ABOUT FISHING, AND NAVIGATION, AND HEAD-DRESSES.
[Illustration]
The feud between Miss Stanbury and Mr. Gibson raged violently in
Exeter, and produced many complications which were very difficult
indeed of management. Each belligerent party felt that a special
injury had been inflicted upon it. Mr. Gibson was quite sure that he
had been grossly misused by Miss Stanbury the elder, and strongly
suspected that Miss Stanbury the younger had had a hand in this
misconduct. It had been positively asserted to him,--at least so he
thought, but in this was probably in error,--that the lady would
accept him if he proposed to her. All Exeter had been made aware of
the intended compact. He, indeed, had denied its existence to Miss
French, comforting himself, as best he might, with the reflection
that all is fair in love and war; but when he counted over his
injuries he did not think of this denial. All Exeter, so to say, had
known of it. And yet, when he had come with his proposal, he had been
refused without a moment's consideration, first by the aunt, and then
by the niece;--and, after that, had been violently abused, and at
last turned out of the house! Surely, no gentleman had ever before
been subjected to ill-usage so violent! But Miss Stanbury the elder
was quite as assured that the injury had been done to her. As to the
matter of the compact itself, she knew very well that she had been as
true as steel. She had done everything in her power to bring about
the marriage. She had been generous in her offers of money. She had
used all her powers of persuasion on Dorothy, and she had given
every opportunity to Mr. Gibson. It was not her fault if he had not
been able to avail himself of the good things which she had put in
his way. He had first been, as she thought, ignorant and arrogant,
fancying that the good things ought to be made his own without any
trouble on his part;--and then awkward, not knowing how to take the
trouble when trouble was necessary. And as to that matter of abusive
language and turning out of the house, Miss Stanbury was quite
convinced that she was sinned against, and not herself the sinner.
She declared to Martha, more than once, that Mr. Gibson had used such
language to her that, coming out of a clergyman's mouth, it had quite
dismayed her. Martha, who knew her mistress, probably felt that Mr.
Gibson had at least received as good as he gave; but she had made no
attempt to set her mistress right on that point.
But the cause of Miss Stanbury's sharpest anger was not to be found
in Mr. Gibson's conduct either before Dorothy's refusal of his offer,
or on the occasion of his being turned out of the house. A base
rumour was spread about the city that Dorothy Stanbury had been
offered to Mr. Gibson, that Mr. Gibson had civilly declined the
offer,--and that hence had arisen the wrath of the Juno of the Close.
Now this was not to be endured by Miss Stanbury. She had felt even
in the moment of her original anger against Mr. Gibson that she was
bound in honour not to tell the story against him. She had brought
him into the little difficulty, and she at least would hold her
tongue. She was quite sure that Dorothy would never boast of her
triumph. And Martha had been strictly cautioned,--as indeed, also,
had Brooke Burgess. The man had behaved like an idiot, Miss Stanbury
said; but he had been brought into a little dilemma, and nothing
should be said about it from the house in the Close. But when the
other rumour reached Miss Stanbury's ears, when Mrs. Crumbie condoled
with her on her niece's misfortune, when Mrs. MacHugh asked whether
Mr. Gibson had not behaved rather badly to the young lady, then our
Juno's celestial mind was filled with a divine anger. But even then
she did not declare the truth. She asked a question of Mrs. Crumbie,
and was enabled, as she thought, to trace the falsehood to the
Frenches. She did not think that Mr. Gibson could on a sudden have
become so base a liar. "Mr. Gibson fast and loose with my niece!" she
said to Mrs. MacHugh. "You have not got the story quite right, my
dear friend. Pray, believe me;--there has been nothing of that sort."
"I dare say not," said Mrs. MacHugh, "and I'm sure I don't care. Mr.
Gibson has been going to marry one of the French girls for the last
ten years, and I think he ought to make up his mind and do it at
last."
"I can assure you he is quite welcome as far as Dorothy is
concerned," said Miss Stanbury.
Without a doubt the opinion did prevail throughout Exeter that Mr.
Gibson, who had been regarded time out of mind as the property of
the Miss Frenches, had been angled for by the ladies in the Close,
that he had nearly been caught, but that he had slipped the hook
out of his mouth, and was now about to subside quietly into the net
which had been originally prepared for him. Arabella French had not
spoken loudly on the subject, but Camilla had declared in more than
one house that she had most direct authority for stating that the
gentleman had never dreamed of offering to the young lady. "Why he
should not do so if he pleases, I don't know," said Camilla. "Only
the fact is that he has not pleased. The rumour of course has reached
him, and, as we happen to be very old friends, we have authority for
denying it altogether." All this came round to Miss Stanbury, and she
was divine in her wrath.
"If they drive me to it," she said to Dorothy, "I'll have the whole
truth told by the bellman through the city, or I'll publish it in the
County Gazette."
"Pray don't say a word about it, Aunt Stanbury."
"It is those odious girls. He's there now every day."
"Why shouldn't he go there, Aunt Stanbury?"
"If he's fool enough, let him go. I don't care where he goes. But
I do care about these lies. They wouldn't dare to say it only they
think my mouth is closed. They've no honour themselves, but they
screen themselves behind mine."
"I'm sure they won't find themselves mistaken in what they trust to,"
said Dorothy, with a spirit that her aunt had not expected from her.
Miss Stanbury at this time had told nobody that the offer to her
niece had been made and repeated and finally rejected;--but she found
it very difficult to hold her tongue.
In the meantime Mr. Gibson spent a good deal of his time at
Heavitree. It should not perhaps be asserted broadly that he had made
up his mind that marriage would be good for him; but he had made up
his mind, at least, to this, that it was no longer to be postponed
without a balance of disadvantage. The Charybdis in the Close drove
him helpless into the whirlpool of the Heavitree Scylla. He had no
longer an escape from the perils of the latter shore. He had been so
mauled by the opposite waves, that he had neither spirit nor skill
left to him to keep in the middle track. He was almost daily at
Heavitree, and did not attempt to conceal from himself the approach
of his doom.
But still there were two of them. He knew that he must become a prey,
but was there any choice left to him as to which siren should have
him? He had been quite aware in his more gallant days, before he had
been knocked about on that Charybdis rock, that he might sip, and
taste, and choose between the sweets. He had come to think lately
that the younger young lady was the sweeter. Eight years ago indeed
the passages between him and the elder had been tender; but Camilla
had then been simply a romping girl, hardly more than a year or two
beyond her teens. Now, with her matured charms, Camilla was certainly
the more engaging as far as outward form went. Arabella's cheeks
were thin and long, and her front teeth had come to show themselves.
Her eyes were no doubt still bright, and what she had of hair was
soft and dark. But it was very thin in front, and what there was of
supplemental mass behind,--the bandbox by which Miss Stanbury was
so much aggrieved,--was worn with an indifference to the lines of
beauty, which Mr. Gibson himself found to be very depressing. A man
with a fair burden on his back is not a grievous sight; but when
we see a small human being attached to a bale of goods which he
can hardly manage to move, we feel that the poor fellow has been
cruelly overweighted. Mr. Gibson certainly had that sensation about
Arabella's chignon. And as he regarded it in a nearer and a dearer
light,--as a chignon that might possibly become his own, as a burden
which in one sense he might himself be called upon to bear, as a
domestic utensil which he himself might be called upon to inspect,
and perhaps to aid the shifting on and the shifting off, he did begin
to think that that side of the Scylla gulf ought to be avoided if
possible. And probably this propensity on his part, this feeling that
he would like to reconsider the matter dispassionately before he
gave himself up for good to his old love, may have been increased by
Camilla's apparent withdrawal of her claims. He felt mildly grateful
to the Heavitree household in general for accepting him in this time
of his affliction, but he could not admit to himself that they had a
right to decide upon him in private conclave, and allot him either to
the one or to the other nuptials without consultation with himself.
To be swallowed up by Scylla he now recognised as his doom; but he
thought he ought to be asked on which side of the gulf he would
prefer to go down. The way in which Camilla spoke of him as a thing
that wasn't hers, but another's; and the way in which Arabella looked
at him, as though he were hers and could never be another's, wounded
his manly pride. He had always understood that he might have his
choice, and he could not understand that the little mishap which had
befallen him in the Close was to rob him of that privilege.
He used to drink tea at Heavitree in those days. On one evening on
going in he found himself alone with Arabella. "Oh, Mr. Gibson," she
said, "we weren't sure whether you'd come. And mamma and Camilla have
gone out to Mrs. Camadge's." Mr. Gibson muttered some word to the
effect that he hoped he had kept nobody at home; and, as he did so,
he remembered that he had distinctly said that he would come on
this evening. "I don't know that I should have gone," said Arabella,
"because I am not quite,--not quite myself at present. No, not ill;
not at all. Don't you know what it is, Mr. Gibson, to be,--to be,--to
be,--not quite yourself?" Mr. Gibson said that he had very often felt
like that. "And one can't get over it;--can one?" continued Arabella.
"There comes a presentiment that something is going to happen, and
a kind of belief that something has happened, though you don't know
what; and the heart refuses to be light, and the spirit becomes
abashed, and the mind, though it creates new thoughts, will not
settle itself to its accustomed work. I suppose it's what the novels
have called Melancholy."
"I suppose it is," said Mr. Gibson. "But there's generally some cause
for it. Debt for instance--"
"It's nothing of that kind with me. It's no debt, at least, that can
be written down in the figures of ordinary arithmetic. Sit down, Mr.
Gibson, and we will have some tea." Then, as she stretched forward to
ring the bell, he thought that he never in his life had seen anything
so unshapely as that huge wen at the back of her head. "Monstrum
horrendum, informe, ingens!" He could not help quoting the words to
himself. She was dressed with some attempt at being smart, but her
ribbons were soiled, and her lace was tawdry, and the fabric of her
dress was old and dowdy. He was quite sure that he would feel no
pride in calling her Mrs. Gibson, no pleasure in having her all to
himself at his own hearth. "I hope we shall escape the bitterness of
Miss Stanbury's tongue if we drink tea tete-a-tete," she said, with
her sweetest smile.
"I don't suppose she'll know anything about it."
"She knows about everything, Mr. Gibson. It's astonishing what she
knows. She has eyes and ears everywhere. I shouldn't care, if she
didn't see and hear so very incorrectly. I'm told now that she
declares--; but it doesn't signify."
"Declares what?" asked Mr. Gibson.
"Never mind. But wasn't it odd how all Exeter believed that you were
going to be married in that house, and to live there all the rest of
your life, and be one of Miss Stanbury's slaves. I never believed
it, Mr. Gibson." This she said with a sad smile, that ought to have
brought him on his knees, in spite of the chignon.
"One can't help these things," said Mr. Gibson.
"I never could have believed it;--not even if you had not given me an
assurance so solemn, and so sweet, that there was nothing in it." The
poor man had given the assurance, and could not deny the solemnity
and the sweetness. "That was a happy moment for us, Mr. Gibson;
because, though we never believed it, when it was dinned into our
ears so frequently, when it was made such a triumph in the Close, it
was impossible not to fear that there might be something in it." He
felt that he ought to make some reply, but he did not know what to
say. He was thoroughly ashamed of the lie he had told, but he could
not untell it. "Camilla reproached me afterwards for asking you,"
whispered Arabella, in her softest, tenderest voice. "She said
that it was unmaidenly. I hope you did not think it unmaidenly, Mr.
Gibson?"
"Oh dear no;--not at all," said he.
Arabella French was painfully alive to the fact that she must do
something. She had her fish on the hook; but of what use is a fish
on your hook, if you cannot land him? When could she have a better
opportunity than this of landing the scaly darling out of the fresh
and free waters of his bachelor stream, and sousing him into the pool
of domestic life, to be ready there for her own household purposes?
"I had known you so long, Mr. Gibson," she said, "and had valued your
friendship so--so deeply." As he looked at her he could see nothing
but the shapeless excrescence to which his eyes had been so painfully
called by Miss Stanbury's satire. It is true that he had formerly
been very tender with her, but she had not then carried about with
her that distorted monster. He did not believe himself to be at all
bound by anything which had passed between them in circumstances
so very different. But yet he ought to say something. He ought to
have said something; but he said nothing. She was patient, however,
very patient; and she went on playing him with her hook. "I am so
glad that I did not go out to-night with mamma. It has been such a
pleasure to me to have this conversation with you. Camilla, perhaps,
would say that I am--unmaidenly."
"I don't think so."
"That is all that I care for, Mr. Gibson. If you acquit me, I do
not mind who accuses. I should not like to suppose that you thought
me unmaidenly. Anything would be better than that; but I can throw
all such considerations to the wind when true--true--friendship is
concerned. Don't you think that one ought, Mr. Gibson?"
If it had not been for the thing at the back of her head, he would
have done it now. Nothing but that gave him courage to abstain.
It grew bigger and bigger, more shapeless, monstrous, absurd, and
abominable, as he looked at it. Nothing should force upon him the
necessity of assisting to carry such an abortion through the world.
"One ought to sacrifice everything to friendship," said Mr. Gibson,
"except self-respect."
He meant nothing personal. Something special, in the way of an
opinion, was expected of him; and, therefore, he had striven to
say something special. But she was in tears in a moment. "Oh, Mr.
Gibson," she exclaimed; "oh, Mr. Gibson!"
"What is the matter, Miss French?"
"Have I lost your respect? Is it that that you mean?"
"Certainly not, Miss French."
"Do not call me Miss French, or I shall be sure that you condemn me.
Miss French sounds so very cold. You used to call me--Bella." That
was quite true; but it was long ago, thought Mr. Gibson,--before the
monster had been attached. "Will you not call me Bella now?"
He thought that he had rather not; and yet, how was he to avoid it?
On a sudden he became very crafty. Had it not been for the sharpness
of his mother wit, he would certainly have been landed at that
moment. "As you truly observed just now," he said, "the tongues
of people are so malignant. There are little birds that hear
everything."
"I don't care what the little birds hear," said Miss French, through
her tears. "I am a very unhappy girl;--I know that; and I don't care
what anybody says. It is nothing to me what anybody says. I know what
I feel." At this moment there was some dash of truth about her. The
fish was so very heavy on hand that, do what she would, she could
not land him. Her hopes before this had been very low,--hopes that
had once been high; but they had been depressed gradually; and, in
the slow, dull routine of her daily life, she had learned to bear
disappointment by degrees, without sign of outward suffering, without
consciousness of acute pain. The task of her life had been weary,
and the wished-for goal was ever becoming more and more distant;
but there had been still a chance, and she had fallen away into a
lethargy of lessening expectation, from which joy, indeed, had been
banished, but in which there had been nothing of agony. Then had
come upon the whole house at Heavitree the great Stanbury peril, and,
arising out of that, had sprung new hopes to Arabella, which made her
again capable of all the miseries of a foiled ambition. She could
again be patient, if patience might be of any service; but in such a
condition an eternity of patience is simply suicidal. She was willing
to work hard, but how could she work harder than she had worked. Poor
young woman,--perishing beneath an incubus which a false idea of
fashion had imposed on her!
"I hope I have said nothing that makes you unhappy," pleaded Mr.
Gibson. "I'm sure I haven't meant it."
"But you have," she said. "You make me very unhappy. You condemn me.
I see you do. And if I have done wrong it has been all because-- Oh
dear, oh dear, oh dear!"
"But who says you have done wrong?"
"You won't call me Bella,--because you say the little birds will hear
it. If I don't care for the little birds, why should you?"
There is no question more difficult than this for a gentleman to
answer. Circumstances do not often admit of its being asked by a lady
with that courageous simplicity which had come upon Miss French in
this moment of her agonising struggle; but nevertheless it is one
which, in a more complicated form, is often put, and to which some
reply, more or less complicated, is expected. "If I, a woman, can
dare, for your sake, to encounter the public tongue, will you, a man,
be afraid?" The true answer, if it could be given, would probably
be this; "I am afraid, though a man, because I have much to lose
and little to get. You are not afraid, though a woman, because you
have much to get and little to lose." But such an answer would be
uncivil, and is not often given. Therefore men shuffle and lie, and
tell themselves that in love,--love here being taken to mean all
antenuptial contests between man and woman,--everything is fair. Mr.
Gibson had the above answer in his mind, though he did not frame
it into words. He was neither sufficiently brave nor sufficiently
cruel to speak to her in such language. There was nothing for him,
therefore, but that he must shuffle and lie.
"I only meant," said he, "that I would not for worlds do anything to
make you uneasy."
She did not see how she could again revert to the subject of her own
Christian name. She had made her little tender, loving request, and
it had been refused. Of course she knew that it had been refused as a
matter of caution. She was not angry with him because of his caution,
as she had expected him to be cautious. The barriers over which
she had to climb were no more than she had expected to find in her
way;--but they were so very high and so very difficult! Of course she
was aware that he would escape if he could. She was not angry with
him on that account. Anger could not have helped her. Indeed, she did
not price herself highly enough to make her feel that she would be
justified in being angry. It was natural enough that he shouldn't
want her. She knew herself to be a poor, thin, vapid, tawdry
creature, with nothing to recommend her to any man except a sort
of second-rate, provincial-town fashion which,--infatuated as she
was,--she attributed in a great degree to the thing she carried on
her head. She knew nothing. She could do nothing. She possessed
nothing. She was not angry with him because he so evidently wished to
avoid her. But she thought that if she could only be successful she
would be good and loving and obedient,--and that it was fair for her
at any rate to try. Each created animal must live and get its food
by the gifts which the Creator has given to it, let those gifts be
as poor as they may,--let them be even as distasteful as they may to
other members of the great created family. The rat, the toad, the
slug, the flea, must each live according to its appointed mode of
existence. Animals which are parasites by nature can only live by
attaching themselves to life that is strong. To Arabella Mr. Gibson
would be strong enough, and it seemed to her that if she could fix
herself permanently upon his strength, that would be her proper
mode of living. She was not angry with him because he resisted
the attempt, but she had nothing of conscience to tell her that
she should spare him as long as there remained to her a chance of
success. And should not her plea of excuse, her justification be
admitted? There are tormentors as to which no man argues that they
are iniquitous, though they be very troublesome. He either rids
himself of them, or suffers as quiescently as he may.
"We used to be such--great--friends," she said, still crying, "and I
am afraid you don't like me a bit now."
"Indeed I do;--I have always liked you. But--"
"But what? Do tell me what the but means. I will do anything that you
bid me."
Then it occurred to him that if, after such a promise, he were to
confide to her his feeling that the chignon which she wore was ugly
and unbecoming, she would probably be induced to change her mode of
head-dress. It was a foolish idea, because, had he followed it out,
he would have seen that compliance on her part in such a matter could
only be given with the distinct understanding that a certain reward
should be the consequence. When an unmarried gentleman calls upon an
unmarried lady to change the fashion of her personal adornments, the
unmarried lady has a right to expect that the unmarried gentleman
means to make her his wife. But Mr. Gibson had no such meaning; and
was led into error by the necessity for sudden action. When she
offered to do anything that he might bid her do, he could not take up
his hat and go away. She looked up into his face, expecting that he
would give her some order;--and he fell into the temptation that was
spread for him.
"If I might say a word,--" he began.
"You may say anything," she exclaimed.
"If I were you I don't think--"
"You don't think what, Mr. Gibson?"
He found it to be a matter very difficult of approach. "Do you know,
I don't think the fashion that has come up about wearing your hair
quite suits you,--not so well as the way you used to do it." She
became on a sudden very red in the face, and he thought that she was
angry. Vexed she was, but still, accompanying her vexation, there
was a remembrance that she was achieving victory even by her own
humiliation. She loved her chignon; but she was ready to abandon even
that for him. Nevertheless she could not speak for a moment or two,
and he was forced to continue his criticism. "I have no doubt those
things are very becoming and all that, and I dare say they are
comfortable."
"Oh, very," she said.
"But there was a simplicity that I liked about the other."
Could it be then that for the last five years he had stood aloof from
her because she had arrayed herself in fashionable attire? She was
still very red in the face, still suffering from wounded vanity,
still conscious of that soreness which affects us all when we are
made to understand that we are considered to have failed there, where
we have most thought that we excelled. But her womanly art enabled
her quickly to conceal the pain. "I have made a promise," she said,
"and you will find that I will keep it."
"What promise?" asked Mr. Gibson.
"I said that I would do as you bade me, and so I will. I would have
done it sooner if I had known that you wished it. I would never have
worn it at all if I had thought that you disliked it."
"I think that a little of them is very nice," said Mr. Gibson. Mr.
Gibson was certainly an awkward man. But there are men so awkward
that it seems to be their especial province to say always the very
worst thing at the very worst moment.
She became redder than ever as she was thus told of the hugeness of
her favourite ornament. She was almost angry now. But she restrained
herself, thinking perhaps of how she might teach him taste in days to
come as he was teaching her now. "I will change it to-morrow," she
said with a smile. "You come and see to-morrow."
Upon this he got up and took his hat and made his escape, assuring
her that he would come and see her on the morrow. She let him go now
without any attempt at further tenderness. Certainly she had gained
much during the interview. He had as good as told her in what had
been her offence, and of course, when she had remedied that offence,
he could hardly refuse to return to her. She got up as soon as she
was alone, and looked at her head in the glass, and told herself that
the pity would be great. It was not that the chignon was in itself
a thing of beauty, but that it imparted so unmistakable an air of
fashion! It divested her of that dowdiness which she feared above
all things, and enabled her to hold her own among other young women,
without feeling that she was absolutely destitute of attraction.
There had been a certain homage paid to it, which she had recognised
and enjoyed. But it was her ambition to hold her own, not among
young women, but among clergymen's wives, and she would certainly
obey his orders. She could not make the attempt now because of the
complications; but she certainly would make it before she laid her
head on the pillow,--and would explain to Camilla that it was a
little joke between herself and Mr. Gibson.