THE CLOCK HOUSE AT NUNCOMBE PUTNEY.
It was not till a fortnight had passed after the transaction recorded
in the last chapter, that Mrs. Trevelyan and Nora Rowley first heard
the proposition that they should go to live at Nuncombe Putney. From
bad to worse the quarrel between the husband and the wife had gone
on, till Trevelyan had at last told his friend Lady Milborough
that he had made up his mind that they must live apart. "She is so
self-willed,--and perhaps I am the same," he had said, "that it
is impossible that we should live together." Lady Milborough had
implored and called to witness all testimonies, profane and sacred,
against such a step,--had almost gone down on her knees. Go to
Naples,--why not Naples? Or to the quiet town in the west of France,
which was so dull that a wicked roaring lion, fond of cities and
gambling, and eating and drinking, could not live in such a place!
Oh, why not go to the quiet town in the west of France? Was not
anything better than this flying in the face of God and man? Perhaps
Trevelyan did not himself like the idea of the quiet dull French
town. Perhaps he thought that the flying in the face of God and man
was all done by his wife, not by him; and that it was right that his
wife should feel the consequences. After many such entreaties, many
such arguments, it was at last decided that the house in Curzon
Street should be given up, and that he and his wife live apart.
"And what about Nora Rowley?" asked Lady Milborough, who had become
aware by this time of Nora's insane folly in having refused Mr.
Glascock.
"She will go with her sister, I suppose."
"And who will maintain her? Dear, dear, dear! It does seem as though
some young people were bent upon cutting their own throats, and all
their family's."
Poor Lady Milborough just at this time went as near to disliking the
Rowleys as was compatible with her nature. It was not possible to her
to hate anybody. She thought that she hated the Colonel Osbornes; but
even that was a mistake. She was very angry, however, with both Mrs.
Trevelyan and her sister, and was disposed to speak of them as though
they had been born to create trouble and vexation.
Trevelyan had not given any direct answer to that question about Nora
Rowley's maintenance, but he was quite prepared to bear all necessary
expense in that direction, at any rate till Sir Marmaduke should have
arrived. At first there had been an idea that the two sisters should
go to the house of their aunt, Mrs. Outhouse. Mrs. Outhouse was the
wife,--as the reader may perhaps remember,--of a clergyman living
in the east of London. St. Diddulph's-in-the-East was very much in
the east indeed. It was a parish outside the City, lying near the
river, very populous, very poor, very low in character, and very
uncomfortable. There was a rectory-house, queerly situated at the
end of a little blind lane, with a gate of its own, and a so-called
garden about twenty yards square. But the rectory of St. Diddulph's
cannot be said to have been a comfortable abode. The neighbourhood
was certainly not alluring. Of visiting society within a distance
of three or four miles there was none but what was afforded by the
families of other East-end clergymen. And then Mr. Outhouse himself
was a somewhat singular man. He was very religious, devoted to
his work, most kind to the poor; but he was unfortunately a
strongly-biased man, and at the same time very obstinate withal. He
had never allied himself very cordially with his wife's brother,
Sir Marmaduke, allowing himself to be carried away by a prejudice
that people living at the West-end, who frequented clubs, and
were connected in any way with fashion, could not be appropriate
companions for himself. The very title which Sir Marmaduke had
acquired was repulsive to him, and had induced him to tell his
wife more than once that Sir this or Sir that could not be fitting
associates for a poor East-end clergyman. Then his wife's niece had
married a man of fashion,--a man supposed at St. Diddulph's to be
very closely allied to fashion; and Mr. Outhouse had never been
induced even to dine in the house in Curzon Street. When, therefore,
he heard that Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan were to be separated within two
years of their marriage, it could not be expected that he should be
very eager to lend to the two sisters the use of his rectory.
There had been interviews between Mr. Outhouse and Trevelyan, and
between Mrs. Outhouse and her niece; and then there was an interview
between Mr. Outhouse and Emily, in which it was decided that Mrs.
Trevelyan would not go to the parsonage of St. Diddulph's. She had
been very outspoken to her uncle, declaring that she by no means
intended to carry herself as a disgraced woman. Mr. Outhouse had
quoted St. Paul to her; "Wives, obey your husbands." Then she had
got up and had spoken very angrily. "I look for support from you,"
she said, "as the man who is the nearest to me, till my father
shall come." "But I cannot support you in what is wrong," said the
clergyman. Then Mrs. Trevelyan had left the room, and would not see
her uncle again.
She carried things altogether with a high hand at this time. When old
Mr. Bideawhile called upon her, her husband's ancient family lawyer,
she told that gentleman that if it was her husband's will that they
should live apart, it must be so. She could not force him to remain
with her. She could not compel him to keep up the house in Curzon
Street. She had certain rights, she believed. She spoke then, she
said, of pecuniary rights,--not of those other rights which her
husband was determined, and was no doubt able, to ignore. She did not
really know what those pecuniary rights might be, nor was she careful
to learn their exact extent. She would thank Mr. Bideawhile to see
that things were properly arranged. But of this her husband, and Mr.
Bideawhile, might be quite sure;--she would take nothing as a favour.
She would not go to her uncle's house. She declined to tell Mr.
Bideawhile why she had so decided; but she had decided. She was ready
to listen to any suggestion that her husband might make as to her
residence, but she must claim to have some choice in the matter. As
to her sister, of course she intended to give Nora a home as long as
such a home might be wanted. It would be very sad for Nora, but in
existing circumstances such an arrangement would be expedient. She
would not go into details as to expense. Her husband was driving
her away from him, and it was for him to say what proportion of his
income he would choose to give for her maintenance,--for hers and
for that of their child. She was not desirous of anything beyond the
means of decent living, but of course she must for the present find
a home for her sister as well as for herself. When speaking of her
baby she had striven hard so to speak that Mr. Bideawhile should find
no trace of doubt in the tones of her voice. And yet she had been
full of doubt,--full of fear. As Mr. Bideawhile had uttered nothing
antagonistic to her wishes in this matter,--had seemed to agree
that wherever the mother went thither the child would go also,--Mrs.
Trevelyan had considered herself to be successful in this interview.
The idea of a residence at Nuncombe Putney had occurred first to
Trevelyan himself, and he had spoken of it to Hugh Stanbury. There
had been some difficulty in this, because he had snubbed Stanbury
grievously when his friend had attempted to do some work of gentle
interference between him and his wife; and when he began the
conversation, he took the trouble of stating, in the first instance,
that the separation was a thing fixed,--so that nothing might be
urged on that subject. "It is to be. You will understand that,"
he said; "and if you think that your mother would agree to the
arrangement, it would be satisfactory to me, and might, I think,
be made pleasant to her. Of course, your mother would be made to
understand that the only fault with which my wife is charged is that
of indomitable disobedience to my wishes."
"Incompatibility of temper," suggested Stanbury.
"You may call it that if you please;--though I must say for myself
that I do not think that I have displayed any temper to which a
woman has a right to object." Then he had gone on to explain what
he was prepared to do about money. He would pay, through Stanbury's
hands, so much for maintenance and so much for house rent, on the
understanding that the money was not to go into his wife's hands.
"I shall prefer," he said, "to make myself, on her behalf, what
disbursements may be necessary. I will take care that she receives a
proper sum quarterly through Mr. Bideawhile for her own clothes,--and
for those of our poor boy." Then Stanbury had told him of the Clock
House, and there had been an agreement made between them;--an
agreement which was then, of course, subject to the approval of
the ladies at Nuncombe Putney. When the suggestion was made to Mrs.
Trevelyan,--with a proposition that the Clock House should be taken
for one year, and that for that year, at least, her boy should remain
with her,--she assented to it. She did so with all the calmness that
she was able to assume; but, in truth, almost everything seemed to
have been gained, when she found that she was not to be separated
from her baby. "I have no objection to living in Devonshire if Mr.
Trevelyan wishes it," she said, in her most stately manner; "and
certainly no objection to living with Mr. Stanbury's mother." Then
Mr. Bideawhile explained to her that Nuncombe Putney was not a large
town,--was, in fact, a very small and a very remote village. "That
will make no difference whatsoever as far as I am concerned," she
answered; "and as for my sister, she must put up with it till my
father and my mother are here. I believe the scenery at Nuncombe
Putney is very pretty." "Lovely!" said Mr. Bideawhile, who had a
general idea that Devonshire is supposed to be a picturesque
county. "With such a life before me as I must lead," continued Mrs.
Trevelyan, "an ugly neighbourhood, one that would itself have had
no interest for a stranger, would certainly have been an additional
sorrow." So it had been settled, and by the end of July, Mrs.
Trevelyan, with her sister and baby, was established at the Clock
House, under the protection of Mrs. Stanbury. Mrs. Trevelyan had
brought down her own maid and her own nurse, and had found that the
arrangements made by her husband had, in truth, been liberal. The
house in Curzon Street had been given up, the furniture had been sent
to a warehouse, and Mr. Trevelyan had gone into lodgings. "There
never were two young people so insane since the world began," said
Lady Milborough to her old friend, Mrs. Fairfax, when the thing was
done.
"They will be together again before next April," Mrs. Fairfax had
replied. But Mrs. Fairfax was a jolly dame who made the best of
everything. Lady Milborough raised her hands in despair, and shook
her head. "I don't suppose, though, that Mr. Glascock will go to
Devonshire after his lady love," said Mrs. Fairfax. Lady Milborough
again raised her hands, and again shook her head.
Mrs. Stanbury had given an easy assent when her son proposed to her
this new mode of life, but Priscilla had had her doubts. Like all
women, she thought that when a man was to be separated from his wife,
the woman must be in the wrong. And though it must be doubtless
comfortable to go from the cottage to the Clock House, it
would, she said, with much prudence, be very uncomfortable
to go back from the Clock House to the cottage. Hugh replied
very cavalierly,--generously, that is, rashly, and somewhat
impetuously,--that he would guarantee them against any such
degradation.
"We don't want to be a burden upon you, my dear," said the mother.
"You would be a great burden on me," he replied, "if you were living
uncomfortably while I am able to make you comfortable."
Mrs. Stanbury was soon won over by Mrs. Trevelyan, by Nora, and
especially by the baby; and even Priscilla, after a week or two,
began to feel that she liked their company. Priscilla was a young
woman who read a great deal, and even had some gifts of understanding
what she read. She borrowed books from the clergyman, and paid a
penny a week to the landlady of the Stag and Antlers for the hire
during half a day of the weekly newspaper. But now there came a box
of books from Exeter, and a daily paper from London, and,--to improve
all this,--both the new comers were able to talk with her about the
things she read. She soon declared to her mother that she liked
Miss Rowley much the best of the two. Mrs. Trevelyan was too fond
of having her own way. She began to understand, she would say to
her mother, that a man might find it difficult to live with Mrs.
Trevelyan. "She hardly ever yields about anything," said Priscilla.
As Miss Priscilla Stanbury was also very fond of having her own way,
it was not surprising that she should object to that quality in this
lady, who had come to live under the same roof with her.
The country about Nuncombe Putney is perhaps as pretty as any in
England. It is beyond the river Teign, between that and Dartmoor,
and is so lovely in all its variations of rivers, rivulets, broken
ground, hills and dales, old broken, battered, time-worn timber,
green knolls, rich pastures, and heathy common, that the wonder is
that English lovers of scenery know so little of it. At the Stag and
Antlers old Mrs. Crocket, than whom no old woman in the public line
was ever more generous, more peppery, or more kind, kept two clean
bed-rooms, and could cook a leg of Dartmoor mutton and make an apple
pie against any woman in Devonshire. "Drat your fish!" she would say,
when some self-indulgent and exacting traveller would wish for more
than these accustomed viands. "Cock you up with dainties! If you
can't eat your victuals without fish, you must go to Exeter. And
then you'll get it stinking mayhap." Now Priscilla Stanbury and Mrs.
Crocket were great friends, and there had been times of deep want,
in which Mrs. Crocket's friendship had been very serviceable to the
ladies at the cottage. The three young women had been to the inn one
morning to ask after a conveyance from Nuncombe Putney to Princetown,
and had found that a four-wheeled open carriage with an old horse
and a very young driver could be hired there. "We have never dreamed
of such a thing," Priscilla Stanbury had said, "and the only time
I was at Princetown I walked there and back." So they had called at
the Stag and Antlers, and Mrs. Crocket had told them her mind upon
several matters.
"What a dear old woman!" said Nora, as they came away, having made
their bargain for the open carriage.
"I think she takes quite enough upon herself, you know," said Mrs.
Trevelyan.
"She is a dear old woman," said Priscilla, not attending at all to
the last words that had been spoken. "She is one of the best friends
I have in the world. If I were to say the best out of my own family,
perhaps I should not be wrong."
"But she uses such very odd language for a woman," said Mrs.
Trevelyan. Now Mrs. Crocket had certainly "dratted" and "darned" the
boy, who wouldn't come as fast as she had wished, and had laughed
at Mrs. Trevelyan very contemptuously, when that lady had suggested
that the urchin, who was at last brought forth, might not be a safe
charioteer down some of the hills.
"I suppose I'm used to it," said Priscilla. "At any rate I know I
like it. And I like her."
"I dare say she's a good sort of woman," said Mrs. Trevelyan,
"only--"
"I am not saying anything about her being a good woman now," said
Priscilla, interrupting the other with some vehemence, "but only that
she is my friend."
"I liked her of all things," said Nora. "Has she lived here always?"
"Yes; all her life. The house belonged to her father and to her
grandfather before her, and I think she says she has never slept
out of it a dozen times in her life. Her husband is dead, and her
daughters are married away, and she has the great grief and trouble
of a ne'er-do-well son. He's away now, and she's all alone." Then
after a pause, she continued; "I dare say it seems odd to you, Mrs.
Trevelyan, that we should speak of the innkeeper as a dear friend;
but you must remember that we have been poor among the poorest--and
are so indeed now. We only came into our present house to receive
you. That is where we used to live," and she pointed to the tiny
cottage, which now that it was dismantled and desolate, looked to be
doubly poor. "There have been times when we should have gone to bed
very hungry if it had not been for Mrs. Crocket."
Later in the day Mrs. Trevelyan, finding Priscilla alone, had
apologized for what she had said about the old woman. "I was very
thoughtless and forgetful, but I hope you will not be angry with me.
I will be ever so fond of her if you will forgive me."
"Very well," said Priscilla, smiling; "on those conditions I will
forgive you." And from that time there sprang up something like
a feeling of friendship between Priscilla and Mrs. Trevelyan.
Nevertheless Priscilla was still of opinion that the Clock House
arrangement was dangerous, and should never have been made; and Mrs.
Stanbury, always timid of her own nature, began to fear that it must
be so, as soon as she was removed from the influence of her son. She
did not see much even of the few neighbours who lived around her, but
she fancied that people looked at her in church as though she had
done that which she ought not to have done, in taking herself to a
big and comfortable house for the sake of lending her protection to a
lady who was separated from her husband. It was not that she believed
that Mrs. Trevelyan had been wrong; but that, knowing herself to be
weak, she fancied that she and her daughter would be enveloped in the
danger and suspicion which could not but attach themselves to the
lady's condition, instead of raising the lady out of the cloud,--as
would have been the case had she herself been strong. Mrs. Trevelyan,
who was sharpsighted and clear-witted, soon saw that it was so, and
spoke to Priscilla on the subject before she had been a fortnight in
the house. "I am afraid your mother does not like our being here,"
she said.
"How am I to answer that?" Priscilla replied.
"Just tell the truth."
"The truth is so uncivil. At first I did not like it. I disliked it
very much."
"Why did you give way?"
"I didn't give way. Hugh talked my mother over. Mamma does what I
tell her, except when Hugh tells her something else. I was afraid,
because, down here, knowing nothing of the world, I didn't wish
that we, little people, should be mixed up in the quarrels and
disagreements of those who are so much bigger."
"I don't know who it is that is big in this matter."
"You are big,--at any rate by comparison. But now it must go on. The
house has been taken, and my fears are over as regards you. What you
observe in mamma is only the effect, not yet quite worn out, of what
I said before you came. You may be quite sure of this,--that we
neither of us believe a word against you. Your position is a very
unfortunate one; but if it can be remedied by your staying here with
us, pray stay with us."
"It cannot be remedied," said Emily; "but we could not be anywhere
more comfortable than we are here."