Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📖
- Author: Anthony Trollope
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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.
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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