and Hugh had been accustomed thus to describe the
family trade. And she might certainly have had
the peer, and the acres of garden, and the big house,
and the senatorial honours; whereas the tallowchandler’s
journeyman had never been so outspoken. She told
herself from moment to moment that she had done right;
that she would do the same a dozen times, if a dozen
times the experiment could be repeated; but still,
still, there was the remembrance of all that she had
lost. How would her mother look at her, her anxious,
heavily-laden mother, when the story should be told
of all that had been offered to her and all that had
been refused?
As she was thinking of this Mrs Trevelyan came into
the room. Nora felt that though she might dread
to meet her mother, she could be bold enough on such
an occasion before her sister. Emily had not done
so well with her own affairs, as to enable her to
preach with advantage about marriage.
‘He has gone?’ said Mrs Trevelyan, as
she opened the door.
‘Yes, he has gone.’
‘Well? Do not pretend, Nora, that you will
not tell me.’
‘There is nothing worth the telling, Emily.’
’What do you mean? I am sure he has proposed.
He told me in so many words that it was his intention.’
’Whatever has happened, dear, you may be quite
sure that I shall never be Mrs Glascock.’
‘Then you have refused him because of Hugh Stanbury!’
’I have refused him, Emily, because I did not
love him. Pray let that be enough.’
Then she walked out of the room with something of
stateliness in her gait as might become a girl who
had had it in her power to be the future Lady Peterborough;
but as soon as she reached the sacredness of her own
chamber, she gave way to an agony of tears. It
would, indeed, be much to be a Lady Peterborough.
And she had, in truth, refused it all because of Hugh
Stanbury! Was Hugh Stanbury worth so great a
sacrifice?
THE CLOCK HOUSE AT NUNCOMBE PUTNEY
It was not till a fortnight had passed after the transaction
recorded in the last chapter, that Mrs Trevelyan and
Nora Rowley first heard the proposition that they
should go to live at Nuncombe Putney. From bad
to worse the quarrel between the husband and the wife
had gone on, till Trevelyan had at last told his friend
Lady Milborough that he had made up his mind that
they must live apart. She is so self-willed and
perhaps I am the same,’ he had said, ’that
it is impossible that we should live together.’
Lady Milborough had implored and called to witness
all testimonies, profane and sacred, against such a
step—had almost gone down on her knees.
Go to Naples; why not Naples? Or to the quiet
town in the west of France, which was so dull that
a wicked roaring lion, fond of cities and gambling,
and eating and drinking, could not live in such a
place! Oh, why not go to the quiet town in the
