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

simply the old reason “I do not like thee, Dr. Fell; why

I cannot tell.”’

 

‘May I not see her myself, Miss Stanbury?’

 

‘I can’t make her come downstairs to you. I’ve been at her the whole

morning, Mr Gibson, ever since daylight pretty nearly. She came into my

room before I was up and told me she’d made up her mind. I’ve coaxed,

and scolded, and threatened, and cried but if she’d been a milestone it

couldn’t have been of less use. I told her she might go back to

Nuncombe, and she just went off to pack up.’

 

‘But she’s not to go?’

 

‘How can I say what such a young woman will do? I’m never allowed a way

of my own for a moment. There’s Brooke Burgess been scolding me at that

rate I didn’t know whether I stood on my head or my heels. And I don’t

know now.’

 

Then there was a pause, while Mr Gibson was endeavouring to decide what

would now be his best course of action. ‘Don’t you think she’ll ever

come round, Miss Stanbury?’

 

‘I don’t think she’ll ever come any way that anybody wants her to come,

Mr Gibson.’

 

‘I didn’t think she was at all like that,’ said Mr Gibson, almost in

tears.

 

‘No nor anybody else. I have been seeing it come all the same. It’s

just the Stanbury perversity. If I’d wanted to keep her by herself, to

take care of me, and had set my back up at her if she spoke to a man,

and made her understand that she wasn’t to think of getting married,

she’d have been making eyes at every man that came into the house. It’s

just what one gets for going out of one’s way. I did think she’d be so

happy, Mr Gibson, living here as your wife. She and I between us could

have managed for you so nicely.’

 

Mr Gibson was silent for a minute or two, during which he walked up and

down the room contemplating, no doubt, the picture of married life

which Miss Stanbury had painted for him, a picture which, as it seemed,

was not to be realised. ‘And what had I better do, Miss Stanbury?’ he

asked at last.

 

‘Do! I don’t know what you’re to do. I’m groom enough to bring a mare

to water, but I can’t make her drink.’

 

‘Will waiting be any good?’

 

‘How can I say? I’ll tell you one thing not to do. Don’t go and

philander with those girls at Heavitree. It’s my belief that Dorothy

has been thinking of them. People talk to her, of course.’

 

‘I wish people would hold their tongues. People are so indiscreet.

People don’t know how much harm they may do.’

 

‘You’ve given them some excuse, you know, Mr Gibson.’

 

This was very ill-natured, and was felt by Mr Gibson to be so rude,

that he almost turned upon his patroness in anger. He had known Dolly

for not more than three months, and had devoted himself to her, to the

great anger of his older friends. He had come this morning true to his

appointment, expecting that others would keep their promises to him, as

he was ready to keep those which he had made, and now he was told that

it was his fault! ‘I do think that’s rather hard, Miss Stanbury,’ he

said.

 

‘So you have,’ said she ‘nasty, slatternly girls, without an idea

inside their noddles. But it’s no use your scolding me.’

 

‘I didn’t mean to scold, Miss Stanbury.’

 

‘I’ve done all that I could.’

 

‘And you think she won’t see me for a minute?’

 

‘She says she won’t. I can’t bid Martha carry her down.’

 

‘Then, perhaps, I had better leave you for the present,’ said Mr

Gibson, after another pause. So he went, a melancholy, blighted man.

Leaving the Close, he passed through into Southernhay, and walked

across by the new streets towards the Heavitree road. He had no design

in taking this route, but he went on till he came in sight of the house

in which Mrs French lived. As he walked slowly by it, he looked up at

the windows, and something of a feeling of romance came across his

heart. Were his young affections buried there, or were they not? And,

if so, with which of those fair girls were they buried? For the last

two years, up to last night, Camilla had certainly been in the

ascendant. But Arabella was a sweet young woman; and there had been a

time when those tender passages were going on in which he had thought

that no young woman ever was so sweet. A period of romance, an era of

enthusiasm, a short-lived, delicious holiday of hot-tongued insanity

had been permitted to him in his youth but all that was now over. And

yet here he was, with three strings to his bow, so he told himself, and

he had not as yet settled for himself the great business of matrimony.

He was inclined to think, as he walked on, that he would walk his life

alone, an active, useful, but a melancholy man. After such experiences

as his, how should he ever again speak of his heart to a woman? During

this walk, his mind recurred frequently to Dorothy Stanbury; and,

doubtless, he thought that he had often spoken of his heart to her. He

was back at his lodgings before three, at which hour he ate an early

dinner, and then took the afternoon cathedral service at four. The

evening he spent at home, thinking of the romance of his early days.

What would Miss Stanbury have said, had she seen him in his easy chair

behind the ‘Exeter Argus,’ with a pipe in his mouth?

 

In the meantime, there was an uncomfortable scene in progress between

Dorothy and her aunt. Brooke Burgess, as desired, had left the house

before eleven, having taken upon himself, when consulted, to say in the

mildest terms, that he thought that, in general, young women should not

be asked to marry if they did not like to, which opinion had been so

galling to Miss Stanbury that she had declared that he had so scolded

her, that she did not know whether she was standing on her head or her

heels. As soon as Mr Gibson left her, she sat herself down, and fairly

cried. She had ardently desired this thing, and had allowed herself to

think of her desire as of one that would certainly be accomplished.

Dorothy would have been so happy as the wife of a clergyman! Miss

Stanbury’s standard for men and women was not high. She did not expect

others to be as self sacrificing, as charitable, and as good as

herself. It was not that she gave to herself credit for such virtues;

but she thought of herself as one who, from the peculiar circumstances

of life, was bound to do much for others. There was no end to her doing

good for others if only the others would allow themselves to be

governed by her. She did not think that Mr Gibson was a great divine;

but she perceived that he was a clergyman, living decently—of that

secret pipe Miss Stanbury knew nothing—doing his duty punctually, and,

as she thought, very much in want of a wife. Then there was her niece,

Dolly soft, pretty, feminine, without a shilling, and much in want of

some one to comfort and take care of her. What could be better than

such a marriage! And the overthrow to the girls with the big chignons

would be so complete! She had set her mind upon it, and now Dorothy

said that it couldn’t, and it wouldn’t, and it shouldn’t be

accomplished! She was to be thrown over by this chit of a girl, as she

had been thrown over by the girl’s brother! And, when she complained,

the girl simply offered to go away!

 

At about twelve Dorothy came creeping down into the room in which her

aunt was sitting, and pretended to occupy herself on some piece of

work. For a considerable time, for three minutes perhaps, Miss Stanbury

did not speak. She resolved that she would not speak to her niece again

at least, not for that day. She would let the ungrateful girl know how

miserable she had been made. But at the close of the three minutes her

patience was exhausted. ‘What are you doing there?’ she said.

 

‘I am quilting your cap, Aunt Stanbury.’

 

‘Put it down. You shan’t do anything for me. I won’t have you touch my

things any more. I don’t like pretended service.’

 

‘It is not pretended, Aunt Stanbury.’

 

‘I say it is pretended. Why did you pretend to me that you would have

him when you had made up your mind against it all the time?’

 

‘But I hadn’t made up my mind.’

 

‘If you had so much doubt about it, you might have done what I wanted

you.’

 

‘I couldn’t, Aunt Stanbury.’

 

‘You mean you wouldn’t. I wonder what it is you do expect.’

 

‘I don’t expect anything, Aunt Stanbury.’

 

‘No; and I don’t expect anything. What an old fool I am ever to look

for any comfort. Why should I think that anybody would care for me?’

 

‘Indeed, I do care for you.’

 

‘In what sort of way do you show it? You’re just like your brother

Hugh. I’ve disgraced myself to that man promising what I could not

perform. I declare it makes me sick when I think of it. Why did you not

tell me at once?’ Dorothy said nothing further, but sat with the cap on

her lap. She did not dare to resume her needle, and she did not like to

put the cap aside, as by doing so it would seem as though she had

accepted her aunt’s prohibition against her work. For half an hour she

sat thus, during which time Miss Stanbury dropped asleep. She woke with

a start, and began to scold again. ‘What’s the good of sitting there

all the day, with your hands before you, doing nothing?’

 

But Dorothy had been very busy. She had been making up her mind, and

had determined to communicate her resolution to her aunt. ‘Dear aunt,’

she said, ‘I’ve been thinking of something.’

 

‘It’s too late now,’ said Miss Stanbury.

 

‘I see I’ve made you very unhappy.’

 

‘Of course you have.’

 

‘And you think that I’m ungrateful. I’m not ungrateful, and I don’t

think that Hugh is.’

 

‘Never mind Hugh.’

 

‘Only because it seems so hard that you should take so much trouble

about us, and that then there should be so much vexation.’

 

‘I find it very hard.’

 

‘So I think that I’d better go back to Nuncombe.’

 

‘That’s what you call gratitude.’

 

‘I don’t like to stay here and make you unhappy. I can’t think that I

ought to have done what you asked me, because I did not feel at all in

that way about Mr Gibson. But as I have only disappointed you, it will

be better that I should go home. I have been very happy here very.’

 

‘Bother!’ exclaimed Miss Stanbury.

 

‘I have, and I do love you, though you won’t believe it. But I am sure I

oughtn’t to remain to make you unhappy. I shall never forget all that

you have done for me; and though you call me ungrateful, I am not. But

I know that I ought not to stay, as I cannot do what you wish. So, if

you please, I will go back to Nuncombe.’

 

‘You’ll not do anything of