Three days after Hugh Stanbury’s visit to Manchester Street, he wrote a note to Lady Rowley, telling her of the address at which might be found both Trevelyan and his son. As Bozzle had acknowledged, facts are things which may be found out. Hugh had gone to work somewhat after the Bozzlian fashion, and had found out this fact. ‘He lives at a place called River’s Cottage, at Willesden,’ wrote Stanbury. ‘If you turn off the Harrow Road to the right, about a mile beyond the cemetery, you will find the cottage on the left hand side of the lane, about a quarter of a mile from the Harrow Road. I believe you can go to Willesden by railway but you had better take a cab from London.’ There was much consultation respecting this letter between Lady Rowley and Mrs Trevelyan, and it was decided that it should not be shown to Sir Marmaduke. To see her child was at the present moment the most urgent necessity of the poor mother, and both the ladies felt that Sir Marmaduke in his wrath might probably impede rather than assist her in this desire. If told where he might find Trevelyan, he would probably insist on starting in quest of his son-inlaw himself, and the distance between the mother and her child might become greater in consequence, instead of less. There were many consultations; and the upshot of these was, that Lady Rowley and her daughter determined to start for Willesden without saying anything to Sir Marmaduke of the purpose they had in hand. When Emily expressed her conviction that if Trevelyan should be away from home they would probably be able to make their way into the house so as to see the child, Lady Rowley with some hesitation acknowledged that such might be the case. But the child’s mother said nothing to her own mother of a scheme which she had half formed of so clinging to her boy that no human power should separate them.
They started in a cab, as advised by Stanbury, and were driven to a point on the road from which a lane led down to Willesden, passing by River’s Cottage. They asked as they came along, and met no difficulty in finding their way. At the point on the road indicated, there was a country inn for hay-waggoners, and here Lady Rowley proposed that they should leave their cab, urging that it might be best to call at the cottage in the quietest manner possible; but Mrs Trevelyan, with her scheme in her head for the recapture of their child, begged that the cab might go on and thus they were driven up to the door.
River’s Cottage was not a prepossessing abode. It was a new building, of light-coloured bricks, with a door in the middle and one window on each side. Over the door was a stone tablet, bearing the name River’s Cottage. There was a little garden between the road and the house, across which there was a straight path to the door. In front of one window was a small shrub, generally called a puzzle-monkey, and in front of the other was a variegated laurel. There were two small morsels of green turf, and a distant view round the corner of the house of a row of cabbage stumps. If Trevelyan were living there, he had certainly come down in the world since the days in which he had occupied the house in Curzon Street. The two ladies got out of the cab, and slowly walked across the little garden. Mrs Trevelyan was dressed in black, and she wore a thick veil.
She had altogether been unable to make up her mind as to what should be her conduct to her husband should she see him. That must be governed by circumstances as they might occur. Her visit was made not to him, but to her boy.
The door was opened before they knocked, and Trevelyan himself was standing in the narrow passage.
Lady Rowley was the first to speak. ‘Louis,’ she said, ‘I have brought your wife to see you.’
‘Who told you that I was here?’ he asked, still standing in the passage.
‘Of course a mother would find out where was her child,’ said Lady Rowley.
‘You should not have come here without notice,’ he said. ‘I was careful to let you know the conditions on which you should come.’
‘You do not mean that I shall not see my child,’ said the mother. ‘Oh, Louis, you will let me see him.’
Trevelyan hesitated a moment, still keeping his position firmly in the doorway. By this time an old woman, decently dressed and of comfortable appearance, had taken her place behind him, and behind her was a slip of a girl about fifteen years of age. This was the owner of River’s Cottage and her daughter, and all the inhabitants of the cottage were now there, standing in the passage. ‘I ought not to let you see him,’ said Trevelyan; ‘you have intruded upon me in coming here! I had not wished to see you here till you had complied with the order I had given you.’ What a meeting between a husband and a wife who had not seen each other now for many months, between a husband and a wife who were still young enough not to have outlived the first impulses of their early love! He still stood there guarding the way, and had not even put out his hand to greet her. He was guarding the way lest she should, without his permission, obtain access to her own child! She had not removed her veil, and now she hardly dared to step over the threshold of her husband’s house. At this moment, she perceived that the woman behind was pointing to the room on the left, as the cottage was entered, and Emily at once understood that her boy was there. Then at that moment she heard her son’s voice, as, in his solitude, the child began to cry. ‘I must go in,’ she said; ‘I will go in;’ and rushing on she tried to push aside her husband. Her mother aided her, nor did Trevelyan attempt to stop her with violence, and in a moment she was kneeling at the foot of a small sofa, with her child in her arms. ‘I had not intended to hinder you,’ said Trevelyan, ‘but I require from you a promise that you will not attempt to remove him.’
‘Why should she not take him home with her?’ said Lady Rowley.
‘Because I will not have it so,’ replied Trevelyan. ‘Because I choose that it should be understood that I am to be the master of my own affairs.’
Mrs Trevelyan had now thrown aside her bonnet and her veil, and was covering her child with caresses. The poor little fellow, whose mind had been utterly dismayed by the events which had occurred to him since his capture, though he returned her kisses, did so in fear and trembling. And he was still sobbing, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, and by no means yielding himself with his whole heart to his mother’s tenderness as she would have had him do. ‘Louey,’ she said, whispering to him, ‘you know mamma; you haven’t forgotten mamma?’ He half murmured some little infantine word through his sobs, and then put his cheek up to be pressed against his mother’s face. ‘Louey will never, never forget his own mamma will he, Louey?’ The poor boy had no assurances to give, and could only raise his cheek again to be kissed. In the meantime Lady Rowley and Trevelyan were standing by, not speaking to each other, regarding the scene in silence.
She, Lady Rowley, could see that he was frightfully altered in appearance, even since the day on which she had so lately met him in the City. His cheeks were thin and haggard, and his eyes were deep and very bright, and he moved them quickly from side to side, as though ever suspecting something. He seemed to be smaller in stature, withered, as it were, as though he had melted away. And, though he stood looking upon his wife and child, he was not for a moment still. He would change the posture of his hands and arms, moving them quickly with little surreptitious jerks; and would shuffle his feet upon the floor, almost without altering his position. His clothes hung about him, and his linen was soiled and worn. Lady Rowley noticed this especially, as he had been a man peculiarly given to neatness of apparel. He was the first to speak. ‘You have come down here in a cab?’ said he.
‘Yes in a cab, from London,’ said Lady Rowley.
‘Of course you will go back in it? You cannot stay here. There is no accommodation. It is a wretched place, but it suits the boy. As for me, all places are now alike.’
‘Louis,’ said his wife, springing up from her knees, coming to him, and taking his right hand between both her own, ‘you will let me take him with me. I know you will let me take him with me.’
‘I cannot do that, Emily; it would be wrong.’
‘Wrong to restore a child to his mother? Oh, Louis, think of it, What must my life be without him or you?’
‘Don’t talk of me. It is too late for that.’
‘Not if you will be reasonable, Louis, and listen to me. Oh, heavens, how ill you are!’ As she said this she drew nearer to him, so that her face was almost close to his. ‘Louis, come back; come back, and let it all be forgotten. It shall be a dream, a horrid dream, and nobody shall speak of it.’ He left his hand within hers and stood looking into her face. He was well aware that his life since he had left her had been one long hour of misery. There had been to him no alleviation, no comfort, no consolation. He had not a friend left to him. Even his satellite, the policeman, was becoming weary of him and manifestly suspicious. The woman with whom he was now lodging, and whose resources were infinitely benefited by his payments to her, had already thrown out hints that she was afraid of him. And as he looked at his wife, he knew that he loved her. Everything for him now was hot and dry and poor and bitter. How sweet would it be again to sit with her soft hand in his, to feel her cool brow against his own, to have the comfort of her care, and to hear the music of loving words! The companionship of his wife had once been to him everything in the world; but now, for many months past, he had known no companion. She bade him come to her, and look upon all this trouble as a dream not to be mentioned. Could it be possible that it should be so, and that they might yet be happy together, perhaps in some distant country, where the story of all their misery might not be known? He felt all this truly and with a keen accuracy. If he were mad, he was not all mad. ‘I will tell you of nothing that is past,’ said she, hanging to him, and coming still nearer to him, and embracing his arm.
Could she have condescended to ask him not to tell her of the past, had it occurred to her so to word her request, she might perhaps have prevailed. But who can say how long the tenderness of his heart would have saved him from further outbreak and whether such prevailing on her part would have been of permanent service? As it was, her words wounded him in that spot of his inner self which was most sensitive, on that spot from whence had come all his fury. A black cloud came upon his brow, and he made an effort to withdraw himself from her grasp. It was necessary to him that she should in some fashion own that he had been right, and now she was promising him that she would not tell him of his fault! He could not thus swallow down all the convictions by which he had fortified himself to bear the misfortunes which he had endured. Had he not quarrelled with every friend he possessed on this score; and should he now stultify himself in all those quarrels by admitting that he had been cruel, unjust, and needlessly jealous? And did not truth demand of him that he should cling to his old assurances? Had she not been disobedient, ill-conditioned, and rebellious? Had she not received the man, both him personally and his letters, after he had explained to her that his honour demanded that it should not be so? How could he come into such terms as those now proposed to him, simply because he longed to enjoy the rich sweetness of her soft hand, to feel the fragrance of her breath, an............