THE "FULL MOON" AT ST. DIDDULPH'S.
The receipt of Mrs. Trevelyan's letter on that Monday morning was a
great surprise both to Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse. There was no time for
any consideration, no opportunity for delaying their arrival till
they should have again referred the matter to Mr. Trevelyan. Their
two nieces were to be with them on that evening, and even the
telegraph wires, if employed with such purpose, would not be quick
enough to stop their coming. The party, as they knew, would have left
Nuncombe Putney before the arrival of the letter at the parsonage of
St. Diddulph's. There would have been nothing in this to have caused
vexation, had it not been decided between Trevelyan and Mr. Outhouse
that Mrs. Trevelyan was not to find a home at the parsonage. Mr.
Outhouse was greatly afraid of being so entangled in the matter as to
be driven to take the part of the wife against the husband; and Mrs.
Outhouse, though she was full of indignation against Trevelyan, was
at the same time not free from anger in regard to her own niece.
She more than once repeated that most unjust of all proverbs, which
declares that there is never smoke without fire, and asserted broadly
that she did not like to be with people who could not live at
home, husbands with wives, and wives with husbands, in a decent,
respectable manner. Nevertheless the preparations went on busily, and
when the party arrived at seven o'clock in the evening, two rooms had
been prepared close to each other, one for the two sisters, and the
other for the child and nurse, although poor Mr. Outhouse himself was
turned out of his own little chamber in order that the accommodation
might be given. They were all very hot, very tired, and very dusty,
when the cab reached the parsonage. There had been the preliminary
drive from Nuncombe Putney to Lessboro'. Then the railway journey
from thence to the Waterloo Bridge Station had been long. And it had
seemed to them that the distance from the station to St. Diddulph's
had been endless. When the cabman was told whither he was to go, he
looked doubtingly at his poor old horse, and then at the luggage
which he was required to pack on the top of his cab, and laid himself
out for his work with a full understanding that it would not be
accomplished without considerable difficulty. The cabman made it
twelve miles from Waterloo Bridge to St. Diddulph's, and suggested
that extra passengers and parcels would make the fare up to ten and
six. Had he named double as much Mrs. Trevelyan would have assented.
So great was the fatigue, and so wretched the occasion, that there
was sobbing and crying in the cab, and when at last the parsonage was
reached, even the nurse was hardly able to turn her hand to anything.
The poor wanderers were made welcome on that evening without a word
of discussion as to the cause of their coming. "I hope you are not
angry with us, Uncle Oliphant," Emily Trevelyan had said, with tears
in her eyes. "Angry with you, my dear;--for coming to our house!
How could I be angry with you?" Then the travellers were hurried
up-stairs by Mrs. Outhouse, and the master of the parsonage was left
alone for a while. He certainly was not angry, but he was ill at
ease, and unhappy. His guests would probably remain with him for
six or seven months. He had resolutely refused all payment from Mr.
Trevelyan, but, nevertheless, he was a poor man. It is impossible
to conceive that a clergyman in such a parish as St. Diddulph's,
without a private income, should not be a poor man. It was but a
hand-to-mouth existence which he lived, paying his way as his money
came to him, and sharing the proceeds of his parish with the poor.
He was always more or less in debt. That was quite understood among
the tradesmen. And the butcher who trusted him, though he was a
bad churchman, did not look upon the parson's account as he did on
other debts. He would often hint to Mr. Outhouse that a little money
ought to be paid, and then a little money would be paid. But it was
never expected that the parsonage bill should be settled. In such a
household the arrival of four guests, who were expected to remain for
an almost indefinite number of months, could not be regarded without
dismay. On that first evening, Emily and Nora did come down to tea,
but they went up again to their rooms almost immediately afterwards;
and Mr. Outhouse found that many hours of solitary meditation were
allowed to him on the occasion. "I suppose your brother has been told
all about it," he said to his wife, as soon as they were together on
that evening.
"Yes;--he has been told. She did not write to her mother till after
she had got to Nuncombe Putney. She did not like to speak about her
troubles while there was a hope that things might be made smooth."
"You can't blame her for that, my dear."
"But there was a month lost, or nearly. Letters go only once a month.
And now they can't hear from Marmaduke or Bessy,"--Lady Rowley's name
was Bessy,--"till the beginning of September."
"That will be in a fortnight."
"But what can my brother say to them? He will suppose that they are
still down in Devonshire."
"You don't think he will come at once?"
"How can he, my dear? He can't come without leave, and the expense
would be ruinous. They would stop his pay, and there would be all
manner of evils. He is to come in the spring, and they must stay
here till he comes." The parson of St. Diddulph's sighed and groaned.
Would it not have been almost better that he should have put his
pride in his pocket, and have consented to take Mr. Trevelyan's
money?
On the second morning Hugh Stanbury called at the parsonage, and was
closeted for a while with the parson. Nora had heard his voice in the
passage, and every one in the house knew who it was that was talking
to Mr. Outhouse, in the little back parlour that was called a study.
Nora was full of anxiety. Would he ask to see them,--to see her? And
why was he there so long? "No doubt he has brought a message from Mr.
Trevelyan," said her sister. "I dare say he will send word that I
ought not to have come to my uncle's house." Then, at last, both Mr.
Outhouse and Hugh Stanbury came into the room in which they were all
sitting. The greetings were cold and unsatisfactory, and Nora barely
allowed Hugh to touch the tip of her fingers. She was very angry with
him, and yet she knew that her anger was altogether unreasonable.
That he had caused her to refuse a marriage that had so much to
attract her was not his sin;--not that; but that, having thus
overpowered her by his influence, he should then have stopped. And
yet Nora had told herself twenty times that it was quite impossible
that she should become Hugh Stanbury's wife;--and that, were Hugh
Stanbury to ask her, it would become her to be indignant with him,
for daring to make a proposition so outrageous. And now she was sick
at heart, because he did not speak to her!
He had, of course, come to St. Diddulph's with a message from
Trevelyan, and his secret was soon told to them all. Trevelyan
himself was up-stairs in the sanded parlour of the Full Moon
public-house, round the corner. Mrs. Trevelyan, when she heard this,
clasped her hands and bit her lips. What was he there for? If he
wanted to see her, why did he not come boldly to the parsonage? But
it soon appeared that he had no desire to see his wife. "I am to take
Louey to him," said Hugh Stanbury, "if you will allow me."
"What;--to be taken away from me!" exclaimed the mother. But Hugh
assured her that no such idea had been formed; that he would have
concerned himself in no such stratagem, and that he would himself
undertake to bring the boy back again within an hour. Emily was, of
course, anxious to be informed what other message was to be conveyed
to her; but there was no other message--no message either of love or
of instruction.
"Mr. Stanbury," said the parson, "has left something in my hands for
you." This "something" was given over to her as soon as Stanbury
had left the house, and consisted of cheques for various small sums,
amounting in all to L200. "And he hasn't said what I am to do with
it?" Emily asked of her uncle. Mr. Outhouse declared that the cheques
had been given to him without any instructions on that head. Mr.
Trevelyan had simply expressed his satisfaction that his wife should
be with her uncle and aunt, had sent the money, and had desired to
see the child.
The boy was got ready, and Hugh walked with him in his arms round the
corner, to the Full Moon. He had to pass by the bar, and the barmaid
and the potboy looked at him very hard. "There's a young 'ooman has
to do with that ere little game," said the potboy. "And it's two to
one the young 'ooman has the worst of it," said the barmaid. "They
mostly does," said the potboy, not without some feeling of pride in
the immunities of his sex. "Here he is," said Hugh, as he entered
the parlour. "My boy, there's papa." The child at this time was more
than a year old, and could crawl about and use his own legs with the
assistance of a finger to his little hand, and could utter a sound
which the fond mother interpreted to mean papa; for with all her hot
anger against her husband, the mother was above all things anxious
that her child should be taught to love his father's name. She
would talk of her separation from her husband as though it must be
permanent; she would declare to her sister how impossible it was that
they should ever again live together; she would repeat to herself
over and over the tale of the injustice that had been done to her,
assuring herself that it was out of the question that she should ever
pardon the man; but yet, at the bottom of her heart, there was a hope
that the quarrel should be healed before her boy would be old enough
to understand the nature of quarrelling. Trevelyan took the child on
to his knee, and kissed him; but the poor little fellow, startled by
his transference from one male set of arms to another, confused by
the strangeness of the room, and by the absence of things familiar
to his sight, burst out into loud tears. He had stood the journey
round the corner in Hugh's arms manfully, and, though he had looked
about him with very serious eyes, as he passed through the bar,
he had borne that, and his carriage up the stairs; but when he
was transferred to his father, whose air, as he took the boy, was
melancholy and lugubrious in the extreme, the poor little fellow
could endure no longer a mode of treatment so unusual, and, with a
grimace which for a moment or two threatened the coming storm, burst
out with an infantine howl. "That's how he has been taught," said
Trevelyan.
[Illustration: The "Full Moon" at St. Diddulph's.]
"Nonsense," said Stanbury. "He's not been taught at all. It's
Nature."
"Nature that he should be afraid of his own father! He did not cry
when he was with you."
"No;--as it happened, he did not. I played with him when I was at
Nuncombe; but, of course, one can't tell when a child will cry, and
when it won't."
"My darling, my dearest, my own son!" said Trevelyan, caressing the
child, and trying to comfort him; but the poor little fellow only
cried the louder. It was now nearly two months since he had seen his
father, and, when age is counted by months only, almost everything
may be forgotten in six weeks. "I suppose you must take him back
again," said Trevelyan, sadly.
"Of course I must take him back again. Come along, Louey, my boy."
"It is cruel;--very cruel," said Trevelyan. "No man living could love
his child better than I love mine;--or, for the matter of that, his
wife. It is very cruel."
"The remedy is in your own hands, Trevelyan," said Stanbury, as he
marched off with the boy in his arms.
Trevelyan had now become so accustomed to being told by everybody
that he was wrong, and was at the same time so convinced that he was
right, that he regarded the perversity of his friends as a part of
the persecution to which he was subjected. Even Lady Milborough,
who objected to Colonel Osborne quite as strongly as did Trevelyan
himself, even she blamed him now, telling him that he had done
wrong to separate himself from his wife. Mr. Bideawhile, the old
family lawyer, was of the same opinion. Trevelyan had spoken to Mr.
Bideawhile as to the expediency of making some lasting arrangement
for a permanent maintenance for his wife; but the attorney had told
him that nothing of the kind could be held to be lasting. It was
clearly the husband's duty to look forward to a reconciliation, and
Mr. Bideawhile became quite severe in the tone of rebuke which he
assumed. Stanbury treated him almost as though he were a madman. And
as for his wife herself--when she wrote to him she would not even
pretend to express any feeling of affection. And yet, as he thought,
no man had ever done more for a wife. When Stanbury had gone with the
child, he sat waiting for him in the parlour of the public-house, as
miserable a man as one could find. He had promised himself something
that should be akin to pleasure in seeing his boy;--but it had been
all disappointment and pain. What was it that they expected him to
do? What was it that they desired? His wife had behaved with such
indiscretion as almost to have compromised his honour; and in return
for that he was to beg her pardon, confess himself to have done
wrong, and allow her to return in triumph! That was the light in
which he regarded his own position; but he promised to himself that
let his own misery be what it might he would never so degrade him.
The only person who had been true to him was Bozzle. Let them all
look to it. If there were any further intercourse between his wife
and Colonel Osborne, he would take the matter into open court, and
put her away publicly, let Mr. Bideawhile say what he might. Bozzle
should see to that;--and as to himself, he would take himself out of
England and hide himself abroad. Bozzle should know his address, but
he would give it to no one else. Nothing on earth should make him
yield to a woman who had ill-treated him,--nothing but confession
and promise of amendment on her part. If she would acknowledge and
promise, then he would forgive all, and the events of the last four
months should never again be mentioned by him. So resolving he sat
and waited till Stanbury should return to him.
When Stanbury got back to the parsonage with the boy he had nothing
to do but to take his leave. He would fain have asked permission to
come again, could he have invented any reason for doing so. But the
child was taken from him at once by its mother, and he was left alone
with Mr. Outhouse. Nora Rowley did not even show herself, and he
hardly knew how to express sympathy and friendship for the guests at
the parsonage, without seeming to be untrue to his friend Trevelyan.
"I hope all this may come to an end soon," he said.
"I hope it may, Mr. Stanbury," said the clergyman; "but to tell you
the truth, it seems to me that Mr. Trevelyan is so unreasonable a
man, so much like a madman indeed, that I hardly know how to look
forward to any future happiness for my niece." This was spoken with
the utmost severity that Mr. Outhouse could assume.
"And yet no man loves his wife more tenderly."
"Tender love should show itself by tender conduct, Mr. Stanbury. What
has he done to his wife? He has blackened her name among all his
friends and hers, he has turned her out of his house, he has reviled
her,--and then thinks to prove how good he is by sending her money.
The only possible excuse is that he must be mad."
Stanbury went back to the Full Moon, and retraced his steps with his
friend towards Lincoln's Inn. Two minutes took him from the parsonage
to the public-house, but during these two minutes he resolved that
he would speak his mind roundly to Trevelyan as they returned home.
Trevelyan should either take his wife back again at once, or else he,
Stanbury, would have no more to do with him. He said nothing till
they had threaded together the maze of streets which led them from
the neighbourhood of the Church of St. Diddulph's into the straight
way of the Commercial Road. Then he began. "Trevelyan," said he, "you
are wrong in all this from beginning to end."
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I say. If there was anything in what your wife did to
offend you, a soft word from you would have put it all right."
"A soft word! How do you know what soft words I used?"
"A soft word now would do it. You have only to bid her come back to
you, and let bygones be bygones, and all would be right. Can't you be
man enough to remember that you are a man?"
"Stanbury, I believe you want to quarrel with me."
"I tell you fairly that I think that you are wrong."
"They have talked you over to their side."
"I know nothing about sides. I only know that you are wrong."
"And what would you have me do?"
"Go and travel together for six months." Here was Lady Milborough's
receipt again! "Travel together for a year if you will. Then come
back and live where you please. People will have forgotten it;--or if
they remember it, what matters? No sane person can advise you to go
on as you are doing now."
But it was of no avail. Before they had reached the Bank the two
friends had quarrelled and had parted. Then Trevelyan felt that there
was indeed no one left to him but Bozzle. On the following morning he
saw Bozzle, and on the evening of the next day he was in Paris.