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

longer? You don’t

ever think of that.’

 

‘I should go back to mamma, and Priscilla.’

 

‘Psha! As if two mouths were not enough to eat all the meal there is in

that tub. If there was a word to say against the man, I wouldn’t ask

you to have him; if he drank or smoked, or wasn’t a gentleman, or was

too poor, or anything you like. But there’s nothing. It’s all very well

to tell me you don’t love him, but why don’t you love him? I don’t like

a girl to go and throw herself at a man’s head, as those Frenches have

done; but when everything has been prepared for you and made proper, it

seems to me to be like turning away from good victuals.’ Dorothy could

only offer to go home if she had offended her aunt, and then Miss

Stanbury had scolded her for making the offer. As this kind of thing

went on at the house in the Close for a fortnight, during which there

was no going out, and no society at home, Dorothy began to be rather

tired of it.

 

At the end of the fortnight, on the morning of the day on which Brooke

Burgess was expected back, Dorothy, slowly moving into the sitting room

with her usual melancholy air, found Mr Gibson talking to her aunt.

‘There she is herself,’ said Miss Stanbury, jumping up briskly; ‘and

now you can speak to her. Of course I have no authority none in the

least. But she knows what my wishes are.’ And, having so spoken, Miss

Stanbury left the room.

 

It will be remembered that hitherto no word of affection had been

whispered by Mr Gibson into Dorothy’s ears. When he came before to

press his suit she had been made aware of his coming, and had fled,

leaving her answer with her aunt. Mr Gibson had then expressed himself

as somewhat injured in that no opportunity of pouring forth his own

eloquence had been permitted to him. On that occasion Miss Stanbury,

being in a snubbing humour, had snubbed him. She had in truth scolded

him almost as much as she had scolded Dorothy, telling him that he went

about the business in hand as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

‘You’re stiff as a chair-back,’ she had said to him, with a few other

compliments, and these amenities had for a while made him regard the

establishment at Heavitree as being, at any rate, pleasanter than that

in the Close. But since that, cool reflection had come. The proposal was

not that he should marry Miss Stanbury, senior, who certainly could be

severe on occasions, but Miss Stanbury, junior, whose temper was as

sweet as primroses in March. That which he would have to take from

Miss Stanbury, senior, was a certain sum of money, as to which her

promise was as good as any bond in the world. Things had come to such a

pass with him in Exeter—from the hints of his friend the Prebend, from

a word or two which had come to him from the Dean, from certain family

arrangements proposed to him by his mother and sisters—things had come

to such a pass that he was of a mind that he had better marry some one.

He had, as it were, three strings to his bow. There were the two French

strings, and there was Dorothy. He had not breadth of genius enough to

suggest to himself that yet another woman might be found. There was a

difficulty on the French score even about Miss Stanbury; but it was

clear to him that, failing her, he was due to one of the two Miss

Frenches. Now it was not only that the Miss Frenches were empty-handed,

but he was beginning to think himself that they were not as nice as

they might have been in reference to the arrangement of their

head-gear. Therefore, having given much thought to the matter, and

remembering that he had never yet had play for his own eloquence with

Dorothy, he had come to Miss Stanbury asking that he might have another

chance. It had been borne in upon him that he had perhaps hitherto

regarded Dorothy as too certainly his own, since she had been offered

to him by her aunt as being a prize that required no eloquence in the

winning; and he thought that if he could have an opportunity of

amending that fault, it might even yet be well with his suit. So he

prepared himself, and asked permission, and now found himself alone

with the young lady.

 

‘When last I was in this house, Miss Stanbury,’ he began, ‘I was not

fortunate enough to be allowed an opportunity of pleading my cause to

yourself.’ Then he paused, and Dorothy was left to consider how best

she might answer him. All that her aunt had said to her had not been

thrown away upon her. The calls upon that slender meal-tub at home she

knew were quite sufficient. And Mr Gibson was, she believed, a good

man. And how better could she dispose of herself in life? And what was

she that she should scorn the love of an honest gentleman? She would

take him, she thought if she could. But then there came upon her,

unconsciously, without work of thought, by instinct rather than by

intelligence, a feeling of the closeness of a wife to her husband.

Looking at it in general she could not deny that it would be very

proper that she should become Mrs Gibson. But when there came upon her

a remembrance that she would be called upon for demonstration of her

love, that he would embrace her, and hold her to his heart, and kiss her,

she revolted and shuddered. She believed that she did not want to marry

any man, and that such a state of things would not be good for her.

‘Dear young lady,’ continued Mr Gibson, ‘you will let me now make up

for the loss which I then experienced?’

 

‘I thought it was better not to give you trouble,’ said Dorothy.

 

‘Trouble, Miss Stanbury! How could it be trouble? The labour we delight

in physics pain. But to go back to the subject-matter. I hope you do

not doubt that my affection for you is true, and honest, and genuine.’

 

‘I don’t want to doubt anything, Mr Gibson; but—’

 

‘You needn’t, dearest Miss Stanbury; indeed you needn’t. If you could

read my heart you would see written there true love very plainly, very

plainly. And do you not think it a duty that people should marry?’ It

may be surmised that he had here forgotten some connecting link which

should have joined without abruptness the declaration of his own love,

and his social view as to the general expediency of matrimony. But

Dorothy did not discover the hiatus.

 

‘Certainly when they like each other, and if their friends think it

proper.’

 

‘Our friends think it proper, Miss Stanbury—may I say Dorothy? all of

them. I can assure you that on my side you will he welcomed by a mother

and sisters only too anxious to receive you with open arms. And as

regards your own relations, I need hardly allude to your revered aunt.

As to your own mother and sister and your brother, who, I believe,

gives his mind chiefly to other things I am assured by Miss Stanbury

that no opposition need be feared from them. Is that true, dearest

Dorothy?’

 

‘It is true.’

 

‘Does not all that plead in my behalf? Tell me, Dorothy.’

 

‘Of course it does.’

 

‘And you will be mine?’ As far as eloquence could be of service, Mr

Gibson was sufficiently eloquent. To Dorothy his words appeared good,

and true, and affecting. All their friends did wish it. There were many

reasons why it should be done. If talking could have done it, his

talking was good enough. Though his words were in truth cold, and

affected, and learned by rote, they did not offend her; but his face

offended her; and the feeling was strong within her that if she

yielded, it would soon be close to her own. She couldn’t do it. She

didn’t love him, and she wouldn’t do it. Priscilla would not grudge her

her share out of that meagre meal-tub. Had not Priscilla told her not

to marry the man if she did not love him? She found that she was

further than ever from loving him. She would not do it.‘say that you

will be mine,’ pleaded Mr Gibson, coming to her with both his hands

outstretched.

 

‘Mr Gibson, I can’t,’ she said. She was sobbing now, and was half

choked by tears.

 

‘And why not, Dorothy?’

 

‘I don’t know, but I can’t. I don’t feel that I want to be married at

all.’

 

‘But it is honourable.’

 

‘It’s no use, Mr Gibson; I can’t, and you oughtn’t to ask me any more.’

 

‘Must this be your very last answer?’

 

‘What’s the good of going over it all again and again. I can’t do it.’

 

‘Never, Miss Stanbury?’

 

‘No never.’

 

‘That is cruel, very cruel. I fear that you doubt my love.’

 

‘It isn’t cruel, Mr Gibson. I have a right to have my own feelings, and

I can’t. If you please, I’ll go away now.’ Then she went, and he was

left standing alone in the room. His first feeling was one of anger.

Then there came to be mixed with that a good deal of wonder and then a

certain amount of doubt. He had during the last fortnight discussed the

matter at great length with a friend, a gentleman who knew the world,

and who took upon himself to say that he specially understood female

nature. It was by advice from this friend that he had been instigated to

plead his own cause. ‘Of course she means to accept you,’ the friend had

said. ‘Why the mischief shouldn’t she? But she has some flimsy,

old-fashioned country idea that it isn’t maidenly to give in at first.

You tell her roundly that she must marry you.’ Mr Gibson was just

reaching that roundness which his friend had recommended when the lady

left him and he was alone.

 

Mr Gibson was no doubt very much in love with Dorothy Stanbury. So

much we may take for granted. He, at least, believed that he was in

love with her. He would have thought it wicked to propose to her had he

not been in love with her. But with his love was mingled a certain

amount of contempt which had induced him to look upon her as an easy

conquest. He had been perhaps a little ashamed of himself for being in

love with Dorothy, and had almost believed the Frenches when they had

spoken of her as a poor creature, a dependant, one born to be snubbed

as a young woman almost without an identity of her own. When,

therefore, she so pertinaciously refused him, he could not but be

angry. And it was natural that he should be surprised. Though he was to

have received a fortune with Dorothy, the money was not hers. It was to

be hers or rather theirs only if she would accept him. Mr Gibson

thoroughly understood this point. He knew that Dorothy had nothing of

her own. The proposal made to her was as rich as though he had sought

her down at Nuncombe Putney, with his preferment, plus the 2000 pounds,

in his own pocket. And his other advantages were not hidden from his

own eyes. He was a clergyman, well thought of, not bad-looking

certainly, considerably under forty—a man, indeed, who ought to have

been, in the eyes of Dorothy, such an