when she had found that he had rescinded his verbal orders about the admission of the man to the house,—which he had done to save himself and her from slander and gossip,—she had taken advantage of this and had thrown herself more entirely than ever into the intimacy of which he disapproved! When they met, each was so sore that no approach to terms was made by them.
“If I am to be treated in that way, I would rather not live with you,” said the wife. “It is impossible to live with a husband who is jealous.”
“All I ask of you is that you shall promise me to have no further communication with this man.”
“I will make no promise that implies my own disgrace.”
“Then we must part; and if that be so, this house will be given up. You may live where you please,—in the country, not in London; but I shall take steps that Colonel Osborne does not see you.”
“I will not remain in the room with you to be insulted thus,” said Mrs. Trevelyan. And she did not remain, but left the chamber, slamming the door after her as she went.
“It will be better that she should go,” said Trevelyan, when he found himself alone. And so it came to pass that that blessing of a rich marriage, which had as it were fallen upon them at the Mandarins from out of heaven, had become, after an interval of but two short years, anything but an unmixed blessing.
Chapter XII.
Miss Stanbury’s Generosity
On one Wednesday morning early in June, great preparations were being made at the brick house in the Close at Exeter for an event which can hardly be said to have required any preparation at all. Mrs. Stanbury and her elder daughter were coming into Exeter from Nuncombe Putney to visit Dorothy. The reader may perhaps remember that when Miss Stanbury’s invitation was sent to her niece, she was pleased to promise that such visits should be permitted on a Wednesday morning. Such a visit was now to be made, and old Miss Stanbury was quite moved by the occasion. “I shall not see them, you know, Martha,” she had said, on the afternoon of the preceding day.
“I suppose not, ma’am.”
“Certainly not. Why should I? It would do no good.”
“It is not for me to say, ma’am, of course.”
“No, Martha, it is not. And I am sure that I am right. It’s no good going back and undoing in ten minutes what twenty years have done. She’s a poor harmless creature, I believe.”
“The most harmless in the world, ma’am.”
“But she was as bad as poison to me when she was young, and what’s the good of trying to change it now? If I was to tell her that I loved her, I should only be lying.”
“Then, ma’am, I would not say it.”
“And I don’t mean. But you’ll take in some wine and cake, you know.”
“I don’t think they’ll care for wine and cake.”
“Will you do as I tell you? What matters whether they care for it or not? They need not take it. It will look better for Miss Dorothy. If Dorothy is to remain here I shall choose that she should be respected.” And so the question of the cake and wine had been decided overnight. But when the morning came Miss Stanbury was still in a twitter. Half-past ten had been the hour fixed for the visit, in consequence of there being a train in from Lessboro’, due at the Exeter station at ten. As Miss Stanbury breakfasted always at half-past eight, there was no need of hurry on account of the expected visit. But, nevertheless, she was in a fuss all the morning; and spoke of the coming period as one in which she must necessarily put herself into solitary confinement.
“Perhaps your mamma will be cold,” she said, “and will expect a fire.”
“Oh, dear, no, Aunt Stanbury.”
“It could be lighted of course. It is a pity they should come just so as to prevent you from going to morning service; is it not?”
“I could go with you, aunt, and be back very nearly in time. They won’t mind waiting a quarter of an hour.”
“What; and have them here all alone! I wouldn’t think of such a thing. I shall go upstairs. You had better come to me when they are gone. Don’t hurry them. I don’t want you to hurry them at all; and if you require anything, Martha will wait upon you. I have told the girls to keep out of the way. They are so giddy, there’s no knowing what they might be after. Besides,—they’ve got their work to mind.”
All this was very terrible to poor Dorothy, who had not as yet quite recovered from the original fear with which her aunt had inspired her,—so terrible that she was almost sorry that her mother and sister were coming to her. When the knock was heard at the door, precisely as the cathedral clock was striking half-past ten,—to secure which punctuality, and thereby not to offend the owner of the mansion, Mrs. Stanbury and Priscilla had been walking about the Close for the last ten minutes,—Miss Stanbury was still in the parlour.
“There they are!” she exclaimed, jumping up. “They haven’t given a body much time to run away, have they, my dear? Half a minute, Martha,—just half a minute!” Then she gathered up her things as though she had been illtreated in being driven to make so sudden a retreat, and Martha, as soon as the last hem of her mistress’s dress had become invisible on the stairs, opened the front door for the visitors.
“Do you mean to say you like it?” said Priscilla, when they had been there about a quarter of an hour.
“H—u—sh,” whispered Mrs. Stanbury.
“I don’t suppose she’s listening at the door,” said Priscilla.
“Indeed, she’s not,” said Dorothy. “There can’t be a truer, honester woman, than Aunt Stanbury.”
“But is she kind to you, Dolly?” asked the mother.
“Very kind; too kind. Only I don’t understand her quite, and then she gets angry with me. I know she thinks I’m a fool, and that’s the worst of it.”
“Then, if I were you, I would come home,” said Priscilla.
“She’ll never forgive you if you do,” said Mrs. Stanbury.
“And who need care about her forgiveness?” said Priscilla.
“I don’t mean to go home yet, at any rate,” said Dorothy. Then there was a knock at the door, and Martha entered with the cake and wine. “Miss Stanbury’s compliments, ladies, and she hopes you’ll take a glass of sherry.” Whereupon she filled out the glasses and carried them round.
“Pray give my compliments and thanks to my sister Stanbury,” said Dorothy’s mother. But Priscilla put down the glass of wine without touching it, and looked her sternest at the maid.
Altogether, the visit was not very successful, and poor Dorothy almost felt that if she chose to remain in the Close she must lose her mother and sister, and that without
