He Knew He Was Right. Anthony Trollope

the boy from the nurse. The child was at this time about ten months old, and was a strong, hearty, happy infant, always laughing when he was awake and always sleeping when he did not laugh, because his little limbs were free from pain and his little stomach was not annoyed by internal troubles. He kicked, and crowed, and sputtered, when his mother took him, and put up his little fingers to clutch her hair, and was to her as a young god upon the earth. Nothing in the world had ever been created so beautiful, so joyous, so satisfactory, so divine! And they told her that this apple of her eye was to be taken away from her! No;—that must be impossible. “I will take him into my own room, nurse, for a little while—you have had him all the morning,” she said; as though the “having baby” was a privilege over which there might almost be a quarrel. Then she took her boy away with her, and when she was alone with him, went through such a service in baby-worship as most mothers will understand. Divide these two! No; nobody should do that. Sooner than that, she, the mother, would consent to be no more than a servant in her husband’s house. Was not her baby all the world to her?

      On the evening of that day the husband and wife had an interview together in the library, which, unfortunately, was as unsatisfactory as Lady Milborough’s visit. The cause of the failure of them all lay probably in this,—that there was no decided point which, if conceded, would have brought about a reconciliation. Trevelyan asked for general submission, which he regarded as his right, and which in the existing circumstances he thought it necessary to claim, and though Mrs. Trevelyan did not refuse to be submissive she would make no promise on the subject. But the truth was that each desired that the other should acknowledge a fault, and that neither of them would make that acknowledgment. Emily Trevelyan felt acutely that she had been illused, not only by her husband’s suspicion, but by the manner in which he had talked of his suspicion to others,—to Lady Milborough and the cook, and she was quite convinced that she was right herself, because he had been so vacillating in his conduct about Colonel Osborne. But Trevelyan was equally sure that justice was on his side. Emily must have known his real wishes about Colonel Osborne; but when she had found that he had rescinded his verbal orders about the admission of the man to the house,—which he had done to save himself and her from slander and gossip,—she had taken advantage of this and had thrown herself more entirely than ever into the intimacy of which he disapproved! When they met, each was so sore that no approach to terms was made by them.

      “If I am to be treated in that way, I would rather not live with you,” said the wife. “It is impossible to live with a husband who is jealous.”

      “All I ask of you is that you shall promise me to have no further communication with this man.”

      “I will make no promise that implies my own disgrace.”

      “Then we must part; and if that be so, this house will be given up. You may live where you please,—in the country, not in London; but I shall take steps that Colonel Osborne does not see you.”

      “I will not remain in the room with you to be insulted thus,” said Mrs. Trevelyan. And she did not remain, but left the chamber, slamming the door after her as she went.

      “It will be better that she should go,” said Trevelyan, when he found himself alone. And so it came to pass that that blessing of a rich marriage, which had as it were fallen upon them at the Mandarins from out of heaven, had become, after an interval of but two short years, anything but an unmixed blessing.

      Chapter XII.

       Miss Stanbury’s Generosity

       Table of Contents

      On one Wednesday morning early in June, great preparations were being made at the brick house in the Close at Exeter for an event which can hardly be said to have required any preparation at all. Mrs. Stanbury and her elder daughter were coming into Exeter from Nuncombe Putney to visit Dorothy. The reader may perhaps remember that when Miss Stanbury’s invitation was sent to her niece, she was pleased to promise that such visits should be permitted on a Wednesday morning. Such a visit was now to be made, and old Miss Stanbury was quite moved by the occasion. “I shall not see them, you know, Martha,” she had said, on the afternoon of the preceding day.

      “I suppose not, ma’am.”

      “Certainly not. Why should I? It would do no good.”

      “It is not for me to say, ma’am, of course.”

      “No, Martha, it is not. And I am sure that I am right. It’s no good going back and undoing in ten minutes what twenty years have done. She’s a poor harmless creature, I believe.”

      “The most harmless in the world, ma’am.”

      “But she was as bad as poison to me when she was young, and what’s the good of trying to change it now? If I was to tell her that I loved her, I should only be lying.”

      “Then, ma’am, I would not say it.”

      “And I don’t mean. But you’ll take in some wine and cake, you know.”

      “I don’t think they’ll care for wine and cake.”

      “Will you do as I tell you? What matters whether they care for it or not? They need not take it. It will look better for Miss Dorothy. If Dorothy is to remain here I shall choose that she should be respected.” And so the question of the cake and wine had been decided overnight. But when the morning came Miss Stanbury was still in a twitter. Half-past ten had been the hour fixed for the visit, in consequence of there being a train in from Lessboro’, due at the Exeter station at ten. As Miss Stanbury breakfasted always at half-past eight, there was no need of hurry on account of the expected visit. But, nevertheless, she was in a fuss all the morning; and spoke of the coming period as one in which she must necessarily put herself into solitary confinement.

      “Perhaps your mamma will be cold,” she said, “and will expect a fire.”

      “Oh, dear, no, Aunt Stanbury.”

      “It could be lighted of course. It is a pity they should come just so as to prevent you from going to morning service; is it not?”

      “I could go with you, aunt, and be back very nearly in time. They won’t mind waiting a quarter of an hour.”

      “What; and have them here all alone! I wouldn’t think of such a thing. I shall go upstairs. You had better come to me when they are gone. Don’t hurry them. I don’t want you to hurry them at all; and if you require anything, Martha will wait upon you. I have told the girls to keep out of the way. They are so giddy, there’s no knowing what they might be after. Besides,—they’ve got their work to mind.”

      All this was very terrible to poor Dorothy, who had not as yet quite recovered from the original fear with which her aunt had inspired her,—so terrible that she was almost sorry that her mother and sister were coming to her. When the knock was heard at the door, precisely as the cathedral clock was striking half-past ten,—to secure which punctuality, and thereby not to offend the owner of the mansion, Mrs. Stanbury and Priscilla had been walking about the Close for the last ten minutes,—Miss Stanbury was still in the parlour.

      “There they are!” she exclaimed, jumping up. “They haven’t given a body much time to run away, have they, my dear? Half a minute, Martha,—just half a minute!” Then she gathered up her things as though she had been illtreated in being driven to make so sudden a retreat, and Martha, as soon as the last hem of her mistress’s dress had become invisible on the stairs, opened the front door for the visitors.

      “Do you mean to say you like it?” said Priscilla, when they had been there about a quarter of an hour.

      “H—u—sh,” whispered Mrs. Stanbury.

      “I don’t suppose she’s listening at the door,” said Priscilla.

      “Indeed, she’s not,” said Dorothy. “There can’t be a truer, honester woman, than Aunt Stanbury.”