two Miss Frenches from Heavitree, who had the reputation of hunting unmarried clergymen in couples, seemed to have heard all about it. When Mrs. MacHugh and Miss Stanbury, with Mr. and Mrs. Crumbie, had seated themselves at their whist-table, the younger people were able to express their opinions without danger of interruption or of rebuke. It was known to all Exeter by this time, that Dorothy Stanbury’s mother had gone to the Clock House, and that she had done so in order that Mrs. Trevelyan might have a home. But it was not yet known whether anybody had called upon them. There was Mrs. Merton, the wife of the present parson of Nuncombe, who had known the Stanburys for the last twenty years; and there was Mrs. Ellison of Lessboro’, who lived only four miles from Nuncombe, and who kept a pony-carriage. It would be a great thing to know how these ladies had behaved in so difficult and embarrassing a position. Mrs. Trevelyan and her sister had now been at Nuncombe Putney for more than a fortnight, and something in that matter of calling must have been done,—or have been left undone. In answer to an ingeniously-framed question asked by Camilla French, Dorothy at once set the matter at rest. “Mrs. Merton,” said Camilla French, “must find it a great thing to have two new ladies come to the village, especially now that she has lost you, Miss Stanbury?”
“Mamma tells me,” said Dorothy, “that Mrs. Trevelyan and Miss Rowley do not mean to know anybody. They have given it out quite plainly, so that there should be no mistake.”
“Dear, dear,” said Camilla French.
“I dare say it’s for the best,” said Arabella French, who was the elder, and who looked very meek and soft. Miss French almost always looked meek and soft.
“I’m afraid it will make it very dull for your mother,—not seeing her old friends,” said Mr. Gibson.
“Mamma won’t feel that at all,” said Dorothy.
“Mrs. Stanbury, I suppose, will see her own friends at her own house just the same,” said Camilla.
“There would be great difficulty in that, when there is a lady who is to remain unknown,” said Arabella. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Gibson?” Mr. Gibson replied that perhaps there might be a difficulty, but he wasn’t sure. The difficulty, he thought, might be got over if the ladies did not always occupy the same room.
“You have never seen Mrs. Trevelyan, have you, Miss Stanbury?” asked Camilla.
“Never.”
“She is not an old family friend, then,—or anything of that sort?”
“Oh, dear, no.”
“Because,” said Arabella, “it is so odd how different people get together sometimes.” Then Dorothy explained that Mr. Trevelyan and her brother Hugh had long been friends.
“Oh!—of Mr. Trevelyan,” said Camilla. “Then it is he that has sent his wife to Nuncombe, not she that has come there?”
“I suppose there has been some agreement,” said Dorothy.
“Just so; just so,” said Arabella, the meek. “I should like to see her. They say that she is very beautiful; don’t they?”
“My brother says that she is handsome.”
“Exceedingly lovely, I’m told,” said Camilla. “I should like to see her,—shouldn’t you, Mr. Gibson?”
“I always like to see a pretty woman,” said Mr. Gibson, with a polite bow, which the sisters shared between them.
“I suppose she’ll go to church,” said Camilla.
“Very likely not,” said Arabella. “Ladies of that sort very often don’t go to church. I dare say you’ll find that she’ll never stir out of the place at all, and that not a soul in Nuncombe will ever see her except the gardener. It is such a thing for a woman to be separated from her husband! Don’t you think so, Mr. Gibson?”
“Of course it is,” said he, with a shake of his head, which was intended to imply that the censure of the church must of course attend any sundering of those whom the church had bound together; but which implied also by the absence from it of any intense clerical severity, that as the separated wife was allowed to live with so very respectable a lady as Mrs. Stanbury, there must probably be some mitigating circumstances attending this special separation.
“I wonder what he is like?” said Camilla, after a pause.
“Who?” asked Arabella.
“The gentleman,” said Camilla.
“What gentleman?” demanded Arabella.
“I don’t mean Mr. Trevelyan,” said Camilla.
“I don’t believe there really is,—eh,—is there?” said Mr. Gibson, very timidly.
“Oh, dear, yes,” said Arabella.
“I’m afraid there’s something of the kind,” said Camilla. “I’ve heard that there is, and I’ve heard his name.” Then she whispered very closely into the ear of Mr. Gibson the words, “Colonel Osborne,” as though her lips were by far too pure to mention aloud any sound so full of iniquity.
“Indeed!” said Mr. Gibson.
“But he’s quite an old man,” said Dorothy, “and knew her father intimately before she was born. And, as far as I can understand, her husband does not suspect her in the least. And it’s only because there’s a misunderstanding between them, and not at all because of the gentleman.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Camilla.
“Ah!” exclaimed Arabella.
“That would make a difference,” said Mr. Gibson.
“But for a married woman to have her name mentioned at all with a gentleman,—it is so bad; is it not, Mr. Gibson?” And then Arabella also had her whisper into the clergyman’s ear,—very closely. “I’m afraid there’s not a doubt about the Colonel. I’m afraid not. I am indeed.”
“Two by honours and the odd, and it’s my deal,” said Miss Stanbury, briskly, and the sharp click with which she put the markers down upon the table was heard all through the room. “I don’t want anybody to tell me,” she said, “that when a young woman is parted from her husband, the chances are ten to one that she has been very foolish.”
“But what’s a woman to do, if her husband beats her?” said Mrs. Crumbie.
“Beat him again,” said Mrs. MacHugh.
“And the husband will be sure to have the worst of it,” said Mr. Crumbie. “Well, I declare, if you haven’t turned up an honour again, Miss Stanbury!”
“It was your wife that cut it to me, Mr. Crumbie.” Then they were again at once immersed in the play, and the name neither of Trevelyan nor Osborne was heard till Miss Stanbury was marking her double under the candlestick; but during all pauses in the game the conversation went back to the same topic, and when the rubber was over they who had been playing it lost themselves for ten minutes in the allurements of the interesting subject. It was so singular a coincidence that the lady should have gone to Nuncombe Putney of all villages in England, and to the house of
