THE HONOURABLE MR. GLASCOCK.
[Illustration]
By the end of July Mrs. Trevelyan with her sister was established in
the Clock House, at Nuncombe Putney, under the protection of Hugh's
mother; but before the reader is made acquainted with any of the
circumstances of their life there, a few words must be said of an
occurrence which took place before those two ladies left Curzon
Street.
As to the quarrel between Trevelyan and his wife things went from bad
to worse. Lady Milborough continued to interfere, writing letters
to Emily which were full of good sense, but which, as Emily said
herself, never really touched the point of dispute. "Am I, who am
altogether unconscious of having done anything amiss, to confess that
I have been in the wrong? If it were about a small matter, I would
not mind, for the sake of peace. But when it concerns my conduct in
reference to another man I would rather die first." That had been
Mrs. Trevelyan's line of thought and argument in the matter; but
then old Lady Milborough in her letters spoke only of the duty of
obedience as promised at the altar. "But I didn't promise to tell a
lie," said Mrs. Trevelyan. And there were interviews between Lady
Milborough and Trevelyan, and interviews between Lady Milborough and
Nora Rowley. The poor dear old dowager was exceedingly busy and full
of groans, prescribing Naples, prescribing a course of extra prayers,
prescribing a general course of letting by-gones be by-gones,--to
which, however, Trevelyan would by no means assent without some
assurance, which he might regard as a guarantee,--prescribing
retirement to a small town in the west of France if Naples would not
suffice; but she could effect nothing.
Mrs. Trevelyan, indeed, did a thing which was sure of itself to
render any steps taken for a reconciliation ineffectual. In the midst
of all this turmoil,--while she and her husband were still living in
the same house, but apart because of their absurd quarrel respecting
Colonel Osborne, she wrote another letter to that gentleman. The
argument by which she justified this to herself, and to her sister
after it was done, was the real propriety of her own conduct
throughout her whole intimacy with Colonel Osborne. "But that is
just what Louis doesn't want you to do," Nora had said, filled with
anger and dismay. "Then let Louis give me an order to that effect,
and behave to me like a husband, and I will obey him," Emily had
answered. And she had gone on to plead that in her present condition
she was under no orders from her husband. She was left to judge for
herself, and,--judging for herself,--she knew, as she said, that it
was best that she should write to Colonel Osborne. Unfortunately
there was no ground for hoping that Colonel Osborne was ignorant
of this insane jealousy on the part of her husband. It was better,
therefore, she said, that she should write to him,--whom on the
occasion she took care to name to her sister as "papa's old
friend,"--and explain to him what she would wish him to do, and what
not to do. Colonel Osborne answered the letter very quickly, throwing
much more of demonstrative affection than he should have done into
his "Dear Emily," and his "Dearest Friend." Of course Mrs. Trevelyan
had burned this answer, and of course Mr. Trevelyan had been told of
the correspondence. His wife, indeed, had been especially careful
that there should be nothing secret about the matter,--that it should
be so known in the house that Mr. Trevelyan should be sure to hear
of it. And he had heard of it, and been driven almost mad by it. He
had flown off to Lady Milborough, and had reduced his old friend to
despair by declaring that, after all, he began to fear that his wife
was--was--was--infatuated by that d---- scoundrel. Lady Milborough
forgave the language, but protested that he was wrong in his
suspicion. "To continue to correspond with him after what I have said
to her!" exclaimed Trevelyan. "Take her to Naples at once,"--said
Lady Milborough;--"at once!" "And have him after me?" said Trevelyan.
Lady Milborough had no answer ready, and not having thought of
this looked very blank. "I should find it harder to deal with her
there even than here," continued Trevelyan. Then it was that Lady
Milborough spoke of the small town in the west of France, urging
as her reason that such a man as Colonel Osborne would certainly
not follow them there; but Trevelyan had become indignant at this,
declaring that if his wife's good name could be preserved in no other
manner than that, it would not be worth preserving at all. Then Lady
Milborough had begun to cry, and had continued crying for a very long
time. She was very unhappy,--as unhappy as her nature would allow
her to be. She would have made almost any sacrifice to bring the two
young people together;--would have willingly given her time, her
money, her labour in the cause;--would probably herself have gone
to the little town in the west of France, had her going been of any
service. But, nevertheless, after her own fashion, she extracted no
small enjoyment out of the circumstances of this miserable quarrel.
The Lady Milboroughs of the day hate the Colonel Osbornes from the
very bottoms of their warm hearts and pure souls; but they respect
the Colonel Osbornes almost as much as they hate them, and find it
to be an inestimable privilege to be brought into some contact with
these roaring lions.
But there arose to dear Lady Milborough a great trouble out of this
quarrel, irrespective of the absolute horror of the separation of a
young husband from his young wife. And the excess of her trouble on
this head was great proof of the real goodness of her heart. For, in
this matter, the welfare of Trevelyan himself was not concerned;--but
rather that of the Rowley family. Now the Rowleys had not given Lady
Milborough any special reason for loving them. When she had first
heard that her dear young friend Louis was going to marry a girl from
the Mandarins, she had been almost in despair. It was her opinion
that had he properly understood his own position, he would have
promoted his welfare by falling in love with the daughter of some
English country gentleman,--or some English peer, to which honour,
with his advantages, Lady Milborough thought that he might have
aspired. Nevertheless, when the girl from the Mandarins had been
brought home as Mrs. Trevelyan, Lady Milborough had received her with
open arms,--had received even the sister-in-law with arms partly
open. Had either of them shown any tendency to regard her as a
mother, she would have showered motherly cares upon them. For Lady
Milborough was like an old hen, in her capacity for taking many
under her wings. The two sisters had hardly done more than bear
with her,--Nora, indeed, bearing with her more graciously than Mrs.
Trevelyan; and in return, even for this, the old dowager was full of
motherly regard. Now she knew well that Mr. Glascock was over head
and ears in love with Nora Rowley. It only wanted the slightest
management and the easiest discretion to bring him on his knees, with
an offer of his hand. And, then, how much that hand contained!--how
much, indeed, as compared with that other hand, which was to be given
in return, and which was,--to speak the truth,--completely empty! Mr.
Glascock was the heir to a peer, was the heir to a rich peer, was the
heir to a very, very old peer. He was in Parliament. The world spoke
well of him. He was not, so to say, by any means an old man himself.
He was good-tempered, reasonable, easily led, and yet by no means
despicable. On all subjects connected with land, he held an opinion
that was very much respected, and was supposed to be a thoroughly
good specimen of an upper-class Englishman. Here was a suitor! But it
was not to be supposed that such a man as Mr. Glascock would be so
violently in love as to propose to a girl whose nearest known friend
and female relation was misbehaving herself.
Only they who have closely watched the natural uneasiness of human
hens can understand how great was Lady Milborough's anxiety on
this occasion. Marriage to her was a thing always delightful to
contemplate. Though she had never been sordidly a match-maker, the
course of the world around her had taught her to regard men as fish
to be caught, and girls as the anglers who ought to catch them. Or,
rather, could her mind have been accurately analysed, it would have
been found that the girl was regarded as half-angler and half-bait.
Any girl that angled visibly with her own hook, with a manifestly
expressed desire to catch a fish, was odious to her. And she was very
gentle-hearted in regard to the fishes, thinking that every fish
in the river should have the hook and bait presented to him in the
mildest, pleasantest form. But still, when the trout was well in
the basket, her joy was great; and then came across her unlaborious
mind some half-formed idea that a great ordinance of nature was
being accomplished in the teeth of difficulties. For,--as she well
knew,--there is a difficulty in the catching of fish.
Lady Milborough, in her kind anxiety on Nora's behalf,--that the fish
should be landed before Nora might be swept away in her sister's
ruin,--hardly knew what step she might safely take. Mrs. Trevelyan
would not see her again,--having already declared that any further
interview would be painful and useless. She had spoken to Trevelyan,
but Trevelyan had declared that he could do nothing. What was there
that he could have done? He could not, as he said, overlook the gross
improprieties of his wife's conduct, because his wife's sister had,
or might possibly have, a lover. And then as to speaking to Mr.
Glascock himself,--nobody knew better than Lady Milborough how very
apt fish are to be frightened.
But at last Lady Milborough did speak to Mr. Glascock,--making no
allusion whatever to the hook prepared for himself, but saying a word
or two as to the affairs of that other fish, whose circumstances, as
he floundered about in the bucket of matrimony, were not as happy as
they might have been. The care, the discretion, nay, the wisdom with
which she did this were most excellent. She had become aware that
Mr. Glascock had already heard of the unfortunate affair in Curzon
Street. Indeed, every one who knew the Trevelyans had heard of it,
and a great many who did not know them. No harm, therefore, could
be done by mentioning the circumstance. Lady Milborough did mention
it, explaining that the only person really in fault was that odious
destroyer of the peace of families, Colonel Osborne, of whom
Lady Milborough, on that occasion, said some very severe things
indeed. Poor dear Mrs. Trevelyan was foolish, obstinate, and
self-reliant;--but as innocent as the babe unborn. That things would
come right before long no one who knew the affair,--and she knew it
from beginning to end,--could for a moment doubt. The real victim
would be that sweetest of all girls, Nora Rowley. Mr. Glascock
innocently asked why Nora Rowley should be a victim. "Don't you
understand, Mr. Glascock, how the most remote connection with a
thing of that kind tarnishes a young woman's standing in the world?"
Mr. Glascock was almost angry with the well-pleased Countess as he
declared that he could not see that Miss Rowley's standing was at all
tarnished; and old Lady Milborough, when he got up and left her, felt
that she had done a good morning's work. If Nora could have known it
all, Nora ought to have been very grateful, for Mr. Glascock got into
a cab in Eccleston Square and had himself driven direct to Curzon
Street. He himself believed that he was at that moment only doing the
thing which he had for some time past resolved that he would do; but
we perhaps may be justified in thinking that the actual resolution
was first fixed by the discretion of Lady Milborough's communication.
At any rate he arrived in Curzon Street with his mind fully resolved,
and had spent the minutes in the cab considering how he had better
perform the business in hand.
He was at once shown into the drawing-room, where he found the two
sisters, and Mrs. Trevelyan, as soon as she saw him, understood the
purpose of his coming. There was an air of determination about him, a
manifest intention of doing something, an absence of that vagueness
which almost always flavours a morning visit. This was so strongly
marked that Mrs. Trevelyan felt that she would have been almost
justified in getting up and declaring that, as this visit was paid
to her sister, she would retire. But any such declaration on her
part was unnecessary, as Mr. Glascock had not been in the room three
minutes before he asked her to go. By some clever device of his own,
he got her into the back room and whispered to her that he wanted to
say a few words in private to her sister.
"Oh, certainly," said Mrs. Trevelyan, smiling.
"I dare say you may guess what they are," said he. "I don't know what
chance I may have."
"I can tell you nothing about that," she replied, "as I know nothing.
But you have my good wishes."
And then she went.
It may be presumed that gradually some idea of Mr. Glascock's
intention had made its way into Nora's mind by the time that she
found herself alone with that gentleman. Why else had he brought into
the room with him that manifest air of a purpose? Why else had he
taken the very strong step of sending the lady of the house out of
her own drawing-room? Nora, beginning to understand this, put herself
into an attitude of defence. She had never told herself that she
would refuse Mr. Glascock. She had never acknowledged to herself
that there was another man whom she liked better than she liked Mr.
Glascock. But had she ever encouraged any wish for such an interview,
her feelings at this moment would have been very different from what
they were. As it was, she would have given much to postpone it, so
that she might have asked herself questions, and have discovered
whether she could reconcile herself to do that which, no doubt, all
her friends would commend her for doing. Of course, it was clear
enough to the mind of the girl that she had her fortune to make, and
that her beauty and youth were the capital on which she had to found
it. She had not lived so far from all taint of corruption as to feel
any actual horror at the idea of a girl giving herself to a man,--not
because the man had already, by his own capacities in that direction,
forced her heart from her,--but because he was one likely to be at
all points a good husband. Had all this affair concerned any other
girl, any friend of her own, and had she known all the circumstances
of the case, she would have had no hesitation in recommending that
other girl to marry Mr. Glascock. A girl thrown out upon the world
without a shilling must make her hay while the sun shines. But,
nevertheless, there was something within her bosom which made her
long for a better thing than this. She had dreamed, if she had not
thought, of being able to worship a man; but she could hardly worship
Mr. Glascock. She had dreamed, if she had not thought, of leaning
upon a man all through life with her whole weight, as though that
man had been specially made to be her staff, her prop, her support,
her wall of comfort and protection. She knew that if she were to
marry Mr. Glascock and become Lady Peterborough, in due course she
must stand a good deal by her own strength, and live without that
comfortable leaning. Nevertheless, when she found herself alone with
the man, she by no means knew whether she would refuse him or not.
But she knew that she must pluck up courage for an important moment,
and she collected herself, braced her muscles, as it were, for a
fight, and threw her mind into an attitude of contest.
Mr. Glascock, as soon as the door was shut behind Mrs. Trevelyan's
back, took a chair and placed it close beside the head of the sofa on
which Nora was sitting. "Miss Rowley," he said, "you and I have known
each other now for some months, and I hope you have learned to regard
me as a friend."
"Oh, yes, indeed," said Nora, with some spirit.
"It has seemed to me that we have met as friends, and I can most
truly say for myself, that I have taken the greatest possible
pleasure in your acquaintance. It is not only that I admire you very
much,"--he looked straight before him as he said this, and moved
about the point of the stick which he was holding in both his
hands,--"it is not only that,--perhaps not chiefly that, though I do
admire you very much; but the truth is, that I like everything about
you."
Nora smiled, but she said nothing. It was better, she thought, to let
him tell his story; but his mode of telling it was not without its
efficacy. It was not the simple praise which made its way with her
but a certain tone in the words which seemed to convince her that
they were true. If he had really found her, or fancied her to be what
he said, there was a manliness in his telling her so in the plainest
words that pleased her much.
"I know," continued he, "that this is a very bald way of telling--of
pleading--my cause; but I don't know whether a bald way may not
be the best, if it can only make itself understood to be true. Of
course, Miss Rowley, you know what I mean. As I said before, you have
all those things which not only make me love you, but which make me
like you also. If you think that you can love me, say so; and, as
long as I live, I will do my best to make you happy as my wife."
There was a clearness of expression in this, and a downright
surrender of himself, which so flattered her and so fluttered her
that she was almost reduced to the giving of herself up because she
could not reply to such an appeal in language less courteous than
that of agreement. After a moment or two she found herself remaining
silent, with a growing feeling that silence would be taken as
conveying consent. There floated quickly across her brain an idea of
the hardness of a woman's lot, in that she should be called upon to
decide her future fate for life in half a minute. He had had weeks to
think of this,--weeks in which it would have been almost unmaidenly
in her so to think of it as to have made up her mind to accept the
man. Had she so made up her mind, and had he not come to her, where
would she have been then? But he had come to her. There he was, still
poking about with his stick, waiting for her, and she must answer
him. And he was the eldest son of a peer,--an enormous match for her,
very proper in all respects; such a man, that if she should accept
him, everybody around her would regard her fortune in life as
miraculously successful. He was not such a man that any one would
point at her and say,--"There; see another of them who has sold
herself for money and a title!" Mr. Glascock was not an Apollo, not
an admirable Crichton; but he was a man whom any girl might have
learned to love. Now he had asked her to be his wife, and it was
necessary that she should answer him. He sat there waiting for her
very patiently, still poking about the point of his stick.
Did she really love him? Though she was so pressed by consideration
of time, she did find a moment in which to ask herself the question.
With a quick turn of an eye she glanced at him, to see what he was
like. Up to this moment, though she knew him well, she could have
given no details of his personal appearance. He was a better-looking
man than Hugh Stanbury,--so she told herself with a passing thought;
but he lacked--he lacked; what was it that he lacked? Was it youth,
or spirit, or strength; or was it some outward sign of an inward gift
of mind? Was it that he was heavy while Hugh was light? Was it that
she could find no fire in his eye, while Hugh's eyes were full of
flashing? Or was it that for her, especially for her, Hugh was the
appointed staff and appropriate wall of protection? Be all that as it
might, she knew at the moment that she did love, not this man, but
that other who was writing articles for the Daily Record. She must
refuse the offer that was so brilliant, and give up the idea of
reigning as queen at Monkhams.
"Oh, Mr. Glascock," she said, "I ought to answer you more quickly."
"No, dearest; not more quickly than suits you. Nothing ever in this
world can be more important both to you and to me. If you want more
time to think of it, take more time."
"No, Mr. Glascock; I do not. I don't know why I should have paused.
Is not the truth best?"
"Yes,--certainly the truth is best."
"I do not--love you. Pray, pray understand me."
"I understand it too well, Miss Rowley." The stick was still going,
and the eyes more intently fixed than ever on something opposite.
"I do like you; I like you very much. And I am so grateful! I cannot
understand why such a man as you should want to make me your wife."
"Because I love you better than all the others; simply that. That
reason, and that only, justifies a man in wanting to marry a girl."
What a good fellow he was, and how flattering were his words! Did he
not deserve what he wanted, even though it could not be given without
a sacrifice? But yet she did not love him. As she looked at him again
she could not there recognise her staff. As she looked at him she was
more than ever convinced that that other staff ought to be her staff.
"May I come again,--after a month, say?" he asked, when there had
been another short period of silence.
"No, no. Why should you trouble yourself? I am not worth it."
"It is for me to judge of that, Miss Rowley."
"All the same, I know that I am not worth it. And I could not tell
you to do that."
"Then I will wait, and come again without your telling me."
"Oh, Mr. Glascock, I did not mean that; indeed I did not. Pray do not
think that. Take what I say as final. I like you more than I can say;
and I feel a gratitude to you that I cannot express,--which I shall
never forget. I have never known any one who has seemed to be so good
as you. But-- It is just what I said before." And then she fairly
burst into tears.
"Miss Rowley," he said, very slowly, "pray do not think that I want
to ask any question which it might embarrass you to answer. But my
happiness is so greatly at stake; and, if you will allow me to say
so, your happiness, too, is so greatly concerned, that it is most
important that we should not come to a conclusion too quickly. If I
thought that your heart were vacant I would wait patiently. I have
been thinking of you as my possible wife for weeks past,--for months
past. Of course you have not had such thoughts about me." As he said
this she almost loved him for his considerate goodness. "It has
sometimes seemed to me odd that girls should love men in such a
hurry. If your heart be free, I will wait. And if you esteem me, you
can see, and try whether you cannot learn to love me."
"I do esteem you."
"It depends on that question, then?" he said, slowly.
She sat silent for fully a minute, with her hands clasped; and then
she answered him in a whisper. "I do not know," she said.
He also was silent for a while before he spoke again. He ceased to
poke with his stick, and got up from his chair, and stood a little
apart from her, not looking at her even yet.
"I see," he said at last. "I understand. Well, Miss Rowley, I quite
perceive that I cannot press my suit any further now. But I shall not
despair altogether. I know this, that if I might possibly succeed, I
should be a very happy man. Good-bye, Miss Rowley."
She took his offered hand and pressed it so warmly, that had he not
been manly and big-hearted, he would have taken such pressure as a
sign that she wished him to ask her again. But such was his nature.
"God bless you," he said, "and make you happy, whatever you may
choose to do."
Then he left her, and she heard him walk down the stairs with heavy
slow steps, and she thought that she could perceive from the sound
that he was sad at heart, but that he was resolved not to show his
sadness outwardly.
When she was alone she began to think in earnest of what she had
done. If the reader were told that she regretted the decision which
she had been forced to make so rapidly, a wrong impression would
be given of the condition of her thoughts. But there came upon her
suddenly a strange capacity for counting up and making a mental
inventory of all that might have been hers. She knew,--and where is
the girl so placed that does not know?--that it is a great thing to
be an English peeress. Now, as she stood there thinking of it all,
she was Nora Rowley without a shilling in the world, and without a
prospect of a shilling. She had often heard her mother speak fearful
words of future possible days, when colonial governing should no
longer be within the capacity of Sir Marmaduke. She had been taught
from a very early age that all the material prosperity of her life
must depend on matrimony. She could never be comfortably disposed of
in the world, unless some fitting man who possessed those things of
which she was so bare, should wish to make her his wife. Now there
had come a man so thoroughly fitting, so marvellously endowed, that
no worldly blessing would have been wanting. Mr. Glascock had more
than once spoken to her of the glories of Monkhams. She thought of
Monkhams now more than she had ever thought of the place before.
It would have been a great privilege to be the mistress of an old
time-honoured mansion, to call oaks and elms her own, to know that
acres of gardens were submitted to her caprices, to look at herds
of cows and oxen, and be aware that they lowed on her own pastures.
And to have been the mother of a future peer of England, to
have the nursing, and sweet custody and very making of a future
senator,--would not that have been much? And the man himself who
would have been her husband was such a one that any woman might have
trusted herself to him with perfect confidence. Now that he was
gone she almost fancied that she did love him. Then she thought of
Hugh Stanbury, sitting as he had described himself, in a little
dark closet at the office of the "D. R.," in a very old inky
shooting-coat, with a tarnished square-cut cloth cap upon his head,
with a short pipe in his mouth, writing at midnight for the next
morning's impression, this or that article according to the order
of his master, "the tallow-chandler;"--for the editor of the Daily
Record was a gentleman whose father happened to be a grocer in the
City, and Hugh had been accustomed thus to describe the family
trade. And she might certainly have had the peer, and the acres of
garden, and the big house, and the senatorial honours; whereas the
tallow-chandler's journeyman had never been so out-spoken. She told
herself from moment to moment that she had done right; that she would
do the same a dozen times, if a dozen times the experiment could
be repeated; but still, still, there was the remembrance of all
that she had lost. How would her mother look at her, her anxious,
heavily-laden mother, when the story should be told of all that had
been offered to her and all that had been refused?
[Illustration: To have been the mother of a future peer!]
As she was thinking of this Mrs. Trevelyan came into the room. Nora
felt that though she might dread to meet her mother, she could be
bold enough on such an occasion before her sister. Emily had not
done so well with her own affairs, as to enable her to preach with
advantage about marriage.
"He has gone?" said Mrs. Trevelyan, as she opened the door.
"Yes, he has gone."
"Well? Do not pretend, Nora, that you will not tell me."
"There is nothing worth the telling, Emily."
"What do you mean? I am sure he has proposed. He told me in so many
words that it was his intention."
"Whatever has happened, dear, you may be quite sure that I shall
never be Mrs. Glascock."
"Then you have refused him,--because of Hugh Stanbury!"
"I have refused him, Emily, because I did not love him. Pray let that
be enough."
Then she walked out of the room with something of stateliness in her
gait,--as might become a girl who had had it in her power to be the
future Lady Peterborough; but as soon as she reached the sacredness
of her own chamber, she gave way to an agony of tears. It would,
indeed, be much to be a Lady Peterborough. And she had, in truth,
refused it all because of Hugh Stanbury! Was Hugh Stanbury worth so
great a sacrifice?