“And you, you yourself,” said he, “do you mean that there is nothing you want in leaving London?”
“Not much, indeed.”
“It sometimes seemed to me that that kind of life was—was very pleasant to you.”
“What kind of life, Mr. Stanbury?”
“The life that you were living—going out, being admired, and having the rich and dainty all around you.”
“I don’t dislike people because they are rich,” she said.
“No; nor do I; and I despise those who affect to dislike them. But all cannot be rich.”
“Nor all dainty, as you choose to call them.”
“But they who have once been dainty—as I call them—never like to divest themselves of their daintiness. You have been one of the dainty, Miss Rowley.”
“Have I?”
“Certainly; I doubt whether you would be happy if you thought that your daintiness had departed from you.”
“I hope, Mr. Stanbury, that nothing nice and pleasant has departed from me. If I have ever been dainty, dainty I hope I may remain. I will never, at any rate, give it up of my own accord.” Why she said this, she could never explain to herself. She had certainly not intended to rebuff him when she had been saying it. But he spoke not a word to her further as they walked home, either of her mode of life or of his own.
XXV
Hugh Stanbury Smokes His Pipe
Nora Rowley, when she went to bed, after her walk to Niddon Park in company with Hugh Stanbury, was full of wrath against him. But she could not own her anger to herself, nor could she even confess to herself—though she was breaking her heart—that there really existed for her the slightest cause of grief. But why had he been so stern to her? Why had he gone out of his way to be uncivil to her? He had called her “dainty,” meaning to imply by the epithet that she was one of the butterflies of the day, caring for nothing but sunshine and an opportunity of fluttering her silly wings. She had understood well what he meant. Of course he was right to be cold to her if his heart was cold, but he need not have insulted her by his ill-concealed rebukes. Had he been kind to her, he might have rebuked her as much as he liked. She quite appreciated the delightful intimacy of a loving word of counsel from the man she loved—how nice it is, as it were, to play at marriage, and to hear beforehand something of the pleasant weight of gentle marital authority. But there had been nothing of that in his manner to her. He had told her that she was dainty—and had so told it her, as she thought, that she might learn thereby, that under no circumstances would he have any other tale to tell her. If he had no other tale, why had he not been silent? Did he think that she was subject to his rebuke merely because she lived under his mother’s roof? She would soon show him that her residence at the Clock House gave him no such authority over her. Then, amidst her wrath and despair, she cried herself asleep.
While she was sobbing in bed, he was sitting, with a short, black pipe stuck into his mouth, on the corner of the churchyard wall opposite. Before he had left the house he and Priscilla had spoken together for some minutes about Mrs. Trevelyan. “Of course she was wrong to see him,” said Priscilla. “I hesitate to wound her by so saying, because she has been ill-used—though I did tell her so, when she asked me. She could have lost nothing by declining his visit.”
“The worst of it is that Trevelyan swears that he will never receive her again if she received him.”
“He must unswear it,” said Priscilla, “that is all. It is out of the question that a man should take a girl from her home, and make her his wife, and then throw her off for so little of an offence as this. She might compel him by law to take her back.”
“What would she get by that?”
“Little enough,” said Priscilla; “and it was little enough she got by marrying him. She would have had bread, and meat, and raiment without being married, I suppose.”
“But it was a love-match.”
“Yes;—and now she is at Nuncombe Putney, and he is roaming about in London. He has to pay ever so much a year for his love-match, and she is crushed into nothing by it. How long will she have to remain here, Hugh?”
“How can I say? I suppose there is no reason against her remaining as far as you are concerned?”
“For me personally, none. Were she much worse than I think she is, I should not care in the least for myself, if I thought that we were doing her good—helping to bring her back. She can’t hurt me. I am so fixed, and dry, and established, that nothing anybody says will affect me. But mamma doesn’t like it.”
“What is it she dislikes?”
“The idea that she is harbouring a married woman, of whom people say, at least, that she has a lover.”
“Is she to be turned out because people are slanderers?”
“Why should mamma suffer because this woman, who is a stranger to her, has been imprudent? If she were your wife, Hugh—”
“God forbid!”
“If we were in any way bound to her, of course we would do our duty. But if it makes mamma unhappy I am sure you will not press it. I think Mrs. Merton has spoken to her. And then Aunt Stanbury has written such letters!”
“Who cares for Aunt Jemima?”
“Everybody cares for her—except you and I. And now this man who has been here asking the servant questions has upset her greatly. Even your coming has done
