“But for the child’s sake, Emily.”
“Ah, yes! If it were simply to grovel in the dust before him it should be done. If humiliation would suffice—or any self-abasement that were possible to me! But I should be false if I said that I look forward to any such possibility. How can he wish to have me back again after what he has said and done? I am his wife, and he has disgraced me before all men by his own words. And what have I done, that I should not have done;—what left undone on his behalf that I should have done? It is hard that the foolish workings of a weak man’s mind should be able so completely to ruin the prospects of a woman’s life!”
Nora was beginning to answer this by attempting to show that the husband’s madness was, perhaps, only temporary, when there came a knock at the door, and Mrs. Outhouse was at once in the room. It will be well that the reader should know what had taken place at the parsonage while the two sisters had been together upstairs, so that the nature of Mrs. Outhouse’s mission to them may explain itself. Mr. Outhouse had been in his closet downstairs, when the maidservant brought word to him that Mr. Trevelyan was in the parlour, and was desirous of seeing him.
“Mr. Trevelyan!” said the unfortunate clergyman, holding up both his hands. The servant understood the tragic importance of the occasion quite as well as did her master, and simply shook her head. “Has your mistress seen him?” said the master. The girl again shook her head. “Ask your mistress to come to me,” said the clergyman. Then the girl disappeared; and in a few minutes Mrs. Outhouse, equally imbued with the tragic elements of the day, was with her husband.
Mr. Outhouse began by declaring that no consideration should induce him to see Trevelyan, and commissioned his wife to go to the man and tell him that he must leave the house. When the unfortunate woman expressed an opinion that Trevelyan had some legal rights upon which he might probably insist, Mr. Outhouse asserted roundly that he could have no legal right to remain in that parsonage against the will of the rector. “If he wants to claim his wife and child, he must do it by law—not by force; and thank God, Sir Marmaduke will be here before he can do that.” “But I can’t make him go,” said Mrs. Outhouse. “Tell him that you’ll send for a policeman,” said the clergyman.
It had come to pass that there had been messages backwards and forwards between the visitor and the master of the house, all carried by that unfortunate lady. Trevelyan did not demand that his wife and child should be given up to him;—did not even, on this occasion, demand that his boy should be surrendered to him—now, at once. He did say, very repeatedly, that of course he must have his boy, but seemed to imply that, under certain circumstances, he would be willing to take his wife to live with him again. This appeared to Mrs. Outhouse to be so manifestly the one thing that was desirable—to be the only solution of the difficulty that could be admitted as a solution at all—that she went to work on that hint, and ventured to entertain a hope that a reconciliation might be effected. She implored her husband to lend a hand to the work;—by which she intended to imply that he should not only see Trevelyan, but consent to meet the sinner on friendly terms. But Mr. Outhouse was on the occasion even more than customarily obstinate. His wife might do what she liked. He would neither meddle nor make. He would not willingly see Mr. Trevelyan in his own house;—unless, indeed, Mr. Trevelyan should attempt to force his way up into the nursery. Then he said that which left no doubt on his wife’s mind that, should any violence be attempted, her husband would manfully join the melee.
But it soon became evident that no such attempt was to be made on that day. Trevelyan was lachrymose, heartbroken, and a sight pitiable to behold. When Mrs. Outhouse loudly asserted that his wife had not sinned against him in the least—“not in a tittle, Mr. Trevelyan,” she repeated over and over again—he began to assert himself, declaring that she had seen the man in Devonshire, and corresponded with him since she had been at St. Diddulph’s; and when the lady had declared that the latter assertion was untrue, he had shaken his head, and had told her that perhaps she did not know all. But the misery of the man had its effect upon her, and at last she proposed to be the bearer of a message to his wife. He had demanded to see his child, offering to promise that he would not attempt to take the boy by force on this occasion—saying, also, that his claim by law was so good, that no force could be necessary. It was proposed by Mrs. Outhouse that he should first see the mother—and to this he at last assented. How blessed a thing would it be if these two persons could be induced to forget the troubles of the last twelve months, and once more to love and trust each other! “But, sir,” said Mrs. Outhouse, putting her hand upon his arm;—“you must not upbraid her, for she will not bear it.” “She knows nothing of what is due to a husband,” said Trevelyan, gloomily. The task was not hopeful; but, nevertheless, the poor woman resolved to do her best.
And now Mrs. Outhouse was in her niece’s room, asking her to go down and see her husband. Little Louis had at the time been with the nurse, and the very moment that the mother heard that the child’s father was in the house, she jumped up and rushed away to get possession of
