He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📖

all that means. He has made his choice,

and if I am satisfied with what he does now, surely you need not

grumble.’ Miss Stanbury’s illness had undoubtedly been a great source

of contentment to the family at Heavitree, as they had all been able to

argue that her impending demise was the natural consequence of her

great sin in the matter of Dorothy’s proposed marriage. When, however,

they heard from Mr Martin that she would certainly recover, that Sir

Peter’s edict to that effect had gone forth, they were willing to

acknowledge that Providence, having so far punished the sinner, was

right in staying its hand and abstaining from the final blow. ‘I’m sure

we are delighted,’ said Mrs French, ‘for though she has said cruel

things of us and so untrue, too, yet of course it is our duty to forgive

her. And we do forgive her.’

 

Dorothy had written three or four notes to Brooke since his departure,

which contained simple bulletins of her aunt’s health. She always began

her letters with ‘My dear Mr Burgess,’ and ended them with ‘yours

truly.’ She never made any allusion to Brooke’s declaration of love, or

gave the slightest sign in her letters to shew that she even remembered

it. At last she wrote to say that her aunt was convalescent; and, in

making this announcement, she allowed herself some enthusiasm of

expression. She was so happy, and was so sure that Mr Burgess would be

equally so! And her aunt had asked after her ‘dear Brooke,’ expressing

her great satisfaction with him, in that he had come down to see her

when she had been almost too ill to see anyone. In answer to this there

came to her a real love-letter from Brooke Burgess. It was the first

occasion on which he had written to her. The little bulletins had

demanded no replies, and had received none. Perhaps there had been a

shade of disappointment on Dorothy’s side, in that she had written

thrice, and had been made rich with no word in return. But, although

her heart had palpitated on hearing the postman’s knock, and had

palpitated in vain, she had told herself that it was all as it should

be. She wrote to him, because she possessed information which it was

necessary that she should communicate. He did not write to her, because

there was nothing for him to tell. Then had come the love-letter, and

in the love-letter there was an imperative demand for a reply.

 

What was she to do? To have recourse to Priscilla for advice was her

first idea; but she herself believed that she owed a debt of gratitude

to her aunt, which Priscilla would not take into account—the

existence of which Priscilla would by no means admit. She knew

Priscilla’s mind in this matter, and was sure that Priscilla’s advice,

whatever it might be, would be given without any regard to her aunt’s

views. And then Dorothy was altogether ignorant of her aunt’s views.

Her aunt had been very anxious that she should marry Mr Gibson, but had

clearly never admitted into her mind the idea that she might possibly

marry Brooke Burgess; and it seemed to her that she herself would be

dishonest, both to her aunt and to her lover, if she were to bind this

man to herself without her aunt’s knowledge. He was to be her aunt’s

heir, and she was maintained by her aunt’s liberality! Thinking of all

this, she at last resolved that she would take the bull by the horns,

and tell her aunt. She felt that the task would be one almost beyond

her strength. Thrice she went into her aunt’s room, intending to make a

clean breast; Thrice her courage failed her, and she left the room with

her tale untold, excusing herself on various pretexts. Her aunt had

seemed to be not quite so well, or had declared herself to be tired, or

had been a little cross or else Martha had come in at the nick of time.

But there was Brooke Burgess’s letter unanswered, a letter that was read

night and morning, and which was never for an instant out of her mind.

He had demanded a reply, and he had a right at least to that. The

letter had been with her for four entire days before she had ventured

to speak to her aunt on the subject.

 

On the first of March Miss Stanbury came out of her bedroom for the

first time. Dorothy, on the previous day, had decided on postponing her

communication for this occasion; but, when she found herself sitting in

the little sitting-room up stairs close at her aunt’s elbow, and

perceived the signs of weakness which the new move had made

conspicuous, and heard the invalid declare that the little journey had

been almost too much for her, her heart misgave her. She ought to have

told her tale while her aunt was still in bed. But presently there came

a question, which put her into such a flutter that she was for the time

devoid of all resolution. ‘Has Brooke written?’ said Miss Stanbury.

 

‘Yes aunt; he has written.’

 

‘And what did he say?’ Dorothy was struck quite dumb. ‘Is there

anything wrong?’ And now, as Miss Stanbury asked the question, she

seemed herself to have forgotten that she had two minutes before

declared herself to be almost too feeble to speak. ‘I’m sure there is

something wrong. What is it? I will know’

 

‘There is nothing wrong, Aunt Stanbury’

 

‘Where is the letter? Let me see it.’

 

‘I mean there is nothing wrong about him.’

 

‘What is it, then?’

 

‘He is quite well, Aunt Stanbury.’

 

‘Shew me the letter. I will see the letter. I know that there is

something the matter. Do you mean to say you won’t shew me Brooke’s

letter?’

 

There was a moment’s pause before Dorothy answered. ‘I will shew you

his letter though I am sure he didn’t mean that I should shew it to

anyone.’

 

‘He hasn’t written evil of me?’

 

‘No; no; no. He would sooner cut his hand off than say a word bad of

you. He never says or writes anything bad of anybody. But Oh, aunt;

I’ll tell you everything. I should have told you before, only that you

were ill.’

 

Then Miss Stanbury was frightened. ‘What is it?’ she said hoarsely,

clasping the arms of the great chair, each with a thin, shrivelled

hand.

 

‘Aunt Stanbury, Brooke—Brooke wants me to be his wife!’

 

‘What!’

 

‘You cannot be more surprised than I have been, Aunt Stanbury; and

there has been no fault of mine.’

 

‘I don’t believe it,’ said the old woman.

 

‘Now you may read the letter,’ said Dorothy, standing up. She was quite

prepared to be obedient, but she felt that her aunt’s manner of

receiving the information was almost an insult.

 

‘He must be a fool,’ said Miss Stanbury.

 

This was hard to hear, and the colour went and came rapidly across

Dorothy’s cheeks as she gave herself a few moments to prepare an

answer. She already perceived that her aunt would be altogether adverse

to the marriage, and that therefore the marriage could never take

place. She had never for a moment allowed herself to think otherwise,

but, nevertheless, the blow was heavy on her. We all know how

constantly hope and expectation will rise high within our own bosoms in

opposition to our own judgment, how we become sanguine in regard to

events which we almost know can never come to pass. So it had been with

Dorothy. Her heart had been almost in a flutter of happiness since she

had had Brooke’s letter in her possession, and yet she never ceased to

declare to herself her own conviction that that letter could lead to no

good result. In regard to her own wishes on the subject she had never

asked herself a single question. As it had been quite beyond her power

to bring herself to endure the idea of marrying Mr Gibson, so it had

been quite impossible to her not to long to be Brooke’s wife from the

moment in which a suggestion to that effect had fallen from his lips.

This was a state of things so certain, so much a matter of course,

that, though she had not spoken a word to him in which she owned her

love, she had never for a moment doubted that he knew the truth and

that everybody else concerned would know it too. But she did not

suppose that her wishes would go for anything with her aunt. Brooke

Burgess was to become a rich man as her aunt’s heir, and her aunt would

of course have her own ideas about Brooke’s advancement in life. She

was quite prepared to submit without quarrelling when her aunt should

tell her that the idea must not be entertained. But the order might be

given, the prohibition might be pronounced, without an insult to her

own feelings as a woman. ‘He must he a fool,’ Miss Stanbury had said,

and Dorothy took time to collect her thoughts before she would reply.

In the meantime her aunt finished the reading of the letter.

 

‘He may be foolish in this,’ Dorothy said; ‘but I don’t think you

should call him a fool.’

 

‘I shall call him what I please. I suppose this was going on at the

time when you refused Mr Gibson.’

 

‘Nothing was going on. Nothing has gone on at all,’ said Dorothy, with

as much indignation as she was able to assume.

 

‘How can you tell me that? That is an untruth.’

 

‘It is not an untruth,’ said Dorothy, almost sobbing, but driven at the

same time to much anger.

 

‘Do you mean to say that this is the first you ever heard of it?’ And

she held out the letter, shaking it in her thin hand.

 

‘I have never said so, Aunt Stanbury.’

 

‘Yes, you did.’

 

‘I said that nothing was going on, when Mr Gibson was—. If you choose

to suspect me, Aunt Stanbury, I’ll go away. I won’t stay here if you

suspect me. When Brooke spoke to me, I told him you wouldn’t like it.’

 

‘Of course I don’t like it.’ But she gave no reason why she did not

like it.

 

‘And there was nothing more till this letter came. I couldn’t help his

writing to me. It wasn’t my fault.’

 

‘Psha!’

 

‘If you are angry, I am very sorry. But you haven’t a right to be

angry.’

 

‘Go on, Dorothy; go on. I’m so weak that I can hardly stir myself; it’s

the first moment that I’ve been out of my bed for weeks and of course

you can say what you please. I know what it will be. I shall have to

take to my bed again, and then in a very little time you can both make

fools of yourselves just as you like.’

 

This was an argument against which Dorothy of course found it to be

quite impossible to make continued combat. She could only shuffle her

letter back into her pocket, and be, if possible, more assiduous than

ever in her attentions to the invalid. She knew that she had been

treated most unjustly, and there would be a question to be answered as

soon as her aunt should be well as to the possibility of her remaining

in the Close subject to such injustice; but let her aunt say what she

might, or do what she might, Dorothy could not leave her for the

present. Miss Stanbury sat for a considerable time quite motionless,

with her eyes closed, and did not stir or make signs of