He Knew He Was Right

England must give up her claims. In hot moments he had gone further, and had declared that England must be⁠—whipped. He had been specially loud against that aristocracy of England which, according to a figure of speech often used by him, was always feeding on the vitals of the people. But now all this was very much changed. He did not go the length of expressing an opinion that the House of Lords was a valuable institution; but he discussed questions of primogeniture and hereditary legislation, in reference to their fitness for countries which were gradually emerging from feudal systems, with an equanimity, an impartiality, and a perseverance which soon convinced those who listened to him where he had learned his present lessons, and why. “The conservative nature of your institutions, sir,” he said to poor Sir Marmaduke at the Baths of Lucca a very few days before the marriage, “has to be studied with great care before its effects can be appreciated in reference to a people who, perhaps, I may be allowed to say, have more in their composition of constitutional reverence than of educated intelligence.” Sir Marmaduke, having suffered before, had endeavoured to bolt; but the American had caught him and pinned him, and the Governor of the Mandarins was impotent in his hands. “The position of the great peer of Parliament is doubtless very splendid, and may be very useful,” continued Mr. Spalding, who was intending to bring round his argument to the evil doings of certain scandalously extravagant young lords, and to offer a suggestion that in such cases a committee of aged and respected peers should sit and decide whether a second son, or some other heir should not be called to the inheritance both of the title and the property. But Mrs. Spalding had seen the sufferings of Sir Marmaduke, and had rescued him. “Mr. Spalding,” she had said, “it is too late for politics, and Sir Marmaduke has come out here for a holiday.” Then she took her husband by the arm, and led him away helpless.

In spite of these drawbacks to the success⁠—if ought can be said to be a drawback on success of which the successful one is unconscious⁠—the marriage was prepared with great splendour, and everybody who was anybody in Florence was to be present. There were only to be four bridesmaids, Caroline herself having strongly objected to a greater number. As Wallachia Petrie had fled at the first note of preparation for these trivial and unpalatable festivities, another American young lady was found; and the sister of the English secretary of legation, who had so maliciously spread that report about her “ladyship,” gladly agreed to be the fourth.

As the reader will remember, the whole party from the Baths of Lucca reached Florence only the day before the marriage, and Nora at the station promised to go up to Caroline that same evening. “Mr. Glascock will tell me about the little boy,” said Caroline; “but I shall be so anxious to hear about your sister.” So Nora crossed the bridge after dinner, and went up to the American Minister’s palatial residence. Caroline was then in the loggia, and Mr. Glascock was with her; and for a while they talked about Emily Trevelyan and her misfortunes. Mr. Glascock was clearly of opinion that Trevelyan would soon be either in an asylum or in his grave. “I could not bring myself to tell your sister so,” he said; “but I think your father should be told⁠—or your mother. Something should be done to put an end to that fearful residence at Casalunga.” Then by degrees the conversation changed itself to Nora’s prospects; and Caroline, with her friend’s hand in hers, asked after Hugh Stanbury.

“You will not mind speaking before him⁠—will you?” said Caroline, putting her hand on her own lover’s arm.

“Not unless he should mind it,” said Nora, smiling. She had meant nothing beyond a simple reply to her friend’s question, but he took her words in a different sense, and blushed as he remembered his visit to Nuncombe Putney.

“He thinks almost more of your happiness than he does of mine,” said Caroline; “which isn’t fair, as I am sure that Mr. Stanbury will not reciprocate the attention. And now, dear, when are we to see you?”

“Who on earth can say?”

“I suppose Mr. Stanbury would say something⁠—only he is not here.”

“And papa won’t send my letter,” said Nora.

“You are sure that you will not go out to the Islands with him?”

“Quite sure,” said Nora. “I have made up my mind so far as that.”

“And what will your sister do?”

“I think she will stay. I think she will say goodbye to papa and mamma here in Florence.”

“I am quite of opinion that she should not leave her husband alone in Italy,” said Mr. Glascock.

“She has not told us with certainty,” said Nora; “but I feel sure that she will stay. Papa thinks she ought to go with them to London.”

“Your papa seems to have two very intractable daughters,” said Caroline.

“As for me,” declared Nora, solemnly, “nothing shall make me go back to the Islands⁠—unless Mr. Stanbury should tell me to do so.”

“And they start at the end of July?”

“On the last Saturday.”

“And what will you do then, Nora?”

“I believe there are casual wards that people go to.”

“Casual wards!” said Caroline.

“Miss Rowley is condescending to poke her fun at you,” said Mr. Glascock.

“She is quite welcome, and shall poke as much as she likes; only we must be serious now. If it be necessary, we will get back by the end of July;⁠—won’t we, Charles?”

“You will do nothing of the kind,” said Nora. “What!⁠—give up your honeymoon to provide me with board and lodgings! How can you suppose that I am so selfish or so helpless? I would go to my aunt, Mrs. Outhouse.”

“We know that that wouldn’t do,” said Caroline. “You might as well be in Italy as far as Mr. Stanbury is concerned.”

“If Miss Rowley would go to Monkhams, she might