HUGH STANBURY.
[Illustration]
It has been already stated that Nora Rowley was not quite so well
disposed as perhaps she ought to have been, to fall in love with the
Honourable Charles Glascock, there having come upon her the habit of
comparing him with another gentleman whenever this duty of falling in
love with Mr. Glascock was exacted from her. That other gentleman was
one with whom she knew that it was quite out of the question that she
should fall in love, because he had not a shilling in the world; and
the other gentleman was equally aware that it was not open to him to
fall in love with Nora Rowley--for the same reason. In regard to such
matters Nora Rowley had been properly brought up, having been made
to understand by the best and most cautious of mothers, that in that
matter of falling in love it was absolutely necessary that bread and
cheese should be considered. "Romance is a very pretty thing," Lady
Rowley had been wont to say to her daughters, "and I don't think life
would be worth having without a little of it. I should be very sorry
to think that either of my girls would marry a man only because he
had money. But you can't even be romantic without something to eat
and drink." Nora thoroughly understood all this, and being well aware
that her fortune in the world, if it ever was to be made at all,
could only be made by marriage, had laid down for herself certain
hard lines,--lines intended to be as fast as they were hard. Let
what might come to her in the way of likings and dislikings, let the
temptation to her be ever so strong, she would never allow her heart
to rest on a man who, if he should ask her to be his wife, would not
have the means of supporting her. There were many, she knew, who
would condemn such a resolution as cold, selfish, and heartless. She
heard people saying so daily. She read in books that it ought to be
so regarded. But she declared to herself that she would respect the
judgment neither of the people nor of the books. To be poor alone, to
have to live without a husband, to look forward to a life in which
there would be nothing of a career, almost nothing to do, to await
the vacuity of an existence in which she would be useful to no one,
was a destiny which she could teach herself to endure, because it
might probably be forced upon her by necessity. Were her father to
die there would hardly be bread for that female flock to eat. As it
was, she was eating the bread of a man in whose house she was no more
than a visitor. The lot of a woman, as she often told herself, was
wretched, unfortunate, almost degrading. For a woman such as herself
there was no path open to her energy, other than that of getting a
husband. Nora Rowley thought of all this till she was almost sick of
the prospect of her life,--especially sick of it when she was told
with much authority by the Lady Milboroughs of her acquaintance that
it was her bounden duty to fall in love with Mr. Glascock. As to
falling in love with Mr. Glascock, she had not as yet quite made up
her mind. There was so much to be said on that side of the question,
if such falling in love could only be made possible. But she had
quite made up her mind that she would never fall in love with a poor
man. In spite, however, of all that, she felt herself compelled to
make comparisons between Mr. Glascock and one Mr. Hugh Stanbury, a
gentleman who had not a shilling.
Mr. Hugh Stanbury had been at college the most intimate friend of
Louis Trevelyan, and at Oxford had been, in spite of Trevelyan's
successes, a bigger man than his friend. Stanbury had not taken so
high a degree as Trevelyan,--indeed had not gone out in honours at
all. He had done little for the credit of his college, and had never
put himself in the way of wrapping himself up for life in the scanty
lambswool of a fellowship. But he had won for himself reputation as
a clever speaker, as a man who had learned much that college tutors
do not profess to teach, as a hard-headed, ready-witted fellow, who,
having the world as an oyster before him, which it was necessary that
he should open, would certainly find either a knife or a sword with
which to open it.
Immediately on leaving college he had come to town, and had entered
himself at Lincoln's Inn. Now, at the time of our story, he was a
barrister of four years' standing, but had never yet made a guinea.
He had never made a guinea by his work as a barrister, and was
beginning to doubt of himself whether he ever would do so. Not, as he
knew well, that guineas are generally made with ease by barristers
of four years' standing, but because, as he said to his friends, he
did not see his way to the knack of it. He did not know an attorney
in the world, and could not conceive how any attorney should ever
be induced to apply to him for legal aid. He had done his work of
learning his trade about as well as other young men, but had had no
means of distinguishing himself within his reach. He went the Western
Circuit because his aunt, old Miss Stanbury, lived at Exeter, but, as
he declared of himself, had he had another aunt living at York, he
would have had nothing whatsoever to guide him in his choice. He sat
idle in the courts, and hated himself for so sitting. So it had been
with him for two years without any consolation or additional burden
from other employment than that of his profession. After that, by
some chance, he had become acquainted with the editor of the Daily
Record, and by degrees had taken to the writing of articles. He had
been told by all his friends, and especially by Trevelyan, that if
he did this, he might as well sell his gown and wig. He declared,
in reply, that he had no objection to sell his gown and wig. He did
not see how he should ever make more money out of them than he would
do by such sale. But for the articles which he wrote, he received
instant payment, a process which he found to be most consolatory,
most comfortable, and, as he said to Trevelyan, as warm to him as a
blanket in winter.
Trevelyan, who was a year younger than Stanbury, had taken upon
himself to be very angry. He professed that he did not think much of
the trade of a journalist, and told Stanbury that he was sinking from
the highest to almost the lowest business by which an educated man
and a gentleman could earn his bread. Stanbury had simply replied
that he saw some bread on the one side, but none on the other; and
that bread from some side was indispensable to him. Then there had
come to be that famous war between Great Britain and the republic
of Patagonia, and Hugh Stanbury had been sent out as a special
correspondent by the editor and proprietor of the Daily Record.
His letters had been much read, and had called up a great deal of
newspaper pugnacity. He had made important statements which had been
flatly denied, and found to be utterly false; which again had been
warmly reasserted and proved to be most remarkably true to the
letter. In this way the correspondence, and he as its author, became
so much talked about that, on his return to England, he did actually
sell his gown and wig and declare to his friends,--and to Trevelyan
among the number,--that he intended to look to journalism for his
future career.
He had been often at the house in Curzon Street in the earliest
happy days of his friend's marriage, and had thus become
acquainted,--intimately acquainted,--with Nora Rowley. And now again,
since his return from Patagonia, that acquaintance had been renewed.
Quite lately, since the actual sale of that wig and gown had been
effected, he had not been there so frequently as before, because
Trevelyan had expressed his indignation almost too openly.
"That such a man as you should be so faint-hearted," Trevelyan had
said, "is a thing that I can not understand."
"Is a man faint-hearted when he finds it improbable that he shall be
able to leap his horse over a house?"
"What you had to do had been done by hundreds before you."
"What I had to do has never yet been done by any man," replied
Stanbury. "I had to live upon nothing till the lucky hour should
strike."
"I think you have been cowardly," said Trevelyan.
Even this had made no quarrel between the two men; but Stanbury had
expressed himself annoyed by his friend's language, and partly on
that account, and partly perhaps on another, had stayed away from
Curzon Street. As Nora Rowley had made comparisons about him, so had
he made comparisons about her. He had owned to himself that had it
been possible that he should marry, he would willingly entrust his
happiness to Miss Rowley. And he had thought once or twice that
Trevelyan had wished that such an arrangement might be made at some
future day. Trevelyan had always been much more sanguine in expecting
success for his friend at the Bar, than Stanbury had been for
himself. It might well be that such a man as Trevelyan might think
that a clever rising barrister would be an excellent husband for his
sister-in-law, but that a man earning a precarious living as a writer
for a penny paper would be by no means so desirable a connection.
Stanbury, as he thought of this, declared to himself that he would
not care two straws for Trevelyan in the matter, if he could see his
way without other impediments. But the other impediments were there
in such strength and numbers as to make him feel that it could not
have been intended by Fate that he should take to himself a wife.
Although those letters of his to the Daily Record had been so
pre-eminently successful, he had never yet been able to earn by
writing above twenty-five or thirty pounds a month. If that might be
continued to him he could live upon it himself; but, even with his
moderate views, it would not suffice for himself and family.
He had told Trevelyan that while living as an expectant barrister he
had no means of subsistence. In this, as Trevelyan knew, he was not
strictly correct. There was an allowance of L100 a year coming to him
from the aunt whose residence at Exeter had induced him to devote
himself to the Western Circuit. His father had been a clergyman with
a small living in Devonshire, and had now been dead some fifteen
years. His mother and two sisters were still living in a small
cottage in his late father's parish, on the interest of the money
arising from a life insurance. Some pittance from sixty to seventy
pounds a year was all they had among them. But there was a rich aunt,
Miss Stanbury, to whom had come considerable wealth in a manner most
romantic,--the little tale shall be told before this larger tale
is completed,--and this aunt had undertaken to educate and place
out in the world her nephew Hugh. So Hugh had been sent to Harrow,
and then to Oxford,--where he had much displeased his aunt by not
accomplishing great things,--and then had been set down to make his
fortune as a barrister in London, with an allowance of L100 a year,
his aunt having paid, moreover, certain fees for entrance, tuition,
and the like. The very hour in which Miss Stanbury learned that her
nephew was writing for a penny newspaper she sent off a dispatch to
tell him that he must give up her or the penny paper. He replied by
saying that he felt himself called upon to earn his bread in the only
line from which, as it seemed to him, bread would be forthcoming. By
return of post he got another letter to say that he might draw for
the quarter then becoming due, but that that would be the last. And
it was the last.
Stanbury made an ineffectual effort to induce his aunt to make over
the allowance,--or at least a part of it,--to his mother and sisters,
but the old lady paid no attention whatever to the request. She never
had given, and at that moment did not intend to give, a shilling
to the widow and daughters of her brother. Nor did she intend, or
had she ever intended, to leave a shilling of her money to Hugh
Stanbury,--as she had very often told him. The money was, at her
death, to go back to the people from whom it had come to her.
When Nora Rowley made those comparisons between Mr. Hugh Stanbury and
Mr. Charles Glascock, they were always wound up very much in favour
of the briefless barrister. It was not that he was the handsomer man,
for he was by no means handsome, nor was he the bigger man, for Mr.
Glascock was six feet tall; nor was he better dressed, for Stanbury
was untidy rather than otherwise in his outward person. Nor had
he any air of fashion or special grace to recommend him, for he
was undoubtedly an awkward-mannered man. But there was a glance of
sunshine in his eye, and a sweetness in the curl of his mouth when he
smiled, which made Nora feel that it would have been all up with her
had she not made so very strong a law for her own guidance. Stanbury
was a man about five feet ten, with shoulders more than broad in
proportion, stout limbed, rather awkward of his gait, with large feet
and hands, with soft wavy light hair, with light grey eyes, with a
broad, but by no means ugly, nose. His mouth and lips were large, and
he rarely showed his teeth. He wore no other beard than whiskers,
which he was apt to cut away through heaviness of his hand in
shaving, till Nora longed to bid him be more careful. "He doesn't
care what sort of a guy he makes of himself," she once said to her
sister, almost angrily. "He is a plain man, and he knows it," Emily
had replied. Mr. Trevelyan was doubtless a handsome man, and it was
almost on Nora's tongue to say something ill-natured on the subject.
Hugh Stanbury was reputed to be somewhat hot in spirit and manner. He
would be very sage in argument, pounding down his ideas on politics,
religion, or social life with his fist as well as his voice. He was
quick, perhaps, at making antipathies, and quick, too, in making
friendships; impressionable, demonstrative, eager, rapid in his
movements,--sometimes to the great detriment of his shins and
knuckles; and he possessed the sweetest temper that was ever given
to a man for the blessing of a woman. This was the man between whom
and Mr. Glascock Nora Rowley found it to be impossible not to make
comparisons.
On the very day after Lady Milborough's dinner party Stanbury
overtook Trevelyan in the street, and asked his friend where he was
going eastward. Trevelyan was on his way to call upon his lawyer, and
said so. But he did not say why he was going to his lawyer. He had
sent to his wife by Nora that morning to know whether she would make
to him the promise he required. The only answer which Nora could draw
from her sister was a counter question, demanding whether he would
ask her pardon for the injury he had done her. Nora had been most
eager, most anxious, most conciliatory as a messenger; but no good
had come of these messages, and Trevelyan had gone forth to tell all
his trouble to his family lawyer. Old Mr. Bideawhile had been his
father's ancient and esteemed friend, and he could tell things to
Mr. Bideawhile which he could not bring himself to tell to any
other living man; and he could generally condescend to accept Mr.
Bideawhile's advice, knowing that his father before him had been
guided by the same.
"But you are out of your way for Lincoln's Inn Fields," said
Stanbury.
"I have to call at Twining's. And where are you going?"
"I have been three times round St. James's Park to collect my
thoughts," said Stanbury, "and now I am on my way to the Daily R.,
250, Fleet Street. It is my custom of an afternoon. I am prepared
to instruct the British public of to-morrow on any subject, as per
order, from the downfall of a European compact to the price of a
London mutton chop."
"I suppose there is nothing more to be said about it," said
Trevelyan, after a pause.
"Not another word. How should there be? Aunt Jemima has already drawn
tight the purse strings, and it would soon be the casual ward in
earnest if it were not for the Daily R. God bless the Daily R. Only
think what a thing it is to have all subjects open to one, from the
destinies of France to the profit proper to a butcher."
"If you like it!"
"I do like it. It may not be altogether honest. I don't know what
is. But it's a deal honester than defending thieves and bamboozling
juries. How is your wife?"
"She's pretty well, thank you."
Stanbury knew at once from the tone of his friend's voice that there
was something wrong.
"And Louis the less?" he said, asking after Trevelyan's child.
"He's all right."
"And Miss Rowley? When one begins one's inquiries one is bound to go
through the whole family."
"Miss Rowley is pretty well," said Trevelyan.
Previously to this, Trevelyan when speaking of his sister-in-law to
Stanbury, had always called her Nora, and had been wont to speak
of her as though she were almost as much the friend of one of them
as of the other. The change of tone on this occasion was in truth
occasioned by the sadness of the man's thoughts in reference to his
wife, but Stanbury attributed it to another cause. "He need not be
afraid of me," he said to himself, "and at least he should not show
me that he is." Then they parted, Trevelyan going into Twining's
bank, and Stanbury passing on towards the office of the Daily R.
Stanbury had in truth been altogether mistaken as to the state of his
friend's mind on that morning. Trevelyan, although he had, according
to his custom, put in a word in condemnation of the newspaper line of
life, was at the moment thinking whether he would not tell all his
trouble to Hugh Stanbury. He knew that he should not find anywhere,
not even in Mr. Bideawhile, a more friendly or more trustworthy
listener. When Nora Rowley's name had been mentioned, he had not
thought of her. He had simply repeated the name with the usual
answer. He was at the moment cautioning himself against a confidence
which after all might not be necessary, and which on this occasion
was not made. When one is in trouble it is a great ease to tell one's
trouble to a friend; but then one should always wash one's dirty
linen at home. The latter consideration prevailed, and Trevelyan
allowed his friend to go on without burdening him with the story of
that domestic quarrel. Nor did he on that occasion tell it to Mr.
Bideawhile; for Mr. Bideawhile was not found at his chambers.