he confined himself to the getting up of

facts nobody could threaten him with ‘a real policeman.’ But one fact

he had learned to-day. The clergyman of St Diddulph’s, who had been

represented to him as a weak, foolish man, was anything but that.

Bozzle was much impressed in favour of Mr Outhouse, and would have been

glad to have done that gentleman a kindness had an opportunity come in

his way.

 

‘What does he want, Uncle Oliphant?’ said Mrs Trevelyan at the foot of

the stairs, guarding the way up to the nursery. At this moment the

front door had just been closed behind the back of Mr Bozzle.

 

‘You had better ask no questions,’ said Mr Outhouse.

 

‘But is it about Louis?’

 

‘Yes, he came about him.’

 

‘Well? Of course you must tell me, Uncle Oliphant. Think of my

condition.’

 

‘He had some stupid paper in his hand from your husband, but it meant

nothing.’

 

‘He was the messenger, then?’

 

‘Yes, he was the messenger. But I don’t suppose he expected to get

anything. Never mind. Go up and look after the child.’ Then Mrs

Trevelyan returned to her boy, and Mr Outhouse went back to his papers.

 

It was very hard upon him, Mr Outhouse thought, very hard. He was

threatened with an action now, and most probably would become subject

to one. Though he had been spirited enough in presence of the enemy, he

was very much out of spirits at this moment. Though he had admitted to

himself that his duty required him to protect his wife’s niece, he had

never taken the poor woman to his heart with a loving, generous feeling

of true guardianship. Though he would not give up the child to Bozzle,

he thoroughly wished that the child was out of his house. Though he

called Bozzle a knave and Trevelyan a madman, still he considered that

Colonel Osborne was the chief sinner, and that Emily Trevelyan had

behaved badly. He constantly repeated to himself the old adage, that

there was no smoke without fire; and lamented the misfortune that had

brought him into close relation with things and people that were so

little to his taste. He sat for awhile, with a pen in his hand, at the

miserable little substitute for a library table which had been provided

for him, and strove to collect his thoughts and go on with his work.

But the effort was in vain. Bozzle would be there, presenting his

document, and begging that the maid might be rung for, in order that

she might hear him called a knave. And then he knew that on this very

day his niece intended to hand him money, which he could not refuse. Of

what use would it be to refuse it now, after it had been once taken? As

he could not write a word, he rose and went away to his wife.

 

‘If this goes on much longer,’ said he, ‘I shall be in Bedlam.’

 

‘My dear, don’t speak of it in that way!’

 

‘That’s all very well. I suppose I ought to say that I like it. There

has been a policeman here who is going to bring an action against me.’

 

‘A policeman!’

 

‘Some one that her husband has sent for the child.’

 

‘The boy must not be given up, Oliphant.’

 

‘It’s all very well to say that, but I suppose we must obey the law.

The Parsonage of St Diddulph’s isn’t a castle in the Apennines. When it

comes to this, that a policeman is sent here to fetch any man’s child,

and threatens me with an action because I tell him to leave my house,

it is very hard upon me, seeing how very little I’ve had to do with it.

It’s all over the parish now that my niece is kept here away from her

husband, and that a lover comes to see her. This about a policeman will

be known now, of course. I only say it is hard; that’s all.’ The wife

did all that she could to comfort him, reminding him that Sir Marmaduke

would be home soon, and that then the burden would be taken from his

shoulders. But she was forced to admit that it was very hard.

CHAPTER LIII

HUGH STANBURY IS SHEWN TO BE NO CONJUROR

 

Many weeks had now passed since Hugh Stanbury had paid his visit to St

Diddulph’s, and Nora Rowley was beginning to believe that her rejection

of her lover had been so firm and decided that she would never see him

or hear from him more, and she had long since confessed to herself that

if she did not see him or hear from him soon, life would not be worth a

straw to her. To all of us a single treasure counts for much more when

the outward circumstances of our life are dull, unvaried, and

melancholy, than it does when our days are full of pleasure, or

excitement, or even of business. With Nora Rowley at St Diddulph’s life

at present was very melancholy. There was little or no society to

enliven her. Her sister was sick at heart, and becoming ill in health

under the burden of her troubles. Mr Outhouse was moody and wretched;

and Mrs Outhouse, though she did her best to make her house comfortable

to her unwelcome inmates, could not make it appear that their presence

there was a pleasure to her. Nora understood better than did her sister

how distasteful the present arrangement was to their uncle, and was

consequently very uncomfortable on that score. And in the midst of that

unhappiness, she of course told herself that she was a young woman

miserable and unfortunate altogether. It is always so with us. The

heart when it is burdened, though it may have ample strength to bear

the burden, loses its buoyancy and doubts its own power. It is like the

springs of a carriage which are pressed flat by the superincumbent

weight. But, because the springs are good, the weight is carried

safely, and they are the better afterwards for their required purposes

because of the trial to which they have been subjected.

 

Nora had sent her lover away, and now at the end of three months from

the day of his dismissal she had taught herself to believe that he

would never come again. Amidst the sadness of her life at St Diddulph’s

some confidence in a lover expected to come again would have done much

to cheer her. The more she thought of Hugh Stanbury, the more fully she

became convinced that he was the man who as a lover, as a husband, and

as a companion, would just suit all her tastes. She endowed him

liberally with a hundred good gifts in the disposal of which Nature had

been much more sparing. She made for herself a mental portrait of him

more gracious in its flattery than ever was canvas coming from the hand

of a Court limner. She gave him all gifts of manliness, honesty, truth,

and energy, and felt regarding him that he was a Paladin such as

Paladins are in this age, that he was indomitable, sure of success, and

fitted in all respects to take the high position which he would

certainly win for himself. But she did not presume him to be endowed

with such a constancy as would make him come to seek her hand again.

Had Nora at this time of her life been living at the West-end of

London, and going out to parties three or four times a week, she would

have been quite easy about his coming. The springs would not have been

weighted so heavily, and her heart would have been elastic.

 

No doubt she had forgotten many of the circumstances of his visit and

of his departure. Immediately on his going she had told her sister that

he would certainly come again, but had said at the same time that his

coming could be of no use. He was so poor a man; and she, though poorer

than he, had been so little accustomed to poverty of life, that she had

then acknowledged to herself that she was not fit to be his wife.

Gradually, as the slow weeks went by her, there had come a change in

her ideas. She now thought that he never would come again; but that if

he did she would confess to him that her own views about life were

changed. ‘I would tell him frankly that I could eat a crust with him in

any garret in London.’ But this was said to herself, never to her

sister. Emily and Mrs Outhouse had determined together that it would be

wise to abstain from all mention of Hugh Stanbury’s name. Nora had felt

that her sister had so abstained, and this reticence had assisted in

producing the despair which had come upon her. Hugh, when he had left

her, had certainly given her encouragement to expect that he would

return. She had been sure then that he would return. She had been sure

of it, though she had told him that it would be useless. But now, when

these sad weeks had slowly crept over her head, when during the long

hours of the long days she had thought of him continually, telling

herself that it was impossible that she should ever become the wife of

any man if she did not become his, she assured herself that she had seen

and heard the last of him. She must surely have forgotten his hot words

and that daring embrace.

 

Then there came a letter to her. The question of the management of

letters for young ladies is handled very differently in different

houses. In some establishments the post is as free to young ladies as

it is to the reverend seniors of the household. In others it is

considered to be quite a matter of course that some experienced

discretion should sit in judgment on the correspondence of the

daughters of the family. When Nora Rowley was living with her sister in

Curzon Street, she would have been very indignant indeed had it been

suggested to her that there was any authority over her letters vested

in her sister. But now, circumstanced as she was at St Diddulph’s, she

did understand that no letter would reach her without her aunt knowing

that it had come. All this was distasteful to her, as were indeed all

the details of her life at St Diddulph’s, but she could not help

herself. Had her aunt told her that she should never be allowed to

receive a letter at all, she must have submitted till her mother had

come to her relief. The letter which reached her now was put into her

hands by her sister, but it had been given to Mrs Trevelyan by Mrs

Outhouse. ‘Nora,’ said Mrs Trevelyan, ‘here is a letter for

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