He Knew He Was Right

would have liked him,” Emily had said, “if it had not been for this unfortunate young man.” Lady Rowley was not worse than are other mothers, not more ambitious, or more heartless, or more worldly. She was a good mother, loving her children, and thoroughly anxious for their welfare. But she would have liked to be the mother-in-law of Lord Peterborough, and she would have liked, dearly, to see her second daughter removed from the danger of those rocks against which her eldest child had been shipwrecked. And when she asked after Hugh Stanbury, and his means of maintaining a wife, the statement which Mrs. Trevelyan made was not comforting. “He writes for a penny newspaper⁠—and, I believe, writes very well,” Mrs. Trevelyan had said.

“For a penny newspaper! Is that respectable?”

“His aunt, Miss Stanbury, seemed to think not. But I suppose men of education do write for such things now. He says himself that it is very precarious as an employment.”

“It must be precarious, Emily. And has he got nothing?”

“Not a penny of his own,” said Mrs. Trevelyan.

Then Lady Rowley had thought again of Mr. Glascock, and of the family title, and of Monkhams. And she thought of her present troubles, and of the Mandarins, and the state of Sir Marmaduke’s balance at the bankers;⁠—and of the other girls, and of all there was before her to do. Here had been a very Apollo among suitors kneeling at her child’s feet, and the foolish girl had sent him away for the sake of a young man who wrote for a penny newspaper! Was it worth the while of any woman to bring up daughters with such results? Lady Rowley, therefore, when she was first introduced to Hugh Stanbury, was not prepared to receive him with open arms.

On this occasion the task of introducing him fell to Mrs. Trevelyan, and was done with much graciousness. Emily knew that Hugh Stanbury was her friend, and would sympathise with her respecting her child. “You have heard what has happened to me?” she said. Stanbury, however, had heard nothing of that kidnapping of the child. Though to the Rowleys it seemed that such a deed of iniquity, done in the middle of London, must have been known to all the world, he had not as yet been told of it;⁠—and now the story was given to him. Mrs. Trevelyan herself told it, with many tears and an agony of fresh grief; but still she told it as to one whom she regarded as a sure friend, and from whom she knew that she would receive sympathy. Sir Marmaduke sat by the while, still gloomy and out of humour. Why was their family sorrow to be laid bare to this stranger?

“It is the cruellest thing I ever heard,” said Hugh.

“A dastardly deed,” said Lady Rowley.

“But we all feel that for the time he can hardly know what he does,” said Nora.

“And where is the child?” Stanbury asked.

“We have not the slightest idea,” said Lady Rowley. “I have seen him, and he refuses to tell us. He did say that my daughter should see her boy; but he now accompanies his offer with such conditions that it is impossible to listen to him.”

“And where is he?”

“We do not know where he lives. We can reach him only through a certain man⁠—”

“Ah, I know the man,” said Stanbury; “one who was a policeman once. His name is Bozzle.”

“That is the man,” said Sir Marmaduke. “I have seen him.”

“And of course he will tell us nothing but what he is told to tell us,” continued Lady Rowley. “Can there be anything so horrible as this⁠—that a wife should be bound to communicate with her own husband respecting her own child through such a man as that?”

“One might possibly find out where he keeps the child,” said Hugh.

“If you could manage that, Mr. Stanbury!” said Lady Rowley.

“I hardly see that it would do much good,” said Hugh. “Indeed I do not know why he should keep the place a secret. I suppose he has a right to the boy until the mother shall have made good her claim before the court.” He promised, however, that he would do his best to ascertain where the child was kept, and where Trevelyan resided, and then⁠—having been nearly an hour at the house⁠—he was forced to get up and take his leave. He had said not a word to anyone of the business that had brought him there. He had not even whispered an assurance of his affection to Nora. Till the two elder ladies had come in, and the subject of the taking of the boy had been mooted, he had sat there as a perfect stranger. He thought that it was manifest enough that Nora had told her secret to no one. It seemed to him that Mrs. Trevelyan must have forgotten it;⁠—that Nora herself must have forgotten it, if such forgetting could be possible! He got up, however, and took his leave, and was comforted in some slight degree by seeing that there was a tear in Nora’s eye.

“Who is he?” demanded Sir Marmaduke, as soon as the door was closed.

“He is a young man who was an intimate friend of Louis’s,” answered Mrs. Trevelyan; “but he is so no longer, because he sees how infatuated Louis has been.”

“And why does he come here?”

“We know him very well,” continued Mrs. Trevelyan. “It was he that arranged our journey down to Devonshire. He was very kind about it, and so were his mother and sister. We have every reason to be grateful to Mr. Stanbury.” This was all very well, but Nora nevertheless felt that the interview had been anything but successful.

“Has he any profession?” asked Sir Marmaduke.

“He writes for the press,” said Mrs. Trevelyan.

“What do you mean;⁠—books?”

“No;⁠—for a newspaper.”

“For a penny newspaper,” said Nora boldly⁠—“for the Daily Record.”

“Then I hope he won’t come here any more,” said Sir Marmaduke. Nora paused a moment, striving to find words for