MISS STANBURY'S WRATH.
Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson
knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not
imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to
Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the
pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought
of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature
would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in
the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the
bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor
foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the
wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred
Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more
trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had
managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon
as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever
little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty
to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world,
and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two
thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what
other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was
quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring
to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his
memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer
to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about
his words, as Dorothy, from the bashfulness of her nature, would be
no judge of eloquence at such a time. But still, for his own sake,
there should be some form of expression, some propriety of diction.
Before eleven o'clock he had it all by heart, and had nearly freed
himself from the uneasiness of his falsehood to Arabella. He had
given much serious thought to the matter, and had quite resolved that
he was right in his purpose, and that he could marry Dorothy with a
pure conscience, and with a true promise of a husband's love. "Dear
Dolly!" he said to himself, with something of enthusiasm as he walked
across the Close. And he looked up to the house as he came to it.
There was to be his future home. There was not one of the prebends
who had a better house. And there was a dove-like softness about
Dorothy's eyes, and a winning obedience in her manner, that were
charming. His lines had fallen to him in very pleasant places.
Yes;--he would go up to her, and take her at once by the hand, and
ask her whether she would be his, now and for ever. He would not
let go her hand till he had brought her so close to him that she
could hide her blushes on his shoulder. The whole thing had been so
well conceived, had become so clear to his mind, that he felt no
hesitation or embarrassment as he knocked at the door. Arabella
French would, no doubt, hear of it soon. Well;--she must hear of it.
After all she could do him no injury.
He was shown up at once into the drawing-room, and there he
found--Miss Stanbury the elder. "Oh, Mr. Gibson!" she said at once.
"Is anything the matter with--dear Dorothy?"
"She is the most obstinate, pig-headed young woman I ever came across
since the world began."
"You don't say so! But what is it, Miss Stanbury?"
"What is it? Why just this. Nothing on earth that I can say to her
will induce her to come down and speak to you."
"Have I offended her?"
"Offended a fiddlestick! Offence indeed! An offer from an honest man,
with her friends' approval, and a fortune at her back, as though she
had been born with a gold spoon in her mouth! And she tells me that
she can't, and won't, and wouldn't, and shouldn't, as though I were
asking her to walk the streets. I declare I don't know what has come
to the young women;--or what it is they want. One would have thought
that butter wouldn't melt in her mouth."
"But what is the reason, Miss Stanbury?"
"Oh, reason! You don't suppose people give reasons in these days.
What reason have they when they dress themselves up with bandboxes on
their sconces? Just 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 down-stairs 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 had 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've 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 had 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 have 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 the kind," said Miss Stanbury.
"But it will be better."
"Yes, of course; no doubt. I suppose you're tired of us all."
"It is not that I'm tired, Aunt Stanbury. It isn't that at all."
Dorothy had now become red up to the roots of her hair, and her eyes
were full of tears. "But I cannot stay where people think that I
am ungrateful. If you please, Aunt Stanbury, I will go." Then, of
course, there was a compromise. Dorothy did at last consent to remain
in the Close, but only on condition that she should be forgiven for
her sin in reference to Mr. Gibson, and be permitted to go on with
her aunt's cap.