He Knew He Was Right

on the shoulder, and telling them that they were wanted. Thus, when he displayed his document to Mr. Outhouse, he had taught himself at least to desire that that document should be obeyed.

Mr. Outhouse read the paper and turned up his nose at it. “You had better go away,” said he, as he thrust it back into Bozzle’s hand.

“Of course I shall go away when I have the child.”

“Psha!” said Mr. Outhouse.

“What does that mean, Mr. Houthouse? I presume you’ll not dispute the paternal parent’s legal authority?”

“Go away, sir,” said Mr. Outhouse.

“Go away!”

“Yes;⁠—out of this house. It’s my belief that you are a knave.”

“A knave, Mr. Houthouse?”

“Yes;⁠—a knave. No one who was not a knave would lend a hand towards separating a little child from its mother. I think you are a knave, but I don’t think you are fool enough to suppose that the child will be 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 today. 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!”

“Someone 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 the 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.

LIII

Hugh Stanbury Is Shown 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