MISS STANBURY'S GENEROSITY.
On one Wednesday morning early in June, great preparations were being
made at the brick house in the Close at Exeter for an event which can
hardly be said to have required any preparation at all. Mrs. Stanbury
and her elder daughter were coming into Exeter from Nuncombe Putney
to visit Dorothy. The reader may perhaps remember that when Miss
Stanbury's invitation was sent to her niece, she was pleased to
promise that such visits should be permitted on a Wednesday morning.
Such a visit was now to be made, and old Miss Stanbury was quite
moved by the occasion. "I shall not see them, you know, Martha," she
had said, on the afternoon of the preceding day.
"I suppose not, ma'am."
"Certainly not. Why should I? It would do no good."
"It is not for me to say, ma'am, of course."
"No, Martha, it is not. And I am sure that I am right. It's no good
going back and undoing in ten minutes what twenty years have done.
She's a poor harmless creature, I believe."
"The most harmless in the world, ma'am."
"But she was as bad as poison to me when she was young, and what's
the good of trying to change it now? If I was to tell her that I
loved her, I should only be lying."
"Then, ma'am, I would not say it."
"And I don't mean. But you'll take in some wine and cake, you know."
"I don't think they'll care for wine and cake."
"Will you do as I tell you? What matters whether they care for it or
not? They need not take it. It will look better for Miss Dorothy.
If Dorothy is to remain here I shall choose that she should be
respected." And so the question of the cake and wine had been decided
overnight. But when the morning came Miss Stanbury was still in
a twitter. Half-past ten had been the hour fixed for the visit,
in consequence of there being a train in from Lessboro', due at
the Exeter station at ten. As Miss Stanbury breakfasted always
at half-past eight, there was no need of hurry on account of the
expected visit. But, nevertheless, she was in a fuss all the morning;
and spoke of the coming period as one in which she must necessarily
put herself into solitary confinement.
"Perhaps your mamma will be cold," she said, "and will expect a
fire."
"Oh, dear, no, Aunt Stanbury."
"It could be lighted of course. It is a pity they should come just so
as to prevent you from going to morning service; is it not?"
"I could go with you, aunt, and be back very nearly in time. They
won't mind waiting a quarter of an hour."
"What; and have them here all alone! I wouldn't think of such a
thing. I shall go up-stairs. You had better come to me when they are
gone. Don't hurry them. I don't want you to hurry them at all; and
if you require anything, Martha will wait upon you. I have told the
girls to keep out of the way. They are so giddy, there's no knowing
what they might be after. Besides,--they've got their work to mind."
All this was very terrible to poor Dorothy, who had not as yet quite
recovered from the original fear with which her aunt had inspired
her,--so terrible that she was almost sorry that her mother and
sister were coming to her. When the knock was heard at the door,
precisely as the cathedral clock was striking half-past ten,--to
secure which punctuality, and thereby not to offend the owner of the
mansion, Mrs. Stanbury and Priscilla had been walking about the Close
for the last ten minutes,--Miss Stanbury was still in the parlour.
"There they are!" she exclaimed, jumping up. "They haven't given
a body much time to run away, have they, my dear? Half a minute,
Martha,--just half a minute!" Then she gathered up her things as
though she had been ill-treated in being driven to make so sudden a
retreat, and Martha, as soon as the last hem of her mistress's dress
had become invisible on the stairs, opened the front door for the
visitors.
"Do you mean to say you like it?" said Priscilla, when they had been
there about a quarter of an hour.
"H--u--sh," whispered Mrs. Stanbury.
"I don't suppose she's listening at the door," said Priscilla.
"Indeed, she's not," said Dorothy. "There can't be a truer, honester
woman, than Aunt Stanbury."
"But is she kind to you, Dolly?" asked the mother.
"Very kind; too kind. Only I don't understand her quite, and then
she gets angry with me. I know she thinks I'm a fool, and that's the
worst of it."
"Then, if I were you, I would come home," said Priscilla.
"She'll never forgive you if you do," said Mrs. Stanbury.
"And who need care about her forgiveness?" said Priscilla.
"I don't mean to go home yet, at any rate," said Dorothy. Then there
was a knock at the door, and Martha entered with the cake and wine.
"Miss Stanbury's compliments, ladies, and she hopes you'll take a
glass of sherry." Whereupon she filled out the glasses and carried
them round.
"Pray give my compliments and thanks to my sister Stanbury," said
Dorothy's mother. But Priscilla put down the glass of wine without
touching it, and looked her sternest at the maid.
Altogether, the visit was not very successful, and poor Dorothy
almost felt that if she chose to remain in the Close she must lose
her mother and sister, and that without really making a friend of
her aunt. There had as yet been no quarrel,--nothing that had been
plainly recognised as disagreeable; but there had not as yet come to
be any sympathy, or assured signs of comfortable love. Miss Stanbury
had declared more than once that it would do, but had not succeeded
in showing in what the success consisted. When she was told that the
two ladies were gone, she desired that Dorothy might be sent to her,
and immediately began to make anxious inquiries.
"Well, my dear, and what do they think of it?"
"I don't know, aunt, that they think very much."
"And what do they say about it?"
"They didn't say very much, aunt. I was very glad to see mamma and
Priscilla. Perhaps I ought to tell you that mamma gave me back the
money I sent her."
"What did she do that for?" asked Miss Stanbury very sharply.
"Because she says that Hugh sends her now what she wants." Miss
Stanbury, when she heard this, looked very sour. "I thought it best
to tell you, you know."
"It will never come to any good, got in that way,--never."
"But, Aunt Stanbury, isn't it good of him to send it?"
"I don't know. I suppose it's better than drinking, and smoking, and
gambling. But I dare say he gets enough for that too. When a man,
born and bred like a gentleman, condescends to let out his talents
and education for such purposes, I dare say they are willing enough
to pay him. The devil always does pay high wages. But that only makes
it so much the worse. One almost comes to doubt whether any one ought
to learn to write at all, when it is used for such vile purposes.
I've said what I've got to say, and I don't mean to say anything
more. What's the use? But it has been hard upon me,--very. It was my
money did it, and I feel I've misused it. It's a disgrace to me which
I don't deserve."
For a couple of minutes Dorothy remained quite silent, and Miss
Stanbury did not herself say anything further. Nor during that time
did she observe her niece, or she would probably have seen that the
subject was not to be dropped. Dorothy, though she was silent, was
not calm, and was preparing herself for a crusade in her brother's
defence.
"Aunt Stanbury, he's my brother, you know."
"Of course he's your brother. I wish he were not."
"I think him the best brother in the world,--and the best son."
"Why does he sell himself to write sedition?"
"He doesn't sell himself to write sedition. I don't see why it should
be sedition, or anything wicked, because it's sold for a penny."
"If you are going to cram him down my throat, Dorothy, you and I had
better part."
"I don't want to say anything about him, only you ought--not--to
abuse him--before me." By this time Dorothy was beginning to sob,
but Miss Stanbury's countenance was still very grim and very stern.
"He's coming home to Nuncombe Putney, and I want to--see--see him,"
continued Dorothy.
"Hugh Stanbury coming to Exeter! He won't come here."
"Then I'd rather go home, Aunt Stanbury."
"Very well, very well," said Miss Stanbury, and she got up and left
the room.
Dorothy was in dismay, and began to think that there was nothing for
her to do but to pack up her clothes and prepare for her departure.
She was very sorry for what had occurred, being fully alive to the
importance of the aid not only to herself, but to her mother and
sister, which was afforded by the present arrangement, and she felt
very angry with herself, in that she had already driven her aunt to
quarrel with her. But she had found it to be impossible to hear her
own brother abused without saying a word on his behalf. She did not
see her aunt again till dinner-time, and then there was hardly a word
uttered. Once or twice Dorothy made a little effort to speak, but
these attempts failed utterly. The old woman would hardly reply even
by a monosyllable, but simply muttered something, or shook her head
when she was addressed. Jane, who waited at table, was very demure
and silent, and Martha, who once came into the room during the meal,
merely whispered a word into Miss Stanbury's ear. When the cloth
was removed, and two glasses of port had been poured out by Miss
Stanbury herself, Dorothy felt that she could endure this treatment
no longer. How was it possible that she could drink wine under such
circumstances?
[Illustration: Aunt Stanbury at dinner will not speak.]
"Not for me, Aunt Stanbury," said she, with a deploring tone.
"Why not?"
"I couldn't drink it to-day."
"Why didn't you say so before it was poured out? And why not to-day?
Come, drink it. Do as I bid you." And she stood over her niece, as a
tragedy queen in a play with a bowl of poison. Dorothy took it and
sipped it from mere force of obedience. "You make as many bones about
a glass of port wine as though it were senna and salts," said Miss
Stanbury. "Now I've got something to say to you." By this time the
servant was gone, and the two were seated alone together in the
parlour. Dorothy, who had not as yet swallowed above half her wine,
at once put the glass down. There was an importance in her aunt's
tone which frightened her, and made her feel that some evil was
coming. And yet, as she had made up her mind that she must return
home, there was no further evil that she need dread. "You didn't
write any of those horrid articles?" said Miss Stanbury.
"No, aunt; I didn't write them. I shouldn't know how."
"And I hope you'll never learn. They say women are to vote, and
become doctors, and if so, there's no knowing what devil's tricks
they mayn't do. But it isn't your fault about that filthy newspaper.
How he can let himself down to write stuff that is to be printed on
straw is what I can't understand."
"I don't see how it can make a difference as he writes it."
"It would make a great deal of difference to me. And I'm told that
what they call ink comes off on your fingers like lamp-black. I never
touched one, thank God; but they tell me so. All the same; it isn't
your fault."
"I've nothing to do with it, Aunt Stanbury."
"Of course you've not. And as he is your brother it wouldn't be
natural that you should like to throw him off. And, my dear, I like
you for taking his part. Only you needn't have been so fierce with an
old woman."
"Indeed--indeed I didn't mean to be--fierce, Aunt Stanbury."
"I never was taken up so short in my life. But we won't mind that.
There; he shall come and see you. I suppose he won't insist on
leaving any of his nastiness about."
"But is he to come here, Aunt Stanbury?"
"He may if he pleases."
"Oh, Aunt Stanbury!"
"When he was here last he generally had a pipe in his mouth, and I
dare say he never puts it down at all now. Those things grow upon
young people so fast. But if he could leave it on the door-step just
while he's here I should be obliged to him."
"But, dear aunt, couldn't I see him in the street?"
"Out in the street! No, my dear. All the world is not to know that
he's your brother; and he is dressed in such a rapscallion manner
that the people would think you were talking to a house-breaker."
Dorothy's face became again red as she heard this, and the angry
words were very nearly spoken. "The last time I saw him," continued
Miss Stanbury, "he had on a short, rough jacket, with enormous
buttons, and one of those flipperty-flopperty things on his head,
that the butcher-boys wear. And, oh, the smell of tobacco! As he had
been up in London I suppose he thought Exeter was no better than a
village, and he might do just as he pleased. But he knew that if
I'm particular about anything, it is about a gentleman's hat in
the streets. And he wanted me--me!--to walk with him across to Mrs.
MacHugh's! We should have been hooted about the Close like a pair of
mad dogs;--and so I told him."
"All the young men seem to dress like that now, Aunt Stanbury."
"No, they don't. Mr. Gibson doesn't dress like that."
"But he's a clergyman, Aunt Stanbury."
"Perhaps I'm an old fool. I dare say I am, and of course that's what
you mean. At any rate I'm too old to change, and I don't mean to try.
I like to see a difference between a gentleman and a house-breaker.
For the matter of that I'm told that there is a difference, and that
the house-breakers all look like gentlemen now. It may be proper to
make us all stand on our heads, with our legs sticking up in the air;
but I for one don't like being topsy-turvey, and I won't try it. When
is he to reach Exeter?"
"He is coming on Tuesday next, by the last train."
"Then you can't see him that night. That's out of the question. No
doubt he'll sleep at the Nag's Head, as that's the lowest radical
public-house in the city. Martha shall try to find him. She knows
more about his doings than I do. If he chooses to come here the
following morning before he goes down to Nuncombe Putney, well and
good. I shall wait up till Martha comes back from the train on
Tuesday night, and hear." Dorothy was of course full of gratitude and
thanks; but yet she felt almost disappointed by the result of her
aunt's clemency on the matter. She had desired to take her brother's
part, and it had seemed to her as though she had done so in a very
lukewarm manner. She had listened to an immense number of accusations
against him, and had been unable to reply to them because she had
been conquered by the promise of a visit. And now it was out of the
question that she should speak of going. Her aunt had given way to
her, and of course had conquered her.
Late on the Tuesday evening, after ten o'clock, Hugh Stanbury was
walking round the Close with his aunt's old servant. He had not put
up at that dreadfully radical establishment of which Miss Stanbury
was so much afraid, but had taken a bed-room at the Railway Inn. From
there he had walked up to the Close with Martha, and now was having a
few last words with her before he would allow her to return to the
house.
"I suppose she'd as soon see the devil as see me," said Hugh.
"If you speak in that way, Mr. Hugh, I won't listen to you."
"And yet I did everything I could to please her; and I don't think
any boy ever loved an old woman better than I did her."
"That was while she used to send you cakes, and ham, and jam to
school, Mr. Hugh."
"Of course it was, and while she sent me flannel waistcoats to
Oxford. But when I didn't care any longer for cakes or flannel then
she got tired of me. It is much better as it is, if she'll only be
good to Dorothy."
"She never was bad to anybody, Mr. Hugh. But I don't think an old
lady like her ever takes to a young woman as she does to a young man,
if only he'll let her have a little more of her own way than you
would. It's my belief that you might have had it all for your own
some day, if you'd done as you ought."
"That's nonsense, Martha. She means to leave it all to the Burgesses.
I've heard her say so."
"Say so; yes. People don't always do what they say. If you'd managed
rightly you might have it all;--and so you might now."
"I'll tell you what, old girl; I shan't try. Live for the next twenty
years under her apron strings, that I may have the chance at the end
of it of cutting some poor devil out of his money! Do you know the
meaning of making a score off your own bat, Martha?"
"No, I don't; and if it's anything you're like to do, I don't think I
should be the better for learning,--by all accounts. And now if you
please, I'll go in."
"Good night, Martha. My love to them both, and say I'll be there
to-morrow exactly at half-past nine. You'd better take it. It won't
turn to slate-stone. It hasn't come from the old gentleman."
"I don't want anything of that kind, Mr. Hugh;--indeed I don't."
"Nonsense. If you don't take it you'll offend me. I believe you think
I'm not much better than a schoolboy still."
"I don't think you're half so good, Mr. Hugh," said the old servant,
sticking the sovereign which Hugh had given her in under her glove as
she spoke.
On the next morning that other visit was made at the brick house, and
Miss Stanbury was again in a fuss. On this occasion, however, she was
in a much better humour than before, and was full of little jokes as
to the nature of the visitation. Of course, she was not to see her
nephew herself, and no message was to be delivered from her, and none
was to be given to her from him. But an accurate report was to be
made to her as to his appearance, and Dorothy was to be enabled to
answer a variety of questions respecting him after he was gone. "Of
course, I don't want to know anything about his money," Miss Stanbury
said, "only I should like to know how much these people can afford
to pay for their penny trash." On this occasion she had left the
room and gone up-stairs before the knock came at the door, but she
managed, by peeping over the balcony, to catch a glimpse of the
"flipperty-flopperty" hat which her nephew certainly had with him on
this occasion.
Hugh Stanbury had great news for his sister. The cottage in which
Mrs. Stanbury lived at Nuncombe Putney, was the tiniest little
dwelling in which a lady and her two daughters ever sheltered
themselves. There was, indeed, a sitting-room, two bed-rooms, and a
kitchen; but they were all so diminutive in size that the cottage was
little more than a cabin. But there was a house in the village, not
large indeed, but eminently respectable, three stories high, covered
with ivy, having a garden behind it, and generally called the Clock
House, because there had once been a clock upon it. This house
had been lately vacated, and Hugh informed his sister that he was
thinking of taking it for his mother's accommodation. Now, the
late occupants of the Clock House, at Nuncombe Putney, had been
people with five or six hundred a year. Had other matters been in
accordance, the house would almost have entitled them to consider
themselves as county people. A gardener had always been kept
there,--and a cow!
"The Clock House for mamma!"
"Well, yes. Don't say a word about it as yet to Aunt Stanbury, as
she'll think that I've sold myself altogether to the old gentleman."
"But, Hugh, how can mamma live there?"
"The fact is, Dorothy, there is a secret. I can't tell you quite
yet. Of course, you'll know it, and everybody will know it, if the
thing comes about. But as you won't talk, I will tell you what most
concerns ourselves."
"And am I to go back?"
"Certainly not,--if you will take my advice. Stick to your aunt. You
don't want to smoke pipes, and wear Tom-and-Jerry hats, and write for
the penny newspapers."
Now Hugh Stanbury's secret was this;--that Louis Trevelyan's wife and
sister-in-law were to leave the house in Curzon Street, and come and
live at Nuncombe Putney, with Mrs. Stanbury and Priscilla. Such, at
least, was the plan to be carried out, if Hugh Stanbury should be
successful in his present negotiations.