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

CHAPTER XCVII

MRS BROOKE BURGESS

 

It may be doubted whether there was a happier young woman in England

than Dorothy Stanbury when that September came which was to make her

the wife of Mr Brooke Burgess, the new partner in the firm of Cropper

and Burgess. Her early aspirations in life had been so low, and of late

there had come upon her such a succession of soft showers of success,

mingled now and then with slight threatenings of storms which had

passed away, that the Close at Exeter seemed to her to have become a

very Paradise. Her aunt’s temper had sometimes been to her as the

threat of a storm, and there had been the Gibson marriage treaty, and

the short-lived opposition to the other marriage treaty which had

seemed to her to be so very preferable; but everything had gone at last

as though she had been Fortune’s favourite; and now had come this

beautiful arrangement about Cropper and Burgess, which would save her

from being carried away to live among strangers in London! When she

first became known to us on her coming to Exeter, in compliance with

her aunt’s suggestion, she was timid, silent, and altogether without

self-reliance. Even they who knew her best had never guessed that she

possessed a keen sense of humour, a nice appreciation of character, and

a quiet reticent wit of her own, under that staid and frightened

demeanour. Since her engagement with Brooke Burgess it seemed to those

who watched her that her character had become changed, as does that of

a flower when it opens itself in its growth. The sweet gifts of nature

within became visible, the petals sprang to view, and the leaves spread

themselves, and the sweet scent was felt upon the air. Had she remained

at Nuncombe, it is probable that none would ever have known her but her

sister. It was necessary to this flower that it should be warmed by the

sun of life, and strengthened by the breezes of opposition, and filled

by the showers of companionship, before it could become aware of its

own loveliness. Dorothy was one who, had she remained ever unseen in

the retirement of her mother’s village cottage, would have lived and

died ignorant of even her own capabilities for enjoyment. She had not

dreamed that she could win a man’s love—had hardly dreamed till she had

lived at Exeter that she had love of her own to give back in return.

She had not known that she could be firm in her own opinion, that she

could laugh herself and cause others to laugh, that she could be a lady

and know that other women were not so, that she had good looks of her

own and could be very happy when told of them by lips that she loved.

The flower that blows the quickest is never the sweetest. The fruit

that ripens tardily has ever the finest flavour. It is often the same

with men and women. The lad who talks at twenty as men should talk at

thirty, has seldom much to say worth the hearing when he is forty; and

the girl who at eighteen can shine in society with composure, has

generally given over shining before she is a full-grown woman. With

Dorothy the scent and beauty of the flower, and the flavour of the

fruit, had come late; but the fruit will keep, and the flower will not

fall to pieces with the heat of an evening.

 

‘How marvellously your bride has changed since she has been here,’ said

Mrs MacHugh to Miss Stanbury. ‘We thought she couldn’t say boo to a

goose at first; but she holds her own now among the best of ‘em.’

 

‘Of course she does; why shouldn’t she? I never knew a Stanbury yet that

was a fool.’

 

They are a wonderful family, of course,’ said Mrs MacHugh; ‘but I think

that of all of them she is the most wonderful. Old Barty said something

to her at my house yesterday that wasn’t intended to be kind.’

 

‘When did he ever intend to be kind?’

 

‘But he got no change out of her. “The Burgesses have been in Exeter a

long time,” she said, “and I don’t see why we should not get on at any

rate as well as those before us.” Barty grunted and growled and slunk

away. He thought she would shake in her shoes when he spoke to her.’

 

‘He has never been able to make a Stanbury shake in her shoes yet,’

said the old lady.

 

Early in September, Dorothy went to Nuncombe Putney to spend a week

with her mother and sister at the cottage. She had insisted on this,

though Priscilla had hinted, somewhat unnecessarily, that Dorothy, with

her past comforts and her future prospects, would find the

accommodation at the cottage very limited. ‘I suppose you and I, Pris,

can sleep in the same bed, as we always did,’ she said, with a tear in

each eye. Then Priscilla had felt ashamed of herself, and had bade her

come.

 

‘The truth is, Dolly,’ said the elder sister, ‘that we feel so unlike

marrying and giving in marriage at Nuncombe, that I’m afraid you’ll

lose your brightness and become dowdy, and grim, and misanthropic, as

we are. When mamma and I sit down to what we call dinner, I always feel

that there is a grace hovering in the air different to that which she

says.’

 

‘And what is it, Pris?’

 

‘“Pray, God, don’t quite starve us, and let everybody else have

indigestion.” We don’t say it out loud, but there it is; and the spirit

of it might damp the orange blossoms.’

 

She went of course, and the orange blossoms were not damped. She had

long walks with her sister round by Niddon and Ridleigh, and even as

far distant as Cockchaffington, where much was said about that wicked

Colonel as they stood looking at the porch of the church. ‘I shall be

so happy,’ said Dorothy, ‘when you and mother come to us. It will be

such a joy to me that you should be my guests.’

 

‘But we shall not come.’

 

‘Why not, Priscilla?’

 

‘I know it will be so. Mamma will not care for going, if I do not go.’

 

‘And why should you not come?’

 

‘For a hundred reasons, all of which you know, Dolly. I am stiff,

impracticable, ill-conditioned, and very bad at going about visiting. I

am always thinking that other people ought to have indigestion, and

perhaps I might come to have some such feeling about you and Brooke.’

 

‘I should not be at all afraid of that.’

 

‘I know that my place in the world is here, at Nuncombe Putney. I have

a pride about myself, and think that I never did wrong but once when I

let mamma go into that odious Clock House. It is a bad pride, and yet

I’m proud of it. I hav’n’t got a gown fit to go and stay with you, when

you become a grand lady in Exeter. I don’t doubt you’d give me any sort

of gown I wanted.’

 

‘Of course I would. Ain’t we sisters, Pris?’

 

‘I shall not be so much your sister as he will be your husband.

Besides, I hate to take things. When Hugh sends money, and for mamma’s

sake it is accepted, I always feel uneasy while it lasts, and think

that that plague of an indigestion ought to come upon me also.