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

CHAPTER XXX

DOROTHY MAKES UP HER MIND

 

It was true that most ill-natured things had been said at Lessboro’ and

at Nuncombe Putney about Mrs Stanbury and the visitors at the Clock

House, and that these ill-natured things had spread themselves to

Exeter. Mrs Ellison of Lessboro’, who was not the most good-natured

woman in the world, had told Mrs Merton of Nuncombe that she had been

told that the Colonel’s visit to the lady had been made by express

arrangement between the Colonel and Mrs Stanbury. Mrs Merton, who was

very good-natured, but not the wisest woman in the world, had declared

that any such conduct on the part of Mrs Stanbury was quite impossible

‘What does it matter which it is Priscilla or her mother?’ Mrs Ellison

had said. ‘These are the facts. Mrs Trevelyan has been sent there to be

out of the way of this Colonel; and the Colonel immediately comes down

and sees her at the Clock House. But when people are very poor they do

get driven to do almost anything.’

 

Mrs Merton, not being very wise, had conceived it to be her duty to

repeat this to Priscilla; and Mrs Ellison, not being very good-natured,

had conceived it to be hers to repeat it to Mrs MacHugh at Exeter. And

then Bozzle’s coming had become known.

 

‘Yes, Mrs MacHugh, a policeman in mufti down at Nuncombe! I wonder what

our friend in the Close here will think about it! I have always said,

you know, that if she wanted to keep things straight at Nuncombe, she

should have opened her purse-strings.’

 

From all which it may be understood, that Priscilla Stanbury’s desire

to go back to their old way of living had not been without reason.

 

It may be imagined that Miss Stanbury of the Close did not receive with

equanimity the reports which reached her. And, of course, when she

discussed the matter either with Martha or with Dorothy, she fell back

upon her own early appreciation of the folly of the Clock House

arrangement. Nevertheless, she had called Mrs Ellison very bad names,

when she learned from her friend Mrs MacHugh what reports were being

spread by the lady from Lessboro’.

 

‘Mrs Ellison! Yes; we all know Mrs Ellison. The bitterest tongue in

Devonshire, and the falsest! There are some people at Lessboro’ who

would be well pleased if she paid her way there as well as those poor

women do at Nuncombe. I don’t think much of what Mrs Ellison says.’

 

‘But it is bad about the policeman,’ said Mrs MacHugh.

 

‘Of course it’s bad. It’s all bad. I’m not saying that it’s not bad.

I’m glad I’ve got this other young woman out of it. It’s all that young

man’s doing. If I had a son of my own, I’d sooner follow him to the

grave than hear him call himself a Radical.’

 

Then, on a sudden, there came to the Close news that Mrs Trevelyan and

her sister were gone. On the very Monday on which they went, Priscilla

sent a note on to her sister, in which no special allusion was made to

Aunt Stanbury, but which was no doubt written with the intention that

the news should be communicated.

 

‘Gone; are they? As it is past wishing that they hadn’t come, it’s the

best thing they could do now. And who is to pay the rent of the house,

now they have gone?’ As this was a point on which Dorothy was not

prepared to trouble herself at present, she made no answer to the

question.

 

Dorothy at this time was in a state of very great perturbation on her

own account. The reader may perhaps remember that she had been much

startled by a proposition that had been made to her in reference to her

future life. Her aunt had suggested to her that she should become Mrs

Gibson. She had not as yet given any answer to that proposition, and

had indeed found it to be quite impossible to speak about it at all.

But there can be no doubt that the suggestion had opened out to her

altogether new views of life. Up to the moment of her aunt’s speech to

her, the idea of her becoming a married woman had never presented

itself to her. In her humility it had not occurred to her that she

should be counted as one among the candidates for matrimony. Priscilla

had taught her to regard herself—indeed, they had both regarded

themselves—as born to eat and drink, as little as might be, and then to

die. Now, when she was told that she could, if she pleased, become Mrs

Gibson, she was almost lost in a whirl of new and confused ideas. Since

her aunt had spoken, Mr Gibson himself had dropped a hint or two which

seemed to her to indicate that he also must be in the secret. There had

been a party, with a supper, at Mrs Crumbie’s, at which both the Miss

Frenches had been present. But Mr Gibson had taken her, Dorothy

Stanbury, out to supper, leaving both Camilla and Arabella behind him

in the drawing-room! During the quarter of an hour afterwards in which

the ladies were alone while the gentlemen were eating and drinking,

both Camilla and Arabella continued to wreak their vengeance. They

asked questions about Mrs Trevelyan, and suggested that Mr Gibson might

be sent over to put things right. But Miss Stanbury had heard them, and

had fallen upon them with a heavy hand.

 

‘There’s a good deal expected of Mr Gibson, my dears,’ she said, ‘which

it seems to me Mr Gibson is not inclined to perform.’

 

‘It is quite indifferent to us what Mr Gibson may be inclined to

perform,’ said Arabella. ‘I’m sure we shan’t interfere with Miss

Dorothy.’

 

As this was said quite out loud before all the other ladies, Dorothy

was overcome with shame. But her aunt comforted her when they were

again at home.

 

‘Laws, my dear; what does it matter? When you’re Mrs Gibson, you’ll be

proud of it all.’

 

Was it then really written in the book of the Fates that she, Dorothy

Stanbury, was to become Mrs Gibson? Poor Dorothy began to feel that she

was called upon to exercise an amount of thought and personal decision

to which she had not been accustomed. Hitherto, in the things which she

had done, or left undone, she had received instructions which she could

obey. Had her mother and Priscilla told her positively not to go to her

aunt’s house, she would have remained at Nuncombe without complaint.

Had her aunt since her coming given her orders as to her mode of life—

enjoined, for instance, additional church attendances, or desired her

to perform menial services in the house—she would have obeyed, from

custom, without a word. But when she was told that she was to marry Mr

Gibson, it did seem to her to be necessary to do something more than

obey. Did she love Mr Gibson? She tried hard to teach herself to think

that she might learn to love him. He was a nice-looking man enough,

with sandy hair, and a head rather bald, with thin lips, and a narrow

nose, who certainly did preach drawling sermons; but of whom everybody

said that he was a very excellent clergyman. He had a house and an

income, and all Exeter had long since decided that he was a man who

would certainly marry. He was one of those men of whom it may be said

that they have no possible claim to remain unmarried. He was fair game,

and unless he surrendered himself to be bagged before long, would

subject himself to just and loud complaint. The Miss Frenches had been

aware of this, and had thought to make sure of him among them. It was a

little hard upon them that the old maid of the Close, as they always

called Miss Stanbury, should interfere with them when their booty was

almost won. And they felt it to be the harder because Dorothy Stanbury

was, as they thought, so poor a creature. That Dorothy herself should

have any doubt as to accepting Mr Gibson, was an idea that never

occurred to them. But Dorothy had her doubts. When she came to think of

it, she remembered that she had never as yet spoken a word to Mr

Gibson, beyond such little trifling remarks as are made over a

tea-table. She might learn to love him, but she did not think that she

loved him as yet.

 

‘I don’t suppose all this will make any difference to Mr Gibson,’ said

Miss Stanbury to her niece, on the morning after the receipt of

Priscilla’s note stating that the Trevelyans had left Nuncombe.

 

Dorothy always blushed when Mr Gibson’s name was mentioned, and she

blushed now. But she did not at all understand her aunt’s allusion. ‘I

don’t know what you mean, aunt,’ she said.

 

‘Well, you know, my dear, what they say about Mrs Trevelyan and the

Clock House is not very nice. If Mr Gibson were to turn round and say

that the connection wasn’t pleasant, no one would have a right to

complain.’

 

The faint customary blush on Dorothy’s cheeks which Mr Gibson’s name

had produced now covered her whole face even up to the roots of her

hair. ‘If he believes bad of mamma, I’m sure, Aunt Stanbury, I don’t

want to see him again.’

 

‘That’s all very fine, my dear, but a man has to think of himself, you

know.’

 

‘Of course he thinks of himself. Why shouldn’t he? I dare say he thinks

of himself more than I do.’

 

‘Dorothy, don’t be a fool. A good husband isn’t to be caught every

day.’

 

‘Aunt Stanbury, I don’t want to catch any man.’

 

‘Dorothy, don’t be a fool.’

 

‘I must say it. I don’t suppose Mr Gibson thinks of me the least in the

world.’

 

‘Psha! I tell you he does.’

 

‘But as for mamma and Priscilla, I never could like anybody for a

moment who would be ashamed of them.’

 

She was most anxious to declare that, as far as she knew herself and

her own wishes at present, she entertained no partiality for Mr Gibson,

no feeling which could become partiality even if Mr Gibson was to

declare himself willing to accept her mother and her sister with

herself. But she did not dare to say so. There was an instinct within

her which made it almost impossible to her to express an objection to a

suitor before the suitor had declared himself to be one. She could

speak out as touching her mother and her sister but as to her own

feelings she could express neither assent or dissent.

 

‘I should like to have it settled soon,’ said Miss Stanbury, in a

melancholy voice. Even to this Dorothy could make no reply. What did

soon mean? Perhaps in the course of a year or two. ‘If it could be

arranged by the end of this week, it would be a great comfort to me.’

Dorothy almost fell off her chair, and was stricken altogether dumb. ‘I

told you, I think, that Brooke Burgess is coming here?’

 

‘You said he was to come some day.’

 

‘He is to be here on Monday. I haven’t