“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 bedrooms, 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,