He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📖
- Author: Anthony Trollope
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the whole tenor of her life for the sake as she told herself of
doing her duty by a relative whom she did not even know But we may
fairly suppose that there had in truth been a feeling beyond that,
which taught her to desire to have some one near her to whom she
might not only do her duty as guardian, but whom she might also
love. She had tried this with her nephew; but her nephew had been
too strong for her, too far from her, too unlike to herself. When
he came to see her he had smoked a short pipe, which had been
shocking to her, and he had spoken of Reform, and Trades’ Unions,
and meetings in the parks, as though they had not been Devil’s
ordinances. And he was very shy of going to church, utterly refusing to
be taken there twice on the same Sunday. And he had told his aunt
that owing to a peculiar and unfortunate weakness in his constitution
he could not listen to the reading of sermons. And then she was
almost certain that he had once kissed one of the maids! She had
found it impossible to manage him in any way; and when he positively
declared himself as permanently devoted to the degrading iniquities
of penny newspapers, she had thought it best to cast him off
altogether. Now, thus late in life, she was going to make another
venture, to try an altogether new mode of living in order, as she
said to herself, that she might be of some use to somebody but,
no doubt, with a further unexpressed hope in her bosom, that the
solitude of her life might be relieved by the companionship of
some one whom she might love. She had arrayed herself in a clean
cap and her evening gown, and she went downstairs looking sternly,
with a fully-developed idea that she must initiate her new duties
by assuming a mastery at once. But inwardly she trembled, and was
intensely anxious as to the first appearance of her niece. Of course
there would be a little morsel of a bonnet. She hated those vile
patches dirty dirty flat daubs of millinery as she called them, but
they had become too general for her to refuse admittance for such
a thing within her doors. But a chignon, a bandbox behind the
noddle, she would not endure. And then there were other details of
feminine gear, which shall not be specified, as to which she was
painfully anxious, almost forgetting in her anxiety that the dress
of this young woman whom she was about to see must have ever been
regulated by the closest possible economy.
The first thing she saw on entering the room was a dark straw hat,
a straw hat with a strong penthouse flap to it, and her heart was
immediately softened.
‘My dear,’ she said, ‘I am glad to see you.’
Dorothy, who, on her part, was trembling also, whose position was
one to justify most intense anxiety, murmured some reply.
‘Take off your hat,’ said the aunt, ‘and let me give you a kiss.’
The hat was taken off and the kiss was given. There was certainly
no chignon there. Dorothy Stanbury was light haired, with almost
flaxen ringlets, worn after the old-fashioned way which we used to
think so pretty when we were young. She had very soft grey eyes,
which ever seemed to beseech you to do something when they looked
at you, and her mouth was a beseeching mouth. There are women who,
even amidst their strongest efforts at giving assistance to others,
always look as though they were asking aid themselves, and such a
one was Dorothy Stanbury. Her complexion was pale, but there was
always present in it a tint of pink running here and there, changing
with every word she spoke, changing indeed with every pulse of her
heart. Nothing ever was softer than her cheek; but her hands were
thin and hard, and almost fibrous with the working of the thread
upon them. She was rather tall than otherwise, but that extreme
look of feminine dependence which always accompanied her, took away
something even from the appearance of her height.
‘These are all real, at any rate,’ said her aunt, taking hold of
the curls, ‘and won’t be hurt by a little cold water.’
Dorothy smiled but said nothing, and was then taken up to her bedroom.
Indeed, when the aunt and niece sat down to dinner together Dorothy
had hardly spoken. But Miss Stanbury had spoken, and things upon
the whole had gone very well.
‘I hope you like roast chicken, my dear?’ said Miss Stanbury.
‘Oh, thank you.’
‘And bread sauce? Jane, I do hope the bread sauce is hot.’
If the reader thinks that Miss Stanbury was indifferent to
considerations of the table, the reader is altogether ignorant of
Miss Stanbury’s character. When Miss Stanbury gave her niece the
liver-wing, and picked out from the attendant sausages one that had
been well browned and properly broken in the frying, she meant to
do a real kindness.
‘And now, my dear, there are mashed potatoes and bread sauce. As
for green vegetables, I don’t know what has become of them. They
tell me I may have green peas from France at a shilling a quart;
but if I can’t have English green peas, I won’t have any.’
Miss Stanbury was standing up as she said this, as she always did
on such occasions, liking to have a full mastery over the dish.
‘I hope you like it, my dear?’
‘Everything is so very nice.’
‘That’s right. I like to see a young woman with an appetite.
Remember that God sends the good things for us to eat; and as long
as we don’t take more than our share, and give away something to
those who haven’t a fair share of their own, I for one think it
quite right to enjoy my victuals. Jane, this bread sauce isn’t hot.
It never is hot. Don’t tell me; I know what hot is!’
Dorothy thought that her aunt was very angry; but Jane knew Miss
Stanbury better, and bore the scolding without shaking in her shoes.
‘And now, my dear, you must take a glass of port wine. It will do
you good after your journey.’
Dorothy attempted to explain that she never did drink any wine,
but her aunt talked down her scruples at once.
‘One glass of port wine never did anybody any harm, and as there
is port wine, it must be intended that somebody should drink it.’
Miss Stanbury, as she sipped hers out very slowly, seemed to enjoy
it very much. Although May had come, there was a fire in the grate,
and she sat with her toes on the fender, and her silk dress folded
up above her knees. She sat quite silent in this position for a
quarter of an hour, every now and then raising her glass to her lips.
Dorothy sat silent also. To her, in the newness of her condition,
speech was impossible.
‘I think it will do,’ said Miss Stanbury at last.
As Dorothy had no idea what would do, she could make no reply to
this.
‘I’m sure it will do,’ said Miss Stanbury, after another short
interval. ‘You’re as like my poor sister as two eggs. You don’t
have headaches, do you?’
Dorothy said that she was not ordinarily affected in that way.
‘When girls have headaches it comes from tight-lacing, and not walking
enough, and carrying all manner of nasty smells about with them.
I know what headaches mean. How is a woman not to have a headache,
when she carries a thing on the back of her poll as big as a gardener’s
wheel-barrow? Come, it’s a fine evening, and we’ll go out and look
at the towers. You’ve never even seen them yet, I suppose?’
So they went out, and finding the verger at the Cathedral door,
he being a great friend of Miss Stanbury, they walked up and down
the aisles, and Dorothy was instructed as to what would be expected
from her in regard to the outward forms of religion. She was to
go to the Cathedral service on the morning of every week-day, and
on Sundays in the afternoon. On Sunday mornings she was to attend
the little church of St. Margaret. On Sunday evenings it was the
practice of Miss Stanbury to read a sermon in the dining-room to all
of whom her household consisted. Did Dorothy like daily services?
Dorothy, who was more patient than her brother, and whose life had
been much less energetic, said that she had no objection to going
to church every day when there was not too much to do.
‘There never need be too much to do to attend the Lord’s house,’
said Miss Stanbury, somewhat angrily.
‘Only if you’ve got to make the beds,’ said Dorothy.
‘My dear, I beg your pardon,’ said Miss Stanbury. ‘I beg your
pardon, heartily. I’m a thoughtless old woman, I know. Never mind.
Now, we’ll go in.’
Later in the evening, when she gave her niece a candlestick to go
to bed, she repeated what she had said before.
‘It’ll do very well, my dear. I’m sure it’ll do. But if you read
in bed either night or morning, I’ll never forgive you.’
This last caution was uttered with so much energy, that Dorothy
gave a little jump as she promised obedience.
SHEWING HOW THE QUARREL PROGRESSED AGAIN
On one Sunday morning, when the month of May was nearly over, Hugh
Stanbury met Colonel Osborne in Curzon Street, not many yards from
Trevelyan’s door. Colonel Osborne had just come from the house,
and Stanbury was going to it. Hugh had not spoken to Osborne since
the day, now a fortnight since, on which both of them had witnessed
the scene in the park; but on that occasion they had been left
together, and it had been impossible for them not to say a few words
about their mutual friends. Osborne had expressed his sorrow that
there should be any misunderstanding, and had called Trevelyan a
‘confounded fool.’ Stanbury had suggested that there was something
in it which they two probably did not understand, and that matters
would be sure to come all right. ‘The truth is Trevelyan bullies
her,’ said Osborne; ‘and if he goes on with that he’ll be sure to
get the worst of it.’ Now on this present occasion Stanbury asked
whether he would find the ladies at home. ‘Yes, they are both there,’
said Osborne. ‘Trevelyan has just gone out in a huff. She’ll never
be able to go on living with him. Anybody can see that with half
an eye.’ Then he had passed on, and Hugh Stanbury knocked at the
door.
He was shown up into the drawing-room, and found both the sisters
there; but he could see that Mrs Trevelyan had been in tears. The
avowed purpose of his visit—that is, the purpose which he had avowed
to himself—was to talk about his sister Dorothy. He had told Miss
Rowley, while walking in the park with her, how Dorothy had been
invited over to Exeter by her aunt, and how he had counselled his
sister to accept the invitation. Nora had expressed herself very
interested as to Dorothy’s fate, and had said how much she wished
that she knew Dorothy. We all understand how sweet it is, when
two such persons as Hugh Stanbury and Nora Rowley cannot speak of
their love for each other, to say these
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