“Go and tell that to Aunt Stanbury, and hear what she will say about such women.”
“I suppose she is very—prejudiced.”
“Yes; she is; but she is a clever woman. I am inclined to think women had better not write for newspapers.”
“And why not?” Nora asked.
“My reasons would take me a week to explain, and I doubt whether I have them very clear in my own head. In the first place there is that difficulty about the babies. Most of them must get married you know.”
“But not all,” said Nora.
“No; thank God; not all.”
“And if you are not married you might write for a newspaper. At any rate, if I were you, I should be very proud of my brother.”
“Aunt Stanbury is not at all proud of her nephew,” said Priscilla, as they entered the house.
XXVI
A Third Party Is So Objectionable
Hugh Stanbury went in search of Trevelyan immediately on his return to London, and found his friend at his rooms in Lincoln’s Inn.
“I have executed my commission,” said Hugh, endeavouring to speak of what he had done in a cheery voice.
“I am much obliged to you, Stanbury; very much;—but I do not know that I need trouble you to tell me anything about it.”
“And why not?”
“I have learned it all from that—man.”
“What man?”
“From Bozzle. He has come back, and has been with me, and has learned everything.”
“Look here, Trevelyan;—when you asked me to go down to Devonshire, you promised me that there should be nothing more about Bozzle. I expect you to put that rascal, and all that he has told you, out of your head altogether. You are bound to do so for my sake, and you will be very wise to do so for your own.”
“I was obliged to see him when he came.”
“Yes, and to pay him, I do not doubt. But that is all done, and should be forgotten.”
“I can’t forget it. Is it true or untrue that he found that man down there? Is it true or untrue that my wife received Colonel Osborne at your mother’s house? Is it true or untrue that Colonel Osborne went down there with the express object of seeing her? Is it true or untrue that they had corresponded? It is nonsense to bid me to forget all this. You might as well ask me to forget that I had desired her neither to write to him, nor to see him.”
“If I understand the matter,” said Trevelyan, “you are incorrect in one of your assertions.”
“In which?”
“You must excuse me if I am wrong, Trevelyan; but I don’t think you ever did tell your wife not to see this man, or not to write to him?”
“I never told her! I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Not in so many words. It is my belief that she has endeavoured to obey implicitly every clear instruction that you have given her.”
“You are wrong;—absolutely and altogether wrong. Heaven and earth! Do you mean to tell me now, after all that has taken place, that she did not know my wishes?”
“I have not said that. But you have chosen to place her in such a position, that though your word would go for much with her, she cannot bring herself to respect your wishes.”
“And you call that being dutiful and affectionate!”
“I call it human and reasonable; and I think that it is compatible with duty and affection. Have you consulted her wishes?”
“Always!”
“Consult them now then, and bid her come back to you.”
“No;—never! As far as I can see, I will never do so. The moment she is away from me this man goes to her, and she receives him. She must have known that she was wrong—and you must know it.”
“I do not think that she is half so wrong as you yourself,” said Stanbury. To this Trevelyan made no answer, and they both remained silent some minutes. Stanbury had a communication to make before he went, but it was one which he wished to delay as long as there was a chance that his friend’s heart might be softened;—one which he need not make if Trevelyan would consent to receive his wife back to his house. There was the day’s paper lying on the table, and Stanbury had taken it up and was reading it—or pretending to read it.
“I will tell you what I propose to do,” said Trevelyan.
“Well.”
“It is best both for her and for me that we should be apart.”
“I cannot understand how you can be so mad as to say so.”
“You don’t understand what I feel. Heaven and earth! To have a man coming and going—. But, never mind. You do not see it, and nothing will make you see it. And there is no reason why you should.”
“I certainly do not see it. I do not believe that your wife cares more for Colonel Osborne, except as an old friend of her father’s, than she does for the fellow that sweeps the crossing. It is a matter in which I am bound to tell you what I think.”
“Very well. Now, if you have freed your mind, I will tell you my purpose. I am bound to do so, because your people are concerned in it. I shall go abroad.”
“And leave her in England?”
“Certainly. She will be safer here than she can be abroad—unless she should choose to go back with her father to the islands.”
“And take the boy?”
“No;—I could not permit that. What I intend is this. I will give her £800 a year, as long as I have reason to believe that she has no communication whatever, either by word of mouth or by letter, with that man. If she does, I will put the case immediately into the hands of my lawyer, with instructions to him
