CHAPTER 87 Mr. Glasscock's Marriage Completed The Glasscock marriage was a great affair in Florence, so much so that there were not a few who regarded it as a strengthening of peaceful relations between the United States and the United Kingdom, and who thought that the Alabama claims and the question of naturalization might now be settled with comparative ease. An English lord was about to marry the niece of an American minister to a foreign court. The bridegroom was not, indeed, quite a lord as yet, but it was known to all men that he must be a lord in a very short time, and the bride was treated with more than usual bridal honors because she belonged to a legation. She was not, indeed, an ambassador's daughter, but the niece of a daughterless ambassador, and therefore almost as good as a daughter. The wives and daughters of other ambassadors, and the other ambassadors themselves, of course, came to the wedding, and as the palace in which Mr. Spalding had apartments stood alone, in a garden with a separate carriage entrance, it seemed for all wedding purposes as though the whole palace were his own. The English minister came, and his wife, although she had never quite given over turning up her nose at the American bride whom Mr. Glasscock had chosen for himself. It was such a pity, she said, that such a man as Mr. Glasscock should marry a young woman from Providence, Rhode Island. Who in England would know anything of Providence, Rhode Island? And it was so expedient in her estimation that a man of family should strengthen himself by marrying a woman of family. It was so necessary, she declared, that a man when marrying should remember that his child would have two grandfathers, and would be called upon to account for four great grandfathers. Nevertheless, Mr. Glasscock was Mr. Glasscock, and let him marry whom he would, his wife would be the future Lady Peterborough. Remembering this, the English minister's wife gave up the point when the thing was really settled, and benignly promised to come to the breakfast with all the secretaries and attachés belonging to the legation, and all the wives and daughters thereof. What may a man not do, and do with a claw, if he be heir to appear and have plenty of money in his pocket? Mr. and Mrs. Spalding were covered with glory on the occasion, and perhaps they did not bear their glory as meekly as they should have done. Mrs. Spalding laid herself open to some ridicule from the British minister's wife, because of her inability to understand with absolute clearness the condition of her niece's husband in respect to his late and future seat in Parliament, to the fact of his being a commoner and a nobleman at the same time, and to certain information which was conveyed to her, surely in a most unnecessary manner, that if Mr. Glasscock were to die before his father, her niece would never become Lady Peterborough, although her niece's son, if she had one, would be the future Lord. No doubt she blundered, as was most natural, and then the British minister's wife made the most of the blunders, and when once Mrs. Spalding ventured to speak of Caroline as her ladyship, not to the British minister's wife, but to the sister of one of the secretaries, a story was made out of it which was almost as false as it was ill-natured. Poor Caroline was spoken of as her ladyship, backward and forwards among the ladies of the Legation, in a manner which might have vexed her had she known anything about it, but nevertheless all the ladies prepared their best flounces to go to the wedding. The time would soon come when she would in truth be a ladyship, and she might be of social use to any one of the ladies in question. But Mr. Spalding was, for the time, the most disturbed of any of the party concerned. He was a tall, thin, clever Republican of the North, very fond of hearing himself talk, and somewhat apt to take advantage of the courtesies of conversation for the purpose of making unpardonable speeches. As long as there was any give and take going on in the melee of words, he would speak quickly and with energy, seizing his chances among others. But the moment he had established his right to the floor, as soon as he had won for himself the position of having his turn at the argument, he would dole out his words with considerable slowness, raise his hand for oratorial effect, and proceed as though time were annihilated. And he would go further even than this, for, fearing by experience the escape of his victims, he would catch a man by the buttonhole of his coat, or back him ruthlessly into the corner of a room, and then lay on to him without quarter. Since the affair with Mr. Glasscock had been settled, he had talked an immensity about England, not absolutely taking honour to himself because of his intended connection with the Lord, but making so many references to the aristocratic side of the British Constitution as to leave no doubt on the minds of his hearers as to the source of his arguments. In old days, before all this was happening, Mr. Spaulding, though a courteous man in his personal relations, had constantly spoken of England with the bitter indignation of the ordinary American politician. England must be made to disgorge, England must be made to do justice, England must be taught her place in the world, 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 commenced 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 endeavored to bolt, but the American had caught him and pinned him, and the Governor of the Mandarin's 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 of both 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 Petri 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. Glaskoff 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 logia, and Mr. Glaskoff was with her, and for a while they talked about Emily Trevelyan and her misfortunes. Mr. Glaskoff 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 Casa Lunga. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed itself to Nora's prospects, and Caroline, with her friend's hand in hers, asked after Hugh Stamboury.  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. Stamboury will not reciprocate the attention. And now, dear, when are we to see you? Who on earth can say? I suppose Mr. Stamboury would say something, only he is not here. And Papa won't send by 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 good-bye to Papa and Mama here in Florence. I am quite of opinion that she should not leave her husband alone in Italy, said Mr. Glasscock. 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. Stamboury 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. Glasscock. 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 wouldn't do, said Caroline. You might as well be in Italy as far as Mr. Stamboury is concerned. If Miss Rowley would go to Munkums, she might wait for us, suggested Mr. Glasscock. Old Mrs. Richards is there, and though, of course, she would be dull. It is quite unnecessary, said Nora. I shall take a two-pair back in a respectable feminine quarter, like any other young woman who wants such accommodation, and shall wait there till my young man can come and give me his arm to church. That is about the way we shall do it. I am not going to give myself any heirs, Mr. Glasscock, or make any difficulties. Papa is always talking to me about chairs and tables and frying-pans, and I shall practice to do with as few of them as possible. As I am headstrong about having my young man, and I own that I am headstrong about that, I guess I've got to fit myself for that sort of life. And Nora, as she said this, pronounced her words with something of a nasal twang, imitating certain countrywomen of her friends.  But nevertheless one has to be reasonable and to look the facts in the face. I don't see how you are to be left in London alone, and you know that your aunt Mrs. Outhouse, or at any rate your uncle, would not receive you except on receiving some strong anti-Stanbury pledge. I certainly shall not give an anti-Stanbury pledge. And therefore that is out of the question. You will have a fortnight or three weeks in London in all the bustle of their departure, and I declare I think that at the last moment you will go with them. Never, unless he says so. I don't see how you are even to meet him and talk it over. I'll manage that. My promise not to write lasts only while we are in Italy. I think we had better get back to England, Charles, and take pity on this poor destitute one. If you talk of such a thing I will swear that I will never go to Moncombe's. You will find that I shall manage it. It may be that I shall do something very shocking, so that all your patronage will hardly be able to bring me round afterwards, but I will do something that will serve my purpose.  Nora, as she spoke of having gone so far, was looking at Mr. Glasscock, who was seated in an easy arm-chair close to the girl whom he was to make his wife on the morrow. And she was thinking, no doubt, of the visit which he had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the first irretrievable step which she had taken when she told him that her love was given to another. That had been her rubicon. And though there had been periods with her since the passing of it, in which she had felt that she had crossed it in vain, that she had thrown away the splendid security of the other bank without obtaining the perilous object of her ambition, though there had been moments in which she had almost regretted her own courage and noble action. Still having passed the river, there was nothing for her but to go on to Rome. She was not going to be stopped now by the want of a house in which to hide herself for a few weeks. She was without money, except so much as her mother might be able, almost surreptitiously to give her. She was without friends to help her, except these who were now with her, whose friendship had come to her in so singular a manner, and whose power to aid her at the present moment was cruelly curtailed by their own circumstances. Nothing was settled as to her own marriage. In consequence of the promise that had been extorted from her, that she should not correspond with Stanbury, she knew nothing of his present wishes or intention. Her father was so offended by her firmness that he would hardly speak to her. And it was evident to her that her mother, though disposed to yield, was still in hopes that her daughter, in the press and difficulty of the moment, would allow herself to be carried away with the rest of the family to the other side of the world. She knew all this, but she had made up her mind that she would not be carried away. It was not very pleasant the thought that she would be obliged at last to ask her young man, as she called him, to provide for her, but she would do that and trust herself altogether in his hands sooner than be taken to the antipodes. I can be very resolute if I please, my dear," she said, looking at Caroline. Mr. Glasscock almost thought that she must have intended to address him. They sat there discussing the matter for some time through the long, cool evening hours, but nothing could be settled further, except that Nora would write to her friend as soon as her affairs had begun to shape themselves after her return to England. At last Caroline went into the house, and for a few minutes Mr. Glasscock was alone with Nora. He had remained, determining that the moment should come, but now that it was there he was for a while unable to say the words that he wished to utter. At last he spoke, Mrs. Rowley, Caroline is so eager to be your friend. I know she is, and I do love her so dearly, but without joke, Mr. Glasscock, there will be as it were a great gulf between us. I do not know that there need be any gulf great or little, but I did not mean to allude to that. What I want to say is this. My feelings are not a bit less warm or sincere than hers. You know of old that I am not very good at expressing myself. I know nothing of the kind. There is no such gulf as what you speak of. All that is mostly gone by, and a nobleman in England, though he has advantages as a gentleman, is no more than a gentleman. But that has nothing to do with what I am saying now. I shall never forget my journey to Devonshire. I won't pretend to say now that I regret its result. I am quite sure you don't. No, I do not, though I thought then that I should regret it always. But remember this, Mrs. Rowley, that you can never ask me to do anything that I will not, if possible, do for you. You are in some little difficulty now. It will disappear, Mr. Glasscock. Difficulties always do. But we will do anything that we are wanted to do, and should a certain event take place. It will take place some day. Then I hope that we may be able to make Mr. Stanbury and his wife quite at home at Munkums. After that he took Nora's hand and kissed it, and at that moment Caroline came back to them. "'Tomorrow, Mr. Glasscock,' she said, "'you will, I believe, be at liberty to kiss everybody, but to-day you should be more discreet.' It was generally admitted, among the various legations in Florence, that there had not been such a wedding in the city of flowers, since it had become the capital of Italia. Mr. Glasscock and Miss Spalding were married in the chapel of the legation, a legation chapel on the ground floor having been extemporized for the occasion. This greatly enhanced the pleasantness of the thing, and saved the necessity of matrons and bridesmaids packing themselves in their finery into close, busty carriages. A portion of the guests attended in the chapel, and the remainder, when the ceremony was over, were found strolling about the shady garden. The whole affair of the breakfast was very splendid and lasted some hours. In the midst of this the bride and bridegroom were whisked away with a pair of grey horses to the railway station, and before the last toast of the day had been proposed by the Belgian counsellor of legation they were half-way up the Apennines on their road to Bologna. Mr. Spalding behaved himself like a man on the occasion. Spalding was spared in the way of expense, and when he made that celebrated speech, in which he declared that the republican virtue of the New World had linked itself in a happy alliance with the aristocratic splendor of the old, and went on with a simile about the lion and the lamb, everybody accepted it with good humour in spite of its being a little too long for the occasion. It has gone off very well, Mama, has it not, said Nora, as she returned home with her mother to her lodgings. Yes, my dear, much I fancy as these things generally do. I thought it was so nice, and she looked so very well, and he was so pleasant and so much like a gentleman, not noisy, you know, and yet not too serious. I dare say my love. It is easy enough, Mama, for a girl to be married, for she has nothing to do but wear her clothes and look as pretty as she can, and if she cries and has a red nose it is forgiven her. But a man has so difficult a part to play. If he tries to carry himself as though it were not a special occasion, he looks like a fool that way, and if he is very special he looks like a fool the other way. I thought Mr. Glasscock did it very well. To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him. I did, narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely. How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have and such regrets I cannot understand. Mama, my memories of Mr. Glasscock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets I have not won. Can I regret, Mama, that I did not marry a man whom I did not love, and that I rejected him when I knew that I loved another? You cannot mean that, Mama. I know this, that I was thinking all the time how proud I should have been, and how much more fortunate he would have been had you been standing there instead of that American young woman. As she said this, Lady Rowley burst into tears, and Nora could only answer her mother by embracing her. They were alone together, their party having been too large for one carriage, and Sir Marmaduke having taken his two younger daughters. Of course I feel it, said Lady Rowley through her tears. It would have been such a position for my child, and that young man, without a shilling in the world, and writing in that way just for bare bread. Nora had nothing more to say. A feeling that in herself would have been base, was simply affectionate and maternal in her mother. It was impossible that she should make her mother see it as she saw it. There was but one intervening day, and then the Rowleys returned to England. There had been, as it were, a tacit agreement among them that, in spite of all their troubles, their holiday should be a holiday up to the time of the Glasscock marriage. Then must commence at once the stern necessity of their return home—home, not only to England, but to those Antipodian islands from which it was too probable that some of them might never come back. And the difficulties in their way seemed to be almost insuperable. First of all there was to be the parting from Emily Trevelyan. She had determined to remain in Florence, and had written to her husband saying that she would do so, and declaring her willingness to go out to him, or to receive him in Florence at any time and in any manner that he might appoint. She had taken this as a first step, intending to go to Casalunga very shortly, even though she should receive no answer from him. The parting between her and her mother and father and sisters was very bitter. Sir Marmaduke, as he had become estranged from Nora, had grown to be more and more gentle and loving with his elder daughter, and was nearly overcome at the idea of leaving her in a strange land, with a husband near her, mad, and yet not within her custody. But he could do nothing, could hardly say a word toward opposing her. Though her husband was mad, he supplied her with the means of living, and when she said that it was her duty to be near him, her father could not deny it. The parting came. I will return to you the moment you send to me, were Nora's last words to her sister. I don't suppose I shall send, said Emily. I shall try to bear it without assistance. Then the journey from Italy to England was made without much gratification or excitement, and the Rowley family again found themselves at Greg's hotel. CHAPTER 88. CHAPTER 88. Cropper and Burgess. We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus hurried from the completion of Hymenials at Florence to the preparations for other Hymenials in Devonshire, but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's treachery, or death, or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of the title and a state of monkums, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her, that Colonel Osborn should be caught in some matrimonial trap, as how otherwise should he be fitly punished, and that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with Mrs. McHugh is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity, but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with some delicacy and much detail. There was considerable difficulty in fixing the day. In the first place Miss Stanbury was not very well, and then she was very fidgety. She must see Brooke again before the day was fixed, and after seeing Brooke she must see her lawyer. To have a lot of money to look after is more plague than profit, my dear, she said to Dorothy one day, particularly when you don't quite know what you ought to do with it. Dorothy had always avoided any conversation with her aunt about money, since the first moment in which she had thought of accepting Brooke Burgess as her husband. She knew that her aunt had some feeling which made her averse to the idea that any portion of the property which she had inherited should be enjoyed by a Stanbury after her death, and Dorothy, guided by this knowledge, had almost convinced herself that her love for Brooke was treason either against him or against her aunt. If by engaging herself to him she should rob him of his inheritance, how bitter a burden to him would her love have been? If on the other hand she should reward her aunt for all that had been done for her by forcing herself, a Stanbury, into a position not intended for her, how base would be her ingratitude. These thoughts had troubled her much, and had always prevented her from answering any of her aunt's chance illusions to the property. For her things had at last gone very right. She did not quite know how it had come about, but she was engaged to marry the man she loved, and her aunt was at any rate reconciled to the marriage. But when Miss Stanbury declared that she did not know what to do about the property, Dorothy could only hold her tongue. She had had plenty to say when it had been suggested to her that the marriage should be put off yet for a short while, and that in the meantime Brooke should come again to Exeter. She swore that she did not care for how long it was put off, only that she hoped it might not be put off altogether. And as for Brooke's coming, that, for the present, would be very much nicer than being married out of hand at once. Dorothy, in truth, was not at all in a hurry to be married. But she would have liked to have had her lover always coming and going. Once the courtship had become a thing permitted, she had had the privilege of welcoming him twice at the house in the close, and that running down to meet him in the little front parlor, and the getting up to make his breakfast for him as he started in the morning, were among the happiest epics of her life. And then, as soon as ever the breakfast was eaten and he was gone, she would sit down to write him a letter. Oh, those letters, so beautifully crossed, more than one of which was copied from beginning to end, because some word in it was not thought to be sweet enough. But a heaven of happiness they were to her. The writing of the first had disturbed her greatly, and she had almost repented of the privilege before it was ended. But with the first and second the difficulties had disappeared, and had she not felt somewhat ashamed of the occupation, she could have sat at her desk and written him letters all day. Brooke would answer them, with fair regularity, but in a most cursory manner, sending seven or eight lines in return for two sheets fully crossed, but this did not discompose her in the least. He was worked hard at his office, and had hundreds of other things to do. He, too, could say, so thought Dorothy, more in eight lines than she could put into as many pages. She was quite happy when she was told that the marriage could not take place till August, but that Brooke must come again in July. Brooke did come in the first week of July, and somewhat horrified Dorothy by declaring to her that Miss Stanbury was unreasonable. If I insist upon leaving London so often for a day or two, said he, how am I to get anything like leave of absence when the time comes? In answer to this, Dorothy tried to make him understand that business should not be neglected, and that, as far as she was concerned, she could do very well without that trip abroad which she had proposed for her. I'm not going to be done in that way, said Brooke, and now that I am here she has nothing to say to me. I've told her a dozen times that I don't want to know anything about her will, and that I'll take it all for granted. There is something to be settled on you that she calls her own. She is so generous, Brooke. She is generous enough, but she is very whimsical. She is going to make her whole will over again, and now she wants to send some message to Uncle Barty. I don't know what it is yet, but I am to take it. As far as I can understand, she had sent all the way to London for me, in order that I may take a message across the close. You talk as though it were very disagreeable coming to Exeter, said Dorothy, with a little pout. So it is, very disagreeable. Oh, Brooke! Very disagreeable if our marriage is to be put off by it. I think it will be so much nicer making love somewhere on the Rhine than having snatches of it here, and talking all the time about wills and tenements and settlements. As he said this, with his arm round her waist and his face quite close to hers, showing thereby that he was not altogether averse even to his present privileges, she forgave him. On that same afternoon, just before the banking hours were over, Brooke went across to the house of Cropper and Burgess, having first been closeted for nearly an hour with his aunt. And as he went, his step was the date and his air was serious. He found his Uncle Barty, and was not very long in delivering his message. It was to this effect, that Miss Stanbury particularly wished to see Mr. Bartholomew Burgess on business, at some hour on that afternoon or that evening. Brooke himself had been made acquainted with the subject in regard to which this singular interview was desired, but it was not a part of his duty to communicate any information respecting it. It had been necessary that his consent to certain arrangements should be asked before the invitation to Barty Burgess could be given, but his present mission was confined to an authority to give the invitation. Old Mr. Burgess was much surprised, and was at first disposed to decline the proposition made by the old Herodin, as he called her. He had never put any restraint on his language in talking of Miss Stanbury with his nephew, and was not disposed to do so now, because she had taken a new vagary into her head. But there was something in his nephew's manner, which at last induced him to discuss the matter rationally. "'And you don't know what it's all about,' said Uncle Barty. "'I can't quite say that. I suppose I do know pretty well. At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come, but I must not say what it is. Will it do me or anybody else any good? It can't do you any harm.  But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match. I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still. Nevertheless Brooke prevailed, or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed. For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived, and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it. It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part, had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished. But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess, and as the result of all this Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred. He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him, and, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression, of which old Barty was well aware. He hated, and knew that he was hated in return. And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her.  It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice, nor did he wish to be reconciled at this the eleventh hour. His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him. His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation. His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him. Nevertheless he would go. As Brooke had said, no harm could come of his going. He would go, and at least listen to her proposition. About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door. Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small upstairs parlor, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion. Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound. Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word. She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that the grim old man of whom she had heard so much evil would soon be her uncle. According to arrangement, Mr. Burgess was shown upstairs by his nephew. Barty Burgess had been born in this very house, but had not been inside the walls of it for more than thirty years. He also was somewhat awed by the occasion, and followed his nephew without a word. Brooke was to remain at hand, so that he might be summoned should he be wanted, but it had been decided by Miss Stanbury that he should not be present at the interview. As soon as her visitor entered the room, she rose in a stately way, and curtsied, propping herself with one hand upon the table as she did so. She looked him full in the face, meanwhile, and curtsying a second time, asked him to seat himself in a chair which had been prepared for him. She did it all very well, and it may be surmised that she had rehearsed the little scene, perhaps more than once, when nobody was looking at her. He bowed, and walked round to the chair and seated himself, but finding that he was so placed that he could not see his neighbour's face, he moved his chair. He was not going to fight such a duel as this with the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes. Hitherto there had been hardly a word spoken. Miss Stanbury had muttered something as she was curtsying, and Barty Burgess had made some return. Then she began, Mr. Burgess, she said, I am indebted to you for your complacence in coming here at my request. To this, he bowed again, I should not have ventured thus to trouble you, were it not that years are dealing more hardly with me than they are with you, and that I could not have ventured to discuss a matter of deep interest otherwise than in my own room. It was her room now certainly by law, but Barty Burgess remembered it when it was his mother's room, and when she used to give them all their meals there. Now so many, many years ago. He bowed again, and said not a word. He knew well that she could sooner be brought to her point by his silence than by his speech. She was a long time coming to her point. Before she could do so she was forced to allude to time's long past, and to subjects which she found it very difficult to touch, without saying that which would either belie herself or seem to be severe upon him. Though she had prepared herself, she could hardly get the word spoken, and she was greatly impeded by the obstinacy of his silence, but at last her proposition was made to him. She told him that his nephew, Brooke, was about to be married to her niece, Dorothy, and that it was her intention to make Brooke her heir in the bulk of the property which she had received under the will of the late Mr. Brooke Burgess. Indeed, she said, all that I received at your brother's hands shall go back to your brother's family unimpaired. He only bowed, and would not say a word. Then she went on to say that it had at first been a matter to her of deep regret that Brooke should have set his affections upon her niece, as there had been in her mind a strong desire that none of her own people should enjoy the reversion of the wealth, which she had always regarded as being hers only for the term of her life, but that she had found that the young people had been so much an earnest, and that her own feeling had been so near akin to a prejudice that she had yielded. When this was said Barty smiled instead of bowing, and Miss Danbury felt that there might be something worse even than his silence, his smile told her that he believed her to be lying. Nevertheless she went on. She was not fool enough to suppose that the whole nature of the man was to be changed by a few words from her, so she went on. The marriage was a thing fixed, and she was thinking of settlements, and had been talking to lawyers about a new will. I do not know that I can help you, said Barty, finding that a longer pause than usual made some word from him absolutely necessary.  And she did go on. She had, she said, made some saving out of her income. She was not going to trouble Mr. Burgess with this matter, only that she might explain to him that what she would at once give to the young couple, and what she would settle on Dorothy after her own death, would all come from such savings, and that such gifts and bequests would not diminish the family property. Barty again smiled as he heard this, and Miss Standbury in her heart likened him to the devil in person. But still she went on. She was very desirous that Brooke Burgess should come and live at Exeter. His property would be in the town and the neighborhood. It would be a seemly thing, such were her words, that he should occupy the house that had belonged to his grandfather and his great-grandfather. And then, moreover, she acknowledged that she spoke selfishly, she dreaded the idea of being left alone for the remainder of her own years. Her proposition at last was uttered. It was simply this, that Barty Burgess should give to his nephew, Brooke, his share in the bank. I am damned if I do, said Barty Burgess, rising up from his chair. But before he had left the room he had agreed to consider the proposition. Miss Standbury had, of course, known that any such suggestion coming from her without an adequate reason assigned would have been mere idle wind. She was prepared with adequate reason. If Mr. Burgess could see his way to make the proposed transfer of his share of the bank business, she, Miss Standbury, would hand over to him for his life a certain proportion of the Burgess property which lay in the city, the income of which would exceed that drawn by him from the business. Would he, at his time of life, take that for doing nothing which he now got for working hard? That was the meaning of it. And then, too, as far as the portion of the property went, and it extended to the houses owned by Miss Standbury on the bank side of the close, it would belong altogether to Barty Burgess for his life. It will simply be this, Mr. Burgess, that Brooke will be your heir, as would be natural. I don't know that it would be at all natural, said he, I should prefer to choose my own heir. No doubt, Mr. Burgess, in respect to your own property, said Miss Standbury. At last he said that he would think of it and consult his partner, and then he got up to take his leave. For myself, said Miss Standbury, I would wish that all animosities might be buried. We can say that they are buried, said the grim old man, but nobody will believe us. What matters if we could believe it ourselves? But suppose we didn't. I don't believe that much good can come from talking of such things, Miss Standbury. You and I have grown too old to swear a friendship. I will think of this thing, and if I find that it can be made to suit without much difficulty I will perhaps entertain it. Then the interview was over, and old Barty made his way down stairs and out of the house. He looked over to the tenements in the close which were offered to him, every circumstance of each one of which he knew, and felt that he might do worse. Were he to leave the bank he could not take his entire income with him, and it had been long said of him that he ought to leave it. The croppers, who were his partners, and whom he had never loved, would be glad to welcome in his place one of the old family who would have money, and then the name would be perpetuated in Exeter, which, even to Barty Burgess, was something. On that night the scheme was divulged to Dorothy, and she was in ecstasies. London had always sounded bleak and distant and terrible to her, and her heart had misgiven her at the idea of leaving her aunt. If only this thing might be arranged. When Brooke spoke the next morning of returning it once to his office, he was rebuked by both the ladies. What was the ecclesiastical commission office to any of them when matters of such importance were concerned? But Brooke would not be talked out of his prudence. He was very willing to be made a banker at Exeter, and to go to school again and learn banking business, but he would not throw up his occupation in London till he knew that there was another ready for him in the country. One day longer he spent in Exeter, and during that day he was more than once with his uncle. He saw also the Messers' cropper, and was considerably chilled by the manner in which they at first seemed to entertain the proposition. Indeed for a couple of hours he thought that the scheme must be abandoned. It was pointed out to him that Mr. Barty Burgess's life would probably be short, and that he, Barty, had but a small part of the business at his disposal. But gradually a way to terms was seen, not quite so simple as that which Miss Stanbury had suggested, and Brooke, when he left Exeter, did believe it possible that he, after all, might become the family representative in the old banking-house of the Burgesses. And how long will it take Aunt Stanbury? Dorothy asked. Don't you be impatient, my dear? I am not the least impatient, but of course I want to tell Mamonde Priscilla. It will be so nice to live here and not go up to London. Are we to stay here, in this very house? Have you not found out yet that Brooke will be likely to have an opinion of his own on such things? But would you wish us to live here, Aunt? I hardly know, dear. I am a foolish old woman and cannot say what I would wish. I cannot bear to be alone. Of course we will stay with you. And yet I should be jealous if I were not mistress of my own house. Of course you will be mistress. I believe, Dolly, that it would be better that I should die. I have come to feel that I can do more good by going out of the world than by remaining in it. Dorothy hardly answered this in words, but sat close by her aunt, holding the old woman's hand and caressing it, and administering that love of which Miss Stanbury had enjoyed so little during her life and which had become so necessary to her. The news about the bank arrangements, though kept of course as a great secret, soon became common in Exeter. It was known to be a good thing for the firm in general that Barty Burgess should be removed from his share of the management. He was old-fashioned, unpopular, and very stubborn, and he and a certain Mr. Julius Cropper, who was the leading man among the croppers, had not always been comfortable together. It was at first hinted that old Miss Stanbury had been softened by sudden twinges of conscience, and that she had confessed to some terrible crime in the way of forgery, perjury, or perhaps worse, and had relieved herself at last by making full restitution. But such a rumour as this did not last long or receive wide credence. When it was hinted to such old friends as Sir Peter Man Crudi and Mrs. McHugh, they laughed it to scorn, and it did not exist even in the vague form of an undivalged mystery for above three days. Then it was asserted that old Barty had been found to have no real claim to any share in the bank, and that he was to be turned out at Miss Stanbury's instance, that he was to be turned out, and that Brooke had been acknowledged to be the owner of the Burgess share for business. Then came the fact that old Barty had been bought out, and that the future husband of Miss Stanbury's niece was to be the junior partner. A general feeling prevailed at last that there had been another great battle between Miss Stanbury and old Barty, and that the old maid had prevailed now as she had done in former days. Before the end of July the papers were in the lawyer's hands, and all the terms had been fixed. Brooke came down again and again to Dorothy's great delight, and displayed considerable firmness in the management of his own interest. If fate intended to make him a banker in Exeter, instead of a clerk in the ecclesiastical commission office, he would be a banker after a respectable fashion. There was more than one little struggle between him and Mr. Julius Cropper, which ended in accession of respect on the part of Mr. Cropper for his new partner. Mr. Cropper had thought that the establishment might best be known to the commercial world of the West of England as Cropper's Bank. But Brooke had been very firm in asserting that if he was to have anything to do with it the old name should be maintained. It's to be Cropper and Burgess, he said to Dorothy one afternoon. They fought hard for Cropper, Cropper, and Burgess, but I wouldn't stand more than one Cropper. Of course not, said Dorothy, with something almost of scorn in her voice. By this time Dorothy had gone very deeply into banking business. CHAPTER 89. I WOULDN'T DO IT IF I WAS YOU. Miss Stanbury at this time was known all through Exeter to be very much altered from the Miss Stanbury of old, or even from the Miss Stanbury of two years since. The Miss Stanbury of old was a stalwart lady who would play her rubber of wist five nights a week, and could hold her own in conversation against the best woman in Exeter, not to speak of her acknowledged superiority over every man in that city. Now she cared little for the glories of debate, and though she still liked her rubber, and could wake herself up to the old fire in the detection of a revoke or the claim for a second trick, her rubbers were few and far between, and she would leave her own house on an evening only when all circumstances were favourable and with many precautions against wind and water. Some said that she was becoming old, and that she was going out like the snuff of a candle. But Sir Peter Mancrudy declared that she might live for the next fifteen years if she would only think so herself. It was true, Sir Peter said, that in the winter she had been ill and that there had been danger as to her throat during the east winds of the spring, but those dangers had passed away, and if she would only exert herself, she might be almost as good a woman as ever she had been. Sir Peter was not a man of many words, or given to talk frequently of his patience, but it was clearly Sir Peter's opinion that Miss Stanbury's mind was ill at ease. She had become discontented with life, and therefore it was that she cared no longer for the combat of tongues, and had become cold even towards the card-table. It was so in truth, and yet perhaps the lives of few men or women had been more innocent, and few had struggled harder to be just in their dealings and generous in their thoughts. There was ever present to her mind an idea of failure, and of fear lest she had been mistaken in her views throughout her life. No one had ever been more devoted to peculiar opinions, or more strong in the use of language for their expression, and she was so far true to herself that she would never seem to retreat from the position she had taken. She would still score in the new fangals of the world around her, and speak of the changes which she saw as all tending to evil. But through it all, there was an idea present to herself that it could not be God's intention that things should really change for the worse, and that the fault must be in her, because she had been unable to move as others had moved. She would sit thinking of the circumstances of her own life, and tell herself that with her everything had failed. She had loved, but had quarreled with her lover, and her love had come to nothing but barren wealth. She had fought for her wealth and had conquered, and had become hard in the fight, and was conscious of her own hardness. In the early days of her riches and power she had taken her nephew by the hand, and had thrown him away from her because he would not dress himself in her mirror. She had believed herself to be right, and would not, even now, tell herself that she had been wrong. But there were doubts, and qualms of conscience, and an uneasiness, because her life had been a failure. Now she was seeking to appease herself accusations by sacrificing everything for the happiness of her niece and her chosen hero. But as she went on with the work she felt that all would be in vain unless she could sweep herself altogether from off the scene. She had told herself that if she could bring Brooke to Exeter, his prospects would be made infinitely brighter than they would be in London, and that she in her last days would not be left utterly alone. But as the prospect of her future life came nearer to her, she saw, or thought that she saw, that there was still failure before her. Young people would not want an old woman in the house with them, even though the old woman would declare that she would be no more in the house than a tame cat. And she knew herself also too well to believe that she could make herself a tame cat in the home that had so long been subject to her dominion. Would it not be better that she should go away somewhere and die? If Mr. Brooke is to come here, Martha said to her one day, we ought to begin and make the changes, ma'am. What changes? You are always wanting to make changes. If they was never made till I wanted them they'd never be made, ma'am, but if there is to be a married couple there should be things proper. Anyways, ma'am, we ought to know, oughtn't we? The truth of this statement was so evident that Miss Standbury could not contradict it. But she had not even yet made up her mind. Ideas were running through her head which she knew to be very wild, but of which she could not divest herself. Martha, she said after a while, I think I shall go away from this myself. Leave the house, ma'am," said Martha, awestruck. There are other houses in the world, I suppose, in which an old woman can live and die. There is houses, ma'am, of course. And what is the difference between one and another? I wouldn't do it, ma'am, if I was you. I wouldn't do it if it was ever so. Sure the house is big enough for Mr. Brook and Miss Dorothy along with you. I wouldn't go and make such changes that. I wouldn't indeed, ma'am."  Miss Standbury said nothing more at the moment, beyond signifying her indisposition to make up her mind to anything at the present moment. Yes, the house was big enough as far as rooms were concerned, but how often had she heard that an old woman must always be in the way if attempting to live with a newly married couple? If a mother-in-law be unendurable, how much more so one whose connection would be less near? She could keep her own house no doubt and let them go elsewhere, but what then would come of her old dream that Burgess, the new banker in the city, should live in the very house that had been inhabited by the Burgesses, the bankers of old? There was certainly only one way out of all these troubles, and that way would be that she should go from them and be at rest. Her will had now been drawn out and completed for the third or fourth time, and she had made no secret of its contents either with Brooke or Dorothy. The whole estate she left to Brooke, including the houses which were to become his after his uncle's death, and in regard to the property she had made no further stipulation. I might have settled it on your children, she said to him, but in doing so I should have settled it on hers. I don't know why an old woman should try to interfere with things after she has gone. I hope you won't squander it, Brooke. I shall be a steady old man by that time, he said. I hope you'll be steady at any rate, but there it is, and God must direct you in the use of it, if he will. It has been a burden to me, but then I have been a solitary old woman. Half of what she had saved she proposed to give to Dorothy on her marriage, and for doing this arrangements had already been made. There were various other legacies, and the last she announced was one to her nephew, Hugh. I have left him a thousand pounds, she said to Dorothy, so that he may remember me kindly at last. As to this, however, she exacted a pledge that no intimation of the legacy was to be made to Hugh. Then it was that Dorothy told her aunt that Hugh intended to marry Nora Rowley, one of the ladies who had been at the clock-house during the days in which her mother had lived in grandeur. And then it was also that Dorothy obtained leave to invite Hugh to her own wedding. I hope she will be happier than her sister, Miss Stanbury said, when she heard of the intended marriage. It wasn't Mrs. Trevalian's fault, she know, aunt. I say nothing about anybody's fault, but this I do say that it was a very great misfortune. I fought all that battle with your sister Priscilla, and I don't mean to fight it again, my dear. If Hugh marries the young lady, I hope she will be more happy than her sister. There can be no harm in saying that. Dorothy's letter to her brother shall be given, because it will inform the reader of all the arrangements as they were made up to that time, and will convey the exoter news respecting various persons with whom our story is concerned. The Close, July 20th, 1860 Blank Dear Hugh, the day for my marriage is now fixed, and I wish with all my heart that it was the same with you. I give my love to Nora. It seems so odd that, though she was living for a while with Mama at Nuncomputny, I never should have seen her yet. I am very glad that Brooke has seen her, and he declares that she is quite magnificently beautiful. Those are his own words. We are to be married on the 10th of August, a Wednesday, and now comes my great news. Aunt Stanbury says that you are to come and stay in the house. She bids me tell you so with her love, and that you can have a room as long as you like. Of course you must come. In the first place, you must because you are to give me away, and Brooke wouldn't have me if I wasn't given away properly, and then it will make me so happy that you and Aunt Stanbury should be friends again. You can stay as long as you like, but of course you must come the day before the wedding. We are to be married in the Cathedral, and there are to be two clergymen, but I don't yet know who they will be. Not Mr. Gibson certainly, as you were good enough to suggest. Mr. Gibson is married to Arabella French, and they have gone away somewhere into Cornwall. Camilla has come back, and I have seen her once. She looked ever so fierce, as though she intended to declare that she didn't mind what anybody may think. They say that she's still protest, that she never will speak to her sister again. I was introduced to Mr. Barty Burgess the other day. Brooke was here, and we met him in the close. I hardly knew what he said to me I was so frightened, but Brooke said that he meant to be civil, and that he is going to send me a present. I have got a quantity of things already, and yesterday Mrs. McHugh sent me such a beautiful cream-jug. If you'll come in time on the ninth, you shall see them all before they are put away. Mama and Priscilla are to be here, and they will come on the ninth also. Poor dear Mama is I know terribly flurried about it, and so is Aunt Stanbury. It is so long since they have seen each other. I don't think Priscilla feels it the same way, because she is so brave. Do you remember when it was first proposed that I should come here? I am so glad I came, because of Brooke. He will come on the ninth quite early, and I do so hope you will come with him. Yours most affectionately, Dorothy Stanbury. Give my best, best love to Nora. CHAPTER 90 Lady Rowley conquered. When the Rowleys were back in London and began to employ themselves on the terrible work of making ready for their journey to the islands, Lady Rowley gradually gave way about Hugh Stanbury. She had become aware that Nora would not go back with them, unless under an amount of pressure which she would find it impossible to use. And if Nora did not go out to the islands, what was to become of her unless she married this man? Sir Marmaduke, when all was explained to him, declared that a girl must do what her parents ordered her to do. Other girls live with their fathers and mothers, and so must she. Lady Rowley endeavored to explain that other girls lived with their fathers and mothers, because they found themselves in established homes from which they are not disposed to run away. But Nora's position was, as she alleged, very different. Nora's home had laterally been with her sister, and it was hardly to be expected that the parental authority should not find itself impaired by the interregnum which had taken place. Sir Marmaduke would not see the thing in the same light, and was disposed to treat his daughter with a high hand. If she would not do as she was bitten, she should no longer be daughter of his. In answer to this, Lady Rowley could only repeat her conviction that Nora would not go out to the Mandarin's, and that as for disinheriting her, casting her off, cursing her in the rest, she had no belief in such doings at all. On the stage they do such things as that, she said, and perhaps they used to do it once in reality. But you know that it's out of the question now. Fancy your standing up and cursing at the dear girl, just as we are all starting from Southampton. Sir Marmaduke knew as well as his wife that it would be impossible, and only muttered something about the dear girl behaving herself with great impropriety. They were all aware that Nora was not going to leave England, because no birth had been taken for her on board the ship, and because, while the other girls were preparing for their long voyage, no preparations were made for her. Of course she was not going. Sir Marmaduke would probably have given way altogether immediately on his return to London, had he not discussed the matter with his friend Colonel Osborn. It became, of course, his duty to make some inquiry as to the Stanbury family, and he knew that Osborn had visited Mrs. Stanbury when he made his unfortunate pilgrimage to the porch of Cock Chaffington Church. He told Osborn the whole story of Nora's engagement, telling also that other most heartbreaking tale of her conduct in regard to Mr. Glasscock, and asked the Colonel what he thought about the Stanburys. Now the Colonel did not hold the Stanburys in high esteem. He had met Hugh, as the reader may perhaps remember, and had had some intercourse with the young man, which had not been quite agreeable to him, on the platform of the railway station at Exeter, and he had also heard something of the ladies at Nuncomputney during his short sojourn at the house of Mrs. Crockett. "'My belief is they are beggars,' said Colonel Osborn. "'I suppose so,' said Sir Marmaduke, shaking his head.  Not their own, you mean? It was a place that Trevelyan had got this young man to take for Emily, and they had merely gone there to be with her. They had been living in a little bit of a cottage, a sort of a place that any—any plowman would live in—just that kind of cottage. Goodness gracious! And they've gone to another just like it, so I'm told. "'And can't he do anything better for them than that?' asked Sir Marmaduke. "'I know nothing about him. I have met him, you know. He used to be with Trevelyan.  He has changed his mind about that, I think. Perhaps he has, but he behaved very badly then. Let him show up his income. That, I take it, is the question in such a case as this. His father was a clergyman, and therefore I suppose he must be considered to be a gentleman. But has he means to support a wife and keep up a house in London? If he has not, that is an end to it, I should say. But Sir Marmaduke could not see his way to any such end, and although he still looked black upon Nora, and talked to his wife of his determination to stand no controversy, and hinted at cursing, disinheriting, and the like, he began to perceive that Nora would have her own way. In his unhappiness he regretted this visit to England, and almost thought that the mandarins were a pleasanter residence than London. He could do pretty much as he pleased there, and could live quietly without the trouble which encountered him now on every side. Nora, immediately on her return to London, had written a note to Hugh, simply telling him of her arrival and begging him to come and see her. Mama! she said, I must see him, and it would be nonsense to say that he must not come here. I have done what I have said I would do, and you ought not to make difficulties. Lady Rowley declared that Sir Marmaduke would be very angry if Hugh were admitted without his express permission. I don't want to do anything in the dark, continued Nora, but of course I must see him. I suppose it will be better that he should come to me than that I should go to him. Lady Rowley quite understood the threat that was conveyed in this. It would be much better that Hugh should come to the hotel, and that he should be treated then as an accepted lover. She had come to that conclusion. But she was obliged to vacillate for a while between her husband and her daughter. Hugh came, of course, and Sir Marmaduke, by his wife's advice, kept out of the way. Lady Rowley, though she was at home, kept herself also out of the way, remaining above with her two other daughters. Nora thus achieved the glory and happiness of receiving her lover alone. My own true girl, he said, speaking with his arms still round her waist. I am true enough, but whether I am your own, that is another question. You mean to be. But Papa doesn't mean it. Papa says that you are nobody and that you haven't got an income, and thinks that I had better go back and be an old maid at the Mandarin's. And what do you think yourself, Nora? What do I think? As far as I can understand young ladies are not allowed to think at all. They have to do what their Papa's tell them. That will do, Hugh. You can talk without taking hold of me. It is such a time since I have had a hold of you, as you call it. It will be much longer before you can do so again. If I go back to the islands with Papa, I shall expect you to be true, you know, and it will be ten years at the least before I can hope to be home again. I don't think you mean to go, Nora. But what am I to do? That idea of yours of walking out to the next church and getting ourselves married sounds very nice and independent, but you know that it is not practicable. On the other hand, I know it is. It is not practicable for me, Hugh. Of all things in the world I don't want to be a Lydia. I won't do anything that anybody shall ever say that your wife ought not to have done. Young women, when they are married, ought to have their Papa's and Mama's consent. I have been thinking about it a great deal for the last month or two, and I have made up my mind to that. What is it all to come to, then? I mean to get Papa's consent. That is what it is to come to. And if he is obstinate, I shall coax him round at last. When the time for going comes, he'll yield then. But you will not go with them. As he asked this he came to her and tried again to take her by the waist, but she retreated from him and got herself clear from his arm. If you are afraid of me, I shall know that you think it possible that we may be parted. I am not a bit afraid of you, Hugh. Nor I think you ought to tell me something definitely. I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however. I will not go back to the islands. Give me your hand on that. There is my hand. But remember, I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean—but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do. You mean to be my wife? Certainly, some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself, the real question now is, what am I to do with myself when Papa and Mama are gone? Become Mrs. H. Standbury at once, chairs and tables. You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months. There must be preliminaries, Hugh, even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and Mama has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others out of which I don't see my way yet. Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others, but she soon stopped his eloquence. It will be by and by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man, but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all. I should have stayed with Emily in Italy had I not thought that I was bound to see you. My own darling! When Papa goes I think that I had better go back to her. I'll take you, said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose, soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that—that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one, and I must always remember that I met you there. After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful, and then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glasscock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Moncombe's. And see all the glories that might have been your own, he said, and think of the young man who has robbed me of them all, and you are to go there too so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends in showing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune, and an obedient good girl. And why didn't you? I thought I would wait just a little longer, because—because—because, oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me! And why didn't I speak to you? I don't know, because you were cross and surly and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Nidden and you hadn't a word for anybody? I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go. You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the places though I saw it now, and how I longed it to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones. You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet. Of course I pretended, because you were so cross and so cold. Oh, dear, I wonder whether you will ever know it all. Don't I know it all now? I suppose you do nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved anyone so dearly. And that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of, did you? I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say. You did nothing, sir, except just let me fall in love with you, and you were not quite sure that you would let me do that. Nora, I don't think you understand. I do perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand. Why was it? Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then, and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you.  They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient upstairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her, and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glasscock would have been—a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of and be proud of—whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in the banishment at the other side of the world. But nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh—to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevalian. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there, thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "'You must let me go from Emma for a moment,' Nora said. "'I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her.  Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a good boy in Lady Rowley's presence, and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognized the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke, but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevalian's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "'We don't know how that may be,' said Lady Rowley. Her papa still wishes her to go back with us. "'Mama, you know that that is impossible,' said Nora. "'Not impossible, my love. But she will not go back,' said Hugh. Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that.' "'It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask.' "'Mama!' "'Mama!' exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side. "'It is not papa that we must ask. Not now. We want you to be our friend, don't we, Hugh? And mama, if you will really be our friend, of course papa will come round.' "'My dear Nora, you know he will, mama, and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half a dozen wives before I could get back to him. If you have not more trust in him than that. Long engagements are awful bores,' said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "'I can trust him as far as I can see him,' said Nora, and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether.' Lady Rowley, of course, gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married sometime in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing and kissed him again, and Nora kissed him too and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him, which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men, when they first find themselves encouraged by mamas in the taking of liberties, which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes, that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER 90 Another week went by, and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the islands, and he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddolph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. He was, he said, much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair. Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income, and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. Such a love affair, thought Mr. Outhouse, was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all, if Nora came to him was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not? Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that the scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trebellion had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena, and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day, but nevertheless, according to her statements, her visits to Casa Lunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trebellion had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure. But after that he had not noticed the boy, and laterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude, but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon, and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said, and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman, but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chansary Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trebellion, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. He seemed, she said, to be withering away. His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked, and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence, but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again he would demand the child back and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. Don't come at any rate till I send for you, Mrs. Trebellion had said in her last letter to her sister. Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town, of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand to the waist much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as Papa is there, but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages, as soon as he knows that Papa has gone. Mind you, send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that Papa has sailed. It followed, as one consequence of these letters from Florence, that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncomputney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. There never was such a forlorn young woman, she said, when Papa goes I shall literally be without shelter. There had come a letter from Mrs. Glasscock—at least it was signed Caroline Glasscock, though another name might have been used—dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year because Lord Peterborough was dead. And she is Lady Peterborough, said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. Of course she is Lady Peterborough, Mama. What else should she be, though she does not so sign herself? We think, said the American Purists, that we shall be at Munkums before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death. I saw it in the paper, said Sir Marmaduke, and quite forgot to mention it. That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were altogether in the gloomy sitting-room at Greg's hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury, and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. If Papa will allow me something ever so small and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings, said Nora. It is the maddest thing I ever heard, said Sir Marmaduke. Who would take care of you, Nora? asked Lady Rowley.  I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that, said Sophie. Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well, said Nora. I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice, but it need not be for long. Why not for long? asked Sir Marmaduke. Not for very long, said Nora. It does not seem to me, said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day-named and no rational proposition made. Papa, that is unfair, most unfair, and ungenerous. Nora, said her mother, do not speak in that way to your father. Mama, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Standbury of being, being lukewarm and untrue, of not being in earnest. I would rather that he were not in earnest, said Sir Marmaduke. Mr. Standbury is ready at any time, continued Nora. He would have the bands at once read and marry me in three weeks, if I would let him. Good gracious, Nora, exclaimed Lady Rowley. But I have refused to name any day or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before Papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If Papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Munkums, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glasscock for that, and you can trust her.  She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home, said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further, and it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands, as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Standbury would be the best. In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke, of course, pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Standbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether he would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the DR say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the DR to do the work of anybody else when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Standbury's services were used on such an occasion there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half an hour was over, Standbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the DR, with a note from Lady Rowley. Dear Mr. Standbury, we have had a telegram from Emily and want to see you at once. Please come.  It was very distressing to them, because, let the results be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. For Standbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Sienna till the afternoon of the fourth day, and let the results be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter, but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. If anything were to happen she might have come with us, said Lady Rowley. It is out of the question, said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. I could not give up the places I have taken. A few days more would have done it. I don't suppose she would wish to go, said Nora. Of course she would not take Louie there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that. There is no saying, said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The boots had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and showed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night if it were necessary, and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there, she said. Of course I must speak to him before he goes.  Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just swarmed that he and everybody else should go to bed when there came a ring at the front doorbell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D.R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the house all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. It was certainly better that we should remain up than that the whole town should be disappointed, said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. It is so very, very good of you to come, said Nora. Indeed it is, said Lady Rowley, but we were quite sure you would come. Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram, said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name, continued Sir Marmaduke, but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you. No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke. We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week, the ship sails on Saturday. I will go as a matter of course, said Hugh. I will start at once, at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevalian and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure. There was much to be discussed and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again—probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost to strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover, but she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment—Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket—although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two—said something about defraying the cost of the journey. It is taken altogether on our behalf, said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevalian being the oldest friend he had in the world, even if there were nothing else. Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself. That cause, indeed, for the offer was natural, said nothing further about it, but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had-out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in pouring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw—we speak now especially of Bradshaw the continental—because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had-out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night-mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram should be sent to Emily the next morning to say that he was coming, and then he would hurry on and take his orders from her. They were all in doubt, terribly in doubt, whether the aggravated malady of which the telegram spoke was malady of the mind or of the body. If of the former nature then the difficulty might be very great indeed, and it would be highly expedient that Stanbury should have someone in Italy to assist him. It was Nora who suggested that he should carry a letter of introduction to Mr. Spalding, and it was she who wrote it. Sir Marmaduke had not foregathered very closely with the English minister, and nothing was said of assistance that should be peculiarly British. Then at last, about three or four in the morning came the moment for parting. Sir Marmaduke had suggested that Stanbury should dine with them on the next day before he started, but he had declined, alleging that as the day was at his command it must be devoted to the work of providing for his absence. In truth Sir Marmaduke had given the invitation with a surly voice, and he, though he was ready to go to the North Pole for any others of the family, was at the moment in an aggressive mood of mind towards Sir Marmaduke.   Good night, Sir Marmaduke, said Hugh. Good night, Mr. Stanbury. Then he gave a hand to the two girls, each of whom, as she took it, sobbed, and looked away from Nora. Nora was standing away from them, by herself, and away from the door, holding on to her chair and with her hands clasped together. She had prepared nothing, not a word or an attitude, not a thought for his farewell, but she had felt that it was coming, and had known that she must trust to him for a cue for her own demeanor. If he could say adieu with a quiet voice, and simply with a touch of the hand, then would she do the same, and endeavour to think no worse of him? Nor had he prepared anything, but when the moment came he could not leave her after that fashion. He stood a moment hesitating, not approaching her, and merely called her by her name—Nora. For a moment she was still, for a moment she held by her chair, and then she rushed into his arms. He did not much care for her father now, but kissed her hair and her forehead, and held her closely to his bosom. My own, own Nora. It was necessary that Sir Marmaduke should say something. There was at first a little scene between all the women, during which he arranged his deportment. Mr. Stanbury, he said, let it be so. I could wish for my child's sake, and also for your own, that your means of living were less precarious. Hugh accepted this simply as an authority for another embrace, and then he allowed them all to go to bed. End of CHAPTER 91 Stanbury made his journey without pause or hindrance till he reached Florence, and as the train for Siena made it necessary that he should remain there for four or five hours, he went to an inn, and dressed and washed himself, and had a meal, and was then driven to Mr. Spaulding's house. He found the American minister at home, and was received with cordiality, but Mr. Spaulding could tell him little or nothing about Trevelyan. They went up to Mrs. Spaulding's room, and Hugh was told by her that she had seen Mrs. Trevelyan once since her niece's marriage, and that then she had represented her husband as being very feeble. Hugh, in the midst of his troubles, was amused by a second and a third, perhaps by a fourth reference to Lady Peterborough. Mrs. Spaulding's latest tidings as to the Trevelyans had been received through Lady Peterborough from Nora Rowley. Lady Peterborough was at the present moment at Naples, but was expected to pass north through Florence in a day or two. They, the Spauldings themselves, were kept in Florence in this very hot weather by this circumstance. They were going up to the Tyrolese Mountains for a few weeks as soon as Lady Peterborough should have left them for England. Lady Peterborough would have been so happy to make Mr. Stanbury's acquaintance, and to have heard something direct from her friend Nora. Then Mrs. Spaulding smiled archly, showing thereby that she knew all about Hugh's Stanbury and his relation to Nora Rowley. From all which, and in accordance with the teaching which we got, alas now many years ago, from a great master on the subject, we must conclude that poor dear Mrs. Spaulding was a snob. Nevertheless, with all deference to the memory of that great master, we think that Mrs. Spaulding's allusions to the success in life achieved by her niece were natural and altogether pardonable, and that reticence on the subject, a calculated determination to abstain from mentioning a triumph which must have been very dear to her, would have betrayed on the whole a condition of mind lower than that which she exhibited. While rank, wealth, and money are held to be good things by all around us, let them be acknowledged as such. It is natural that a mother should be as proud when her daughter marries an earl's heir, as when her son becomes senior wrangler. And when we meet a lady in Mrs. Spaulding's condition, who purposely abstains from mentioning the name of her title daughter, we shall be disposed to judge harshly of the secret workings of that lady's thoughts on the subject. We prefer the exhibition, which we feel to be natural. Mr. Spaulding got our friend by the buttonhole, and was making him a speech on the perilous condition in which Mrs. Travellion was placed, but Stanbury, urged by the circumstances of his position, pulled out his watch, pleaded the hour, and escaped. He found Mrs. Travellion waiting for him at the station at Siena. He would hardly have known her, not from any alteration that was physically personal to herself, not that she had become older in face, or thin, or gray, or sickly, but that the trouble of her life had robbed her for the time of that brightness of apparel, of that pride of feminine gear, of that sheen of high-bred womanly bearing, with which our wives and daughters are so careful to invest themselves. She knew herself to be a wretched woman, whose work in life now was to watch over a poor prostrate wretch, and who had thrown behind her all ideas of grace and beauty. It was not quickly that this condition had come upon her. She had been unhappy at Nuncomputny, but unhappiness had not then told upon the outward woman. She had been more wretched still at St. Diddalf's, and all the outward circumstances of life in her uncle's parsonage had been very wearisome to her, but she had striven against it, and the sheen and outward brightness had still been there. After that her child had been taken from her, and the days which she had passed in Manchester Street had been very grievous, but even yet she had not given way. It was not till her child had been brought back to her, and she had seen the life which her husband was living, and that her anger, hot anger, had been changed to pity, and that with pity love had returned. It was not till this point had come in her sad life that her dress became always black and somber, that a veil habitually covered her face, that a bonnet took the place of the jaunty hat that she had worn, and that the prettinesses of her life were lain aside. It is very good of you to come, she said, very good. I hardly knew what to do I was so wretched. On the day that I sent, he was so bad that I was obliged to do something. Stanbury, of course, inquired after Trevelyan's health, as they were being driven up to Mrs. Trevelyan's lodgings. On the day on which she had sent the telegram, her husband had again been furiously angry with her. She had interfered, or had endeavored to interfere, in some arrangements as to his health and comfort, and he had turned upon her with an order that the child should be at once sent back to him, and that she should immediately quit Sienna, when I said that Louis could not be sent, and who could send a child into such keeping.  I was never to come to him again, never, and the gate of the house would be closed against me if I appeared there. On the next day she had gone again, however, and had seen him, and had visited him on every day since. Nothing further had been said about the child, and he had now become almost too weak for violent anger. I told him you were coming, and though he would not say so, I think he is glad of it. He expects you to-morrow. I will go this evening if he will let me. Not to-night. I think he goes to bed almost as the sun sets. I am never there myself after four or five in the afternoon. I told him that you should be there to-morrow, alone. I have hired a little carriage, and you can take it. He said specially that I was not to come with you. Papa goes certainly on next Saturday. It was a Saturday now, this day on which Stanbury had arrived at Sienna. He leaves town on Friday. You must make him believe that. Do not tell him suddenly, but bring it in by degrees. He thinks that I am deceiving him. He would go back if he knew that Papa were gone. They spent a long evening together, and Stanbury learned all that Mrs. Trevelyan could tell him of her husband's state. There was no doubt, she said, that his reason was affected, but she thought the state of his mind was diseased in a ratio the reverse of that of his body, and that when he was weakest in health, then were his ideas the most clear and rational. He never now mentioned Colonel Osborn's name, but would refer to the affairs of the last two years, as though they had been governed by an inexorable fate which had utterly destroyed his happiness without any fault on his part. You may be sure, she said, that I never accuse him, even when he says terrible things of me, which he does, I never excuse myself. I do not think I should answer a word if he called me the vilest thing on earth. Before they parted for the night many questions were of course asked about Nora, and Hugh described the condition in which he and she stood to each other. Nora has consented, then. Yes, at four o'clock in the morning, just as I was leaving them. And when is it to be? Nothing has been settled, and I do not as yet know where she will go when they leave London. I think she will visit Moncoms when the glass-cock people return to England. What an episode in life, to go and see the place when it might all now have been hers. I suppose I ought to feel dreadfully ashamed of myself for having marred such promotion, said Hugh. Nora is such a singular girl, so firm, so headstrong, so good, and so self-reliant, that she will do as well with a poor man as she would have done with a rich. Shall I confess to you that I did wish that she should accept Mr. Glasscock, and that I pressed it on her very strongly? You will not be angry with me. I am only the more proud of her, and of myself. When she was told of all that he had to give in the way of wealth and rank, she took the bit between her teeth and would not be turned an inch. Of course she was in love. I hope she may never regret it, that is all. She must change her nature first. Everything she sees at Moncoms will make her stronger in her choice. With all her girlish ways she is like a rock, nothing can move her. Early on the next morning Hugh started alone for Casalunga, having first, however, seen Mrs. Trevelyan. He took out with him certain little things for the sick man's table, as to which, however, he was cautioned to say not a word to the sick man himself, and it was arranged that he should endeavor to fix a day for Trevelyan's return to England. That was to be the one object in view. If we could get him to England, she said, he and I would, at any rate, be together, and gradually he would be taught to submit himself to advice. Before ten in the morning, Stanbury was walking up the hill to the house, and wondering at the dreary, hot, hopeless desolation of the spot. It seemed to him that no one could live alone in such a place, in such weather, without being driven to madness. The soil was parched and dusty, as though no drop of rain had fallen there for months. The lizards, glancing in and out of the broken walls, added to the appearance of heat. The vegetation itself was of a faded yellowish green, as though the glare of the sun had taken the fresh color out of it. There was a noise of grasshoppers, and a hum of flies in the air, hardly audible, but all giving evidence of the heat. Not a human voice was to be heard, nor the sound of a human foot, and there was no shelter, but the sun blazed down full upon everything.  Oh, God! To what misery had a little folly brought two human beings, who had had every blessing that the world could give within their reach? In a few minutes he was conducted through the house, and found travailions seated in a chair under the veranda, which looked down upon the olive trees. He did not even get up from his seat, but put out his left hand and welcomed his old friend. Standbury, he said, I am glad to see you, for old Langzine's sake. When I found out this retreat, I did not mean to have friends round me here. I wanted to try what solitude was, and by heaven I've tried it. He was dressed in a bright Italian dressing gown, or woolen palateau, Italian as having been bought in Italy, though doubtless it had come from France. And on his feet he had green-worked slippers, and on his head a brocaded cap. He had made but little other preparation for his friend in the way of dressing. His long, disheveled hair came down over his neck, and his beard covered his face. Beneath his dressing gown he had on a night-shirt and drawers, and was as dirty in appearance as he was gaudy in colors. Sit down and let us too moralize, he said.  Stanbury seated himself in a second arm-chair, which there was there in the veranda, and looked as carefully as he dared to do at his friend. There could be no mistake as to the restless gleam of that eye, and then the affected air of ease, and the would-be cynicism, and the pretense of false motives, all told the same story. They used to tell us, said Stanbury, that idleness is the root of all evil. They have been telling us since the world began so many lies that I for one have determined never to believe anything again. Labour leads to greed and greed to selfishness, and selfishness to treachery, and treachery straight to the devil, straight to the devil. Ha! my friend! All your leading articles won't lead you out of that. What's the news? Who's alive? Who dead? Who out? What think you of a man who has not seen a newspaper for two months, and who holds no conversation with the world further than is needed for the cooking of his polenta and the cooling of his modest wine flask? You see your wife sometimes, said Stanbury. My wife! Now my friend, let us drop that subject. Of all topics of talk it is the most distressing to man in general, and I own that I am no exception to the lot. Wives, Stanbury, are in evil. More or less necessary to humanity, and I own to being one who has not escaped. The world must be populated, though for what reason one does not see. I have helped, to the extent of one male bandling, and if you are one who consider population desirable, I will express my regret that I should have done no more. It was very difficult to force Trevelyan out of this humour, and it was not till Stanbury had risen, apparently to take his leave, that he found it possible to say a word as to his mission there. Don't you think you would be happier at home? he asked. Where is my home, Sir Knight of the Midnight Pen? England is your home, Trevelyan? No, sir. England was my home once, but I have taken the liberty accorded to me by my creator of choosing a new country. Italy is now my nation, and Casa Lunga is my home. Every tie you have in the world is in England. I have no tie, sir, no tie anywhere. It has been my study to untie all the ties, and by Jove I have succeeded. Look at me here. I have got rid of the trammels pretty well, haven't I? Have unshackled myself and thrown off the paddings and the wrappings and the swaddling clothes? I have got rid of the conventionalities and can look nature straight in the face. I don't even want the daily record, Stanbury. Think of that. Stanbury paced the length of the terrace, and then stooped for a moment down under the blaze of the sun in order that he might think how to address this philosopher.  Then there will be two more full-grown fools in the world, certainly, and probably an infinity of young fools coming afterwards. Excuse me, Stanbury, but this solitude is apt to make one plain spoken. I got Sir Marmaduke's sanction the day before I left. Then you got the sanction of an illiterate, ignorant, self-sufficient, and most contemptible old man, and much good may it do you. Let him be what he may, I was glad to have it. Most probably I shall never see him again. He sails from Southampton for the mandarins on this day week. He does, does he, may the devil sail along with him, that is all I say, and does my much respected and ever-to-be-beloved mother-in-law sail with him. They all return together, except Nora. Who remains to comfort you? I hope you may be comforted, that is all. Don't be too particular.  If she should even urge you beside yourself by her vanity, folly and disobedience, so that at last you are driven to express your feelings, no doubt she will come to you after a while, and tell you with the sweetest condescension that she forgives you. When she has been out of your house for a twelve-month or more, she will offer to come back to you, and to forget everything, on condition that you will do exactly as she bids you for the future. This attempt at satire, so fatuous, so plain, so false, together with the would-be jaunty manner of the speaker, who, however, failed repeatedly in his utterances from sheer physical exhaustion, was excessively painful to Standbury, what can one do at any time with a madman? I mentioned my marriage, said he, to prove my right to have an additional interest in your wife's happiness. You are quite welcome, whether you marry the other one or not. Welcome to take any interest you please. I have got beyond all that, Standbury, yes by Jove, a long way beyond all that. You have not got beyond loving your wife and your child, Trevelyan. Upon my word, yes, I think I have. There may be a grain of weakness left, you know, but what have you to do with my love for my wife? I was thinking more just now of her love for you. There she is at Sienna. You cannot mean that she should remain there. Certainly not. What the deuce is there to keep her there? Come with her, then, to England. Why should I go to England with her?  I know no other reason for going to England. Will you take a glass of wine, Standbury?" Hugh declined the offer. "'You will excuse me,' continued Trevelyan. "'I always take a glass of wine at this hour.' Then he rose from his chair, and helped himself from a cupboard that was near at hand. Standbury, watching him as he filled his glass, could see that his legs were hardly strong enough to carry him. And Standbury saw, moreover, that the unfortunate man took two glasses out of the bottle. Go to England, indeed. I do not think much of this country, but it is at any rate better than England.' Hugh perceived that he could do nothing more on the present occasion. Having heard so much of Trevelyan's debility, he had been astonished to hear the man speak with so much volubility and attempts at high-flown spirit. Before he had taken the wine, he had almost sunk into his chair, but still he had continued to speak with the same fluent would-be cynicism. "'I will come and see you again,' said Hugh, getting up to take his departure. "'You might as well save your trouble, Standbury, but you can come if you please, you know. You should find yourself locked out, you won't be angry. A hermit, such as I am, must assume privileges.' "'I won't be angry,' said Hugh, good-humoredly. "'I can smell what you are come about,' said Trevelyan. "'You and my wife want to take me away from here among you, and I think it best to stay here. I don't want much for myself, and why should I not live here? My wife can remain at Sienna if she pleases, or she can go to England if she pleases. She must give me the same liberty. The same liberty—the same liberty. After this he fell a-coughing violently, and Standbury thought it better to leave him. He had been at Casalunga about two hours, and did not seem as yet to have done any good. He had been astonished both by Trevelyan's weakness and by his strength, by his folly, and by his sharpness. Hitherto he could see no way for his future sister-in-law out of her troubles. When he was with her at Sienna, he described what had taken place with all the accuracy in his power. "'He has intermittent days,' said Emily. "'Tomorrow he will be in quite another frame of mind, melancholy, silent, perhaps, and self-reproachful. We will both go to-morrow, and we shall find probably that he has forgotten altogether what has passed to-day between you and him.' So their plans for the morrow were formed."