MR. GIBSON'S THREAT.
Miss Stanbury for a long time persisted in being neither better nor
worse. Sir Peter would not declare her state to be precarious, nor
would he say that she was out of danger; and Mr. Martin had been so
utterly prostrated by the nearly-fatal effects of his own mistake
that he was quite unable to rally himself and talk on the subject
with any spirit or confidence. When interrogated he would simply
reply that Sir Peter said this and Sir Peter said that, and thus
add to, rather than diminish, the doubt, and excitement, and varied
opinion which prevailed through the city. On one morning it was
absolutely asserted within the limits of the Close that Miss Stanbury
was dying,--and it was believed for half a day at the bank that she
was then lying in articulo mortis. There had got about, too, a report
that a portion of the property had only been left to Miss Stanbury
for her life, that the Burgesses would be able to reclaim the
houses in the city, and that a will had been made altogether in
favour of Dorothy, cutting out even Brooke from any share in the
inheritance;--and thus Exeter had a good deal to say respecting
the affairs and state of health of our old friend. Miss Stanbury's
illness, however, was true enough. She was much too ill to hear
anything of what was going on;--too ill to allow Martha to talk to
her at all about the outside public. When the invalid herself would
ask questions about the affairs of the world, Martha would be very
discreet and turn away from the subject. Miss Stanbury, for instance,
ill as she was, exhibited a most mundane interest, not exactly in
Camilla French's marriage, but in the delay which that marriage
seemed destined to encounter. "I dare say he'll slip out of it yet,"
said the sick lady to her confidential servant. Then Martha had
thought it right to change the subject, feeling it to be wrong
that an old lady on her death-bed should be taking joy in the
disappointment of her young neighbour. Martha changed the subject,
first to jelly, and then to the psalms of the day. Miss Stanbury
was too weak to resist; but the last verse of the last psalm of the
evening had hardly been finished before she remarked that she would
never believe it till she saw it. "It's all in the hands of Him as is
on high, mum," said Martha, turning her eyes up to the ceiling, and
closing the book at the same time, with a look strongly indicative of
displeasure.
Miss Stanbury understood it all as well as though she were in perfect
health. She knew her own failings, was conscious of her worldly
tendencies, and perceived that her old servant was thinking of it.
And then sundry odd thoughts, half-digested thoughts, ideas too
difficult for her present strength, crossed her brain. Had it been
wicked of her when she was well to hope that a scheming woman should
not succeed in betraying a man by her schemes into an ill-assorted
marriage; and if not wicked then, was it wicked now because she was
ill? And from that thought her mind travelled on to the ordinary
practices of death-bed piety. Could an assumed devotion be of use to
her now,--such a devotion as Martha was enjoining upon her from hour
to hour, in pure and affectionate solicitude for her soul? She had
spoken one evening of a game of cards, saying that a game of cribbage
would have consoled her. Then Martha, with a shudder, had suggested
a hymn, and had had recourse at once to a sleeping draught. Miss
Stanbury had submitted, but had understood it all. If cards were
wicked, she had indeed been a terrible sinner. What hope could there
be now, on her death-bed, for one so sinful? And she could not repent
of her cards, and would not try to repent of them, not seeing the
evil of them; and if they were innocent, why should she not have the
consolation now,--when she so much wanted it? Yet she knew that the
whole household, even Dorothy, would be in arms against her, were she
to suggest such a thing. She took the hymn and the sleeping draught,
telling herself that it would be best for her to banish such ideas
from her mind. Pastors and masters had laid down for her a mode of
living, which she had followed, but indifferently perhaps, but still
with an intention of obedience. They had also laid down a mode of
dying, and it would be well that she should follow that as closely
as possible. She would say nothing more about cards. She would
think nothing more of Camilla French. But, as she so resolved, with
intellect half asleep, with her mind wandering between fact and
dream, she was unconsciously comfortable with an assurance that if
Mr. Gibson did marry Camilla French, Camilla French would lead him
the very devil of a life.
During three days Dorothy went about the house as quiet as a mouse,
sitting nightly at her aunt's bedside, and tending the sick woman
with the closest care. She, too, had been now and again somewhat
startled by the seeming worldliness of her aunt in her illness. Her
aunt talked to her about rents, and gave her messages for Brooke
Burgess on subjects which seemed to Dorothy to be profane when spoken
of on what might perhaps be a death-bed. And this struck her the more
strongly, because she had a matter of her own on which she would have
much wished to ascertain her aunt's opinion, if she had not thought
that it would have been exceedingly wrong of her to trouble her
aunt's mind at such a time by any such matter. Hitherto she had said
not a word of Brooke's proposal to any living being. At present it
was a secret with herself, but a secret so big that it almost caused
her bosom to burst with the load that it bore. She could not, she
thought, write to Priscilla till she had told her aunt. If she were
to write a word on the subject to any one, she could not fail to make
manifest the extreme longing of her own heart. She could not have
written Brooke's name on paper, in reference to his words to herself,
without covering it with epithets of love. But all that must be known
to no one if her love was to be of no avail to her. And she had an
idea that her aunt would not wish Brooke to marry her,--would think
that Brooke should do better; and she was quite clear that in such a
matter as this her aunt's wishes must be law. Had not her aunt the
power of disinheriting Brooke altogether? And what then if her aunt
should die,--should die now,--leaving Brooke at liberty to do as he
pleased? There was something so distasteful to her in this view of
the matter that she would not look at it. She would not allow herself
to think of any success which might possibly accrue to herself by
reason of her aunt's death. Intense as was the longing in her heart
for permission from those in authority over her to give herself to
Brooke Burgess, perfect as was the earthly Paradise which appeared to
be open to her when she thought of the good thing which had befallen
her in that matter, she conceived that she would be guilty of the
grossest ingratitude were she in any degree to curtail even her own
estimate of her aunt's prohibitory powers because of her aunt's
illness. The remembrance of the words which Brooke had spoken to her
was with her quite perfect. She was entirely conscious of the joy
which would be hers, if she might accept those words as properly
sanctioned; but she was a creature in her aunt's hands,--according to
her own ideas of her own duties; and while her aunt was ill she could
not even learn what might be the behests which she would be called on
to obey.
She was sitting one evening alone, thinking of all this, having left
Martha with her aunt, and was trying to reconcile the circumstances
of her life as it now existed with the circumstances as they had been
with her in the old days at Nuncombe Putney, wondering at herself in
that she should have a lover, and trying to convince herself that for
her this little episode of romance could mean nothing serious, when
Martha crept down into the room to her. Of late days,--the alteration
might perhaps be dated from the rejection of Mr. Gibson,--Martha, who
had always been very kind, had become more respectful in her manner
to Dorothy than had heretofore been usual with her. Dorothy was quite
aware of it, and was not unconscious of a certain rise in the world
which was thereby indicated. "If you please, miss," said Martha, "who
do you think is here?"
"But there is nobody with my aunt?" said Dorothy.
"She is sleeping like a babby, and I came down just for a moment.
Mr. Gibson is here, miss,--in the house! He asked for your aunt, and
when, of course, he could not see her, he asked for you." Dorothy for
a few minutes was utterly disconcerted, but at last she consented to
see Mr. Gibson. "I think it is best," said Martha, "because it is bad
to be fighting, and missus so ill. 'Blessed are the peace-makers,'
miss, 'for they shall be called the children of God.'" Convinced by
this argument, or by the working of her own mind, Dorothy directed
that Mr. Gibson might be shewn into the room. 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 to-morrow, 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 thought
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.