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

When he came, she found herself unable to

address him. She remembered the last time in which she had seen him,

and was lost in wonder that he should be there. But she shook hands

with him, and went through some form of greeting in which no word was

uttered.

 

‘I hope you will not think that I have done wrong,’ said he, ‘in

calling to ask after my old friend’s state of health?’

 

‘Oh dear, no,’ said Dorothy, quite bewildered.

 

‘I have known her for so very long, Miss Dorothy, that now in the hour

of her distress, and perhaps mortal malady, I cannot stop to remember

the few harsh words that she spoke to me lately.’

 

‘She never means to be harsh, Mr Gibson.’

 

‘Ah; well; no perhaps not. At any rate I have learned to forgive and

forget. I am afraid your aunt is very ill, Miss Dorothy.’

 

‘She is ill, certainly, Mr Gibson.’

 

‘Dear, dear! We are all as the grass of the field, Miss Dorothy, here

to-day and gone tomorrow, as sparks fly upwards. Just fit to be cut

down and cast into the oven. Mr Jennings has been with her, I believe?’

Mr Jennings was the other minor canon.

 

‘He comes three times a week, Mr Gibson.’

 

‘He is an excellent young man, a very good young man. It has been a

great comfort to me to have Jennings with me. But he’s very young, Miss

Dorothy; isn’t he?’ Dorothy muttered something, purporting to declare,

that she was not acquainted with the exact circumstances of Mr

Jennings’ age. ‘I should be so glad to come if my old friend would

allow me,’ said Mr Gibson, almost with a sigh. Dorothy was clearly of

opinion that any change at the present would be bad for her aunt, but

she did not know how to express her opinion; so she stood silent and

looked at him. ‘There needn’t be a word spoken, you know, about the

ladies at Heavitree,’ said Mr Gibson.

 

‘Oh dear, no,’ said Dorothy. And yet she knew well that there would be

such words spoken if Mr Gibson were to make his way into her aunt’s

room. Her aunt was constantly alluding to the ladies at Heavitree, in

spite of all the efforts of her old servant to restrain her.

 

‘There was some little misunderstanding,’ said Mr Gibson; ‘but all that

should be over now. We both intended for the best, Miss Dorothy; and

I’m sure nobody here can say that I wasn’t sincere.’ But Dorothy,

though she could not bring herself to answer Mr Gibson plainly, could

not be induced to assent to his proposition. She muttered something

about her aunt’s weakness, and the great attention which Mr Jennings

shewed. Her aunt had become very fond of Mr Jennings, and she did at

last express her opinion, with some clearness, that her aunt should not

be disturbed by any changes at present. ‘After that I should not think

of pressing it, Miss Dorothy,’ said Mr Gibson; ‘but, still, I do hope

that I may have the privilege of seeing her yet once again in the

flesh. And touching my approaching marriage, Miss Dorothy—’ He paused,

and Dorothy felt that she was blushing up to the roots of her hair.

‘Touching my marriage,’ continued Mr Gibson, ‘which however will not be

solemnized till the end of March;’—it was manifest that he regarded

this as a point that would in that household be regarded as an argument

in his favour—‘I do hope that you will look upon it in the most

favourable light and your excellent aunt also, if she be spared to us.’

 

‘I am sure we hope that you will be happy, Mr Gibson.’

 

‘What was I to do, Miss Dorothy? I know that I have been very much

blamed but so unfairly! I have never meant to be untrue to a mouse,

Miss Dorothy.’ Dorothy did not at all understand whether she were the

mouse, or Camilla French, or Arabella. ‘And it is so hard to find that

one is ill-spoken of because things have gone a little amiss.’ It was

quite impossible that Dorothy should make any answer to this, and at

last Mr Gibson left her, assuring her with his last word that nothing

would give him so much pleasure as to be called upon once more to see

his old friend in her last moments.

 

Though Miss Stanbury had been described as sleeping ‘like a babby,’ she

had heard the footsteps of a strange man in the house, and had made

Martha tell her whose footsteps they were. As soon as Dorothy went to

her, she darted upon the subject with all her old keenness.

 

‘What did he want here, Dolly?’

 

‘He said he would like to see you, aunt when you are a little better,

you know. He spoke a good deal of his old friendship and respect.’

 

‘He should have thought of that before. How am I to see people now?’

 

‘But when you are better, aunt ?’

 

‘How do I know that I shall ever be better? He isn’t off with those

people at Heavitree is he?’

 

‘I hope not, aunt.’

 

‘Psha! A poor, weak, insufficient creature, that’s what he is. Mr

Jennings is worth twenty of him.’ Dorothy, though she put the question

again in its most alluring form of Christian charity and forgiveness,

could not induce her aunt to say that she would see Mr Gibson. ‘How can

I see him, when you know that Sir Peter has forbidden me to see

anybody, except Mrs Clifford and Mr Jennings?’

 

Two days afterwards there was an uncomfortable little scene at

Heavitree. It must, no doubt, have been the case, that the same train

of circumstances which had produced Mr Gibson’s visit to the Close,

produced also the scene in question. It was suggested by some who were

attending closely to the matter that Mr Gibson had already come to

repent his engagement with Camilla French; and, indeed, there were

those who pretended to believe that he was induced, by the prospect of

Miss Stanbury’s demise, to transfer his allegiance yet again, and to

bestow his hand upon Dorothy at last. There were many in the city who

could never be persuaded that Dorothy had refused him, these being, for

the most part, ladies in whose estimation the value of a husband was

counted so great, and a beneficed clergyman so valuable among suitors,

that it was to their thinking impossible that Dorothy Stanbury should

in her sound senses have rejected such an offer. ‘I don’t believe a bit

of it,’ said Mrs Crumbie to Mrs Apjohn; ‘is it likely?’ The ears of all

the French family were keenly alive to rumours, and to rumours of

rumours. Reports of these opinions respecting Mr Gibson reached

Heavitree, and had their effect. As long as Mr Gibson was behaving well

as a suitor, they were inoperative there. What did it matter to them

how the prize might have been struggled for, might still be struggled

for elsewhere, while they enjoyed the consciousness of possession? But

when the consciousness of possession became marred by a cankerous

doubt, such rumours were very important. Camilla heard of the visit in

the Close, and swore that she would have justice done her. She gave her

mother to understand that, if any trick were played upon her, the

diocese should be made to ring of it, in a fashion that would astonish

them all, from the bishop downwards. Whereupon Mrs French, putting much

faith in her daughter’s threats, sent for Mr Gibson.

 

‘The truth is, Mr Gibson,’ said Mrs French, when the civilities of

their first greeting had been completed, ‘my poor child is pining.’

 

‘Pining, Mrs French!’

 

‘Yes pining, Mr Gibson. I am afraid that you little understand how

sensitive is that young heart. Of course, she is your own now. To her

thinking, it would be treason to you for her to indulge in conversation

with any other gentleman; but, then, she expects that you should spend

your evenings with her of course!’

 

‘But, Mrs French, think of my engagements, as a clergyman.’

 

‘We know all about that, Mr Gibson. We know what a clergyman’s calls

are. It isn’t like a doctor’s, Mr Gibson.’

 

‘It’s very often worse, Mrs French.’

 

‘Why should you go calling in the Close, Mr Gibson?’ Here was the gist

of the accusation.

 

‘Wouldn’t you have me make my peace with a poor dying sister?’ pleaded

Mr Gibson.

 

‘After what has occurred,’ said Mrs French, shaking her head at him,

‘and while things are just as they are now, it would be more like an

honest man of you to stay away. And, of course, Camilla feels it. She

feels it very much and she won’t put up with it neither.’

 

‘I think this is the cruellest, cruellest thing I ever heard,’ said Mr

Gibson.

 

‘It is you that are cruel, sir.’

 

Then the wretched man turned at bay. ‘I tell you what it is, Mrs French

if I am treated in this way, I won’t stand it. I won’t, indeed. I’ll go

away. I’m not going to be suspected, nor yet blown up. I think I’ve

behaved handsomely, at any rate to Camilla.’

 

‘Quite so, Mr Gibson, if you would come and see her on evenings,’ said

Mrs French, who was falling back into her usual state of timidity.

 

‘But, if I’m to be treated in this way, I will go away. I’ve thoughts

of it as it is. I’ve been already invited to go to Natal, and if I hear

anything more of these accusations, I shall certainly make up my mind

to go.’ Then he left the house, before Camilla could be down upon him

from her perch on the landing-place.