MR. AND MRS. OUTHOUSE.
Both Mr. Outhouse and his wife were especially timid in taking upon
themselves the cares of other people. Not on that account is it to be
supposed that they were bad or selfish. They were both given much to
charity, and bestowed both in time and money more than is ordinarily
considered necessary, even from persons in their position. But what
they gave, they gave away from their own quiet hearth. Had money
been wanting to the daughters of his wife's brother, Mr. Outhouse
would have opened such small coffer as he had with a free hand. But
he would have much preferred that his benevolence should be used
in a way that would bring upon him no further responsibility and
no questionings from people whom he did not know and could not
understand.
The Rev. Oliphant Outhouse had been Rector of St.
Diddulph's-in-the-East for the last fifteen years, having married
the sister of Sir Marmaduke Rowley,--then simply Mr. Rowley, with a
colonial appointment in Jamaica of L120 per annum,--twelve years
before his promotion, while he was a curate in one of the populous
borough parishes. He had thus been a London clergyman all his life;
but he knew almost as little of London society as though he had held
a cure in a Westmoreland valley. He had worked hard, but his work had
been altogether among the poor. He had no gift of preaching, and had
acquired neither reputation nor popularity. But he could work;--and
having been transferred because of that capability to the temporary
curacy of St. Diddulph's,--out of one diocese into another,--he had
received the living from the bishop's hands when it became vacant.
A dreary place was the parsonage of St. Diddulph's-in-the-East for
the abode of a gentleman. Mr. Outhouse had not, in his whole parish,
a parishioner with whom he could consort. The greatest men around
him were the publicans, and the most numerous were men employed in
and around the docks. Dredgers of mud, navvies employed on suburban
canals, excavators, loaders and unloaders of cargo, cattle drivers,
whose driving, however, was done mostly on board ship,--such and
such like were the men who were the fathers of the families of St.
Diddulph's-in-the-East. And there was there, not far removed from the
muddy estuary of a little stream that makes its black way from the
Essex marshes among the houses of the poorest of the poor into the
Thames, a large commercial establishment for turning the carcasses of
horses into manure. Messrs. Flowsem and Blurt were in truth the great
people of St. Diddulph's-in-the-East; but the closeness of their
establishment was not an additional attraction to the parsonage.
They were liberal, however, with their money, and Mr. Outhouse was
disposed to think,--custom perhaps having made the establishment
less objectionable to him than it was at first,--that St.
Diddulph's-in-the-East would be more of a Pandemonium than it now
was, if by any sanitary law Messrs. Flowsem and Blurt were compelled
to close their doors. "Non olet," he would say with a grim smile when
the charitable cheque of the firm would come punctually to hand on
the first Saturday after Christmas.
But such a house as his would be, as he knew, but a poor residence
for his wife's nieces. Indeed, without positively saying that he
was unwilling to receive them, he had, when he first heard of the
breaking up of the house in Curzon Street, shewn that he would rather
not take upon his shoulders so great a responsibility. He and his
wife had discussed the matter between them, and had come to the
conclusion that they did not know what kind of things might have been
done in Curzon Street. They would think no evil, they said; but the
very idea of a married woman with a lover was dreadful to them. It
might be that their niece was free from blame. They hoped so. And
even though her sin had been of ever so deep a dye, they would take
her in,--if it were indeed necessary. But they hoped that such help
from them might not be needed. They both knew how to give counsel to
a poor woman, how to rebuke a poor man,--how to comfort, encourage,
or to upbraid the poor. Practice had told them how far they might go
with some hope of doing good;--and at what stage of demoralisation
no good from their hands was any longer within the scope of fair
expectation. But all this was among the poor. With what words to
encourage such a one as their niece Mrs. Trevelyan,--to encourage her
or to rebuke her, as her conduct might seem to make necessary,--they
both felt that they were altogether ignorant. To them Mrs. Trevelyan
was a fine lady. To Mr. Outhouse, Sir Marmaduke had ever been a fine
gentleman, given much to worldly things, who cared more for whist and
a glass of wine than for anything else, and who thought that he had
a good excuse for never going to church in England because he was
called upon, as he said, to show himself in the governor's pew always
once on Sundays, and frequently twice, when he was at the seat of his
government. Sir Marmaduke manifestly looked upon church as a thing
in itself notoriously disagreeable. To Mr. Outhouse it afforded the
great events of the week. And Mrs. Outhouse would declare that to
hear her husband preach was the greatest joy of her life. It may
be understood therefore that though the family connection between
the Rowleys and the Outhouses had been kept up with a semblance of
affection, it had never blossomed forth into cordial friendship.
When therefore the clergyman of St. Diddulph's received a letter from
his niece, Nora, begging him to take her into his parsonage till Sir
Marmaduke should arrive in the course of the spring, and hinting
also a wish that her uncle Oliphant should see Mr. Trevelyan and
if possible arrange that his other niece should also come to the
parsonage, he was very much perturbed in spirit. There was a long
consultation between him and his wife before anything could be
settled, and it may be doubted whether anything would have been
settled, had not Mr. Trevelyan himself made his way to the parsonage,
on the second day of the family conference. Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse had
both seen the necessity of sleeping upon the matter. They had slept
upon it, and the discourse between them on the second day was so
doubtful in its tone that more sleeping would probably have been
necessary had not Mr. Trevelyan appeared and compelled them to a
decision.
"You must remember that I make no charge against her," said
Trevelyan, after the matter had been discussed for about an hour.
"Then why should she not come back to you?" said Mr. Outhouse,
timidly.
"Some day she may,--if she will be obedient. But it cannot be now.
She has set me at defiance; and even yet it is too clear from the
tone of her letter to me that she thinks that she has been right to
do so. How could we live together in amity when she addresses me as a
cruel tyrant?"
"Why did she go away at first?" asked Mrs. Outhouse.
"Because she would compromise my name by an intimacy which I did not
approve. But I do not come here to defend myself, Mrs. Outhouse. You
probably think that I have been wrong. You are her friend; and to
you, I will not even say that I have been right. What I want you to
understand is this. She cannot come back to me now. It would not be
for my honour that she should do so."
"But, sir,--would it not be for your welfare, as a Christian?" asked
Mr. Outhouse.
"You must not be angry with me, if I say that I will not discuss that
just now. I did not come here to discuss it."
"It is very sad for our poor niece," said Mrs. Outhouse.
"It is very sad for me," said Trevelyan, gloomily;--"very sad,
indeed. My home is destroyed; my life is made solitary; I do not even
see my own child. She has her boy with her, and her sister. I have
nobody."
"I can't understand, for the life of me, why you should not live
together just like any other people," said Mrs. Outhouse, whose
woman's spirit was arising in her bosom. "When people are married,
they must put up with something;--at least, most always." This she
added, lest it might be for a moment imagined that she had had any
cause for complaint with her Mr. Outhouse.
"Pray excuse me, Mrs. Outhouse; but I cannot discuss that. The
question between us is this,--can you consent to receive your two
nieces till their father's return;--and if so, in what way shall I
defray the expense of their living? You will of course understand
that I willingly undertake the expense not only of my wife's
maintenance and of her sister's also, but that I will cheerfully
allow anything that may be required either for their comfort or
recreation."
"I cannot take my nieces into my house as lodgers," said Mr.
Outhouse.
"No, not as lodgers; but of course you can understand that it is for
me to pay for my own wife. I know I owe you an apology for mentioning
it;--but how else could I make my request to you?"
"If Emily and Nora come here they must come as our guests," said Mrs.
Outhouse.
"Certainly," said the clergyman. "And if I am told they are in want
of a home they shall find one here till their father comes. But I am
bound to say that as regards the elder I think her home should be
elsewhere."
"Of course it should," said Mrs. Outhouse. "I don't know anything
about the law, but it seems to me very odd that a young woman should
be turned out in this way. You say she has done nothing?"
"I will not argue the matter," said Trevelyan.
"That's all very well, Mr. Trevelyan," said the lady, "but she's my
own niece, and if I don't stand up for her I don't know who will. I
never heard such a thing in my life as a wife being sent away after
such a fashion as that. We wouldn't treat a cookmaid so; that we
wouldn't. As for coming here, she shall come if she pleases, but I
shall always say that it's the greatest shame I ever heard of."
Nothing came of this visit at last. The lady grew in her anger; and
Mr. Trevelyan, in his own defence, was driven to declare that his
wife's obstinate intimacy with Colonel Osborne had almost driven
him out of his senses. Before he left the parsonage he was brought
even to tears by his own narration of his own misery;--whereby Mr.
Outhouse was considerably softened, although Mrs. Outhouse became
more and more stout in the defence of her own sex. But nothing at
last came of it. Trevelyan insisted on paying for his wife, wherever
she might be placed; and when he found that this would not be
permitted to him at the parsonage, he was very anxious to take some
small furnished house in the neighbourhood, in which the two sisters
might live for the next six months under the wings of their uncle
and aunt. But even Mr. Outhouse was moved to pleasantry by this
suggestion, as he explained the nature of the tenements which were
common at St. Diddulph's. Two rooms, front and back, they might
have for about five-and-sixpence a week in a house with three other
families. "But perhaps that is not exactly what you'd like," said Mr.
Outhouse. The interview ended with no result, and Mr. Trevelyan took
his leave, declaring to himself that he was worse off than the foxes,
who have holes in which to lay their heads;--but it must be presumed
that his sufferings in this respect were to be by attorney; as it was
for his wife, and not for himself, that the necessary hole was now
required.
As soon as he was gone Mrs. Outhouse answered Nora's letter, and
without meaning to be explicit, explained pretty closely what had
taken place. The spare bedroom at the parsonage was ready to receive
either one or both of the sisters till Sir Marmaduke should be in
London, if one or both of them should choose to come. And though
there was no nursery at the parsonage,--for Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse had
been blessed with no children,--still room should be made for the
little boy. But they must come as visitors,--"as our own nieces,"
said Mrs. Outhouse. And she went on to say that she would have
nothing to do with the quarrel between Mr. Trevelyan and his wife.
All such quarrels were very bad,--but as to this quarrel she could
take no part either one side or the other. Then she stated that Mr.
Trevelyan had been at the parsonage, but that no arrangement had been
made, because Mr. Trevelyan had insisted on paying for their board
and lodging.
This letter reached Nuncombe Putney before any reply was received by
Mrs. Trevelyan from her husband. This was on the Saturday morning,
and Mrs. Trevelyan had pledged herself to Mrs. Stanbury that she
would leave the Clock House on the Monday. Of course, there was no
need that she should do so. Both Mrs. Stanbury and Priscilla would
now have willingly consented to their remaining till Sir Marmaduke
should be in England. But Mrs. Trevelyan's high spirit revolted
against this after all that had been said. She thought that she
should hear from her husband on the morrow, but the post on Sunday
brought no letter from Trevelyan. On the Saturday they had finished
packing up,--so certain was Mrs. Trevelyan that some instructions as
to her future destiny would be sent to her by her lord.
At last they decided on the Sunday that they would both go at once
to St. Diddulph's; or perhaps it would be more correct to say that
this was the decision of the elder sister. Nora would willingly have
yielded to Priscilla's entreaties, and have remained. But Emily
declared that she could not, and would not, stay in the house. She
had a few pounds,--what would suffice for her journey; and as Mr.
Trevelyan had not thought proper to send his orders to her, she would
go without them. Mrs. Outhouse was her aunt, and her nearest relative
in England. Upon whom else could she lean in this time of her great
affliction? A letter, therefore, was written to Mrs. Outhouse, saying
that the whole party, including the boy and nurse, would be at St.
Diddulph's on the Monday evening, and the last cord was put to the
boxes.
"I suppose that he is very angry," Mrs. Trevelyan said to her sister,
"but I do not feel that I care about that now. He shall have nothing
to complain of in reference to any gaiety on my part. I will see no
one. I will have no--correspondence. But I will not remain here after
what he has said to me, let him be ever so angry. I declare, as I
think of it, it seems to me that no woman was ever so cruelly treated
as I have been." Then she wrote one further line to her husband.
Not having received any orders from you, and having
promised Mrs. Stanbury that I would leave this house
on Monday, I go with Nora to my aunt, Mrs. Outhouse,
to-morrow.
E. T.
On the Sunday evening the four ladies drank tea together, and they
all made an effort to be civil, and even affectionate, to each other.
Mrs. Trevelyan had at last allowed Priscilla to explain how it had
come to pass that she had told her brother that it would be better
both for her mother and for herself that the existing arrangements
should be brought to an end, and there had come to be an agreement
between them that they should all part in amity. But the conversation
on the Sunday evening was very difficult.
"I am sure we shall always think of you both with the greatest
kindness," said Mrs. Stanbury.
"As for me," said Priscilla, "your being with us has been a delight
that I cannot describe;--only it has been wrong."
"I know too well," said Mrs. Trevelyan, "that in our present
circumstances we are unable to carry delight with us anywhere."
"You hardly understand what our life has been," said Priscilla; "but
the truth is that we had no right to receive you in such a house as
this. It has not been our way of living, and it cannot continue to be
so. It is not wonderful that people should talk of us. Had it been
called your house, it might have been better."
"And what will you do now?" asked Nora.
"Get out of this place as soon as we can. It is often hard to go
back to the right path; but it may always be done,--or at least
attempted."
"It seems to me that I take misery with me wherever I go," said Mrs.
Trevelyan.
"My dear, it has not been your fault," said Mrs. Stanbury.
"I do not like to blame my brother," said Priscilla, "because he has
done his best to be good to us all;--and the punishment will fall
heaviest upon him, because he must pay for it."
"He should not be allowed to pay a shilling," said Mrs. Trevelyan.
Then the morning came, and at seven o'clock the two sisters, with the
nurse and child, started for Lessboro' Station in Mrs. Crocket's open
carriage, the luggage having been sent on in a cart. There were many
tears shed, and any one looking at the party would have thought that
very dear friends were being torn asunder.
"Mother," said Priscilla, as soon as the parlour door was shut, and
the two were alone together, "we must take care that we never are
brought again into such a mistake as that. They who protect the
injured should be strong themselves."