DOROTHY RETURNS TO EXETER.
Miss Stanbury perfectly understood that Martha was to come back by
the train reaching Exeter at 7 p.m., and that she might be expected
in the Close about a quarter-of-an-hour after that time. She had been
nervous and anxious all day,--so much so that Mr. Martin had told
her that she must be very careful. "That's all very well," the old
woman had said, "but you haven't got any medicine for my complaint,
Mr. Martin." The apothecary had assured her that the worst of her
complaint was in the east wind, and had gone away begging her to be
very careful. "It is not God's breezes that are hard to any one," the
old lady had said to herself,--"but our own hearts." After her lonely
dinner she had fidgeted about the room, and had rung twice for the
girl, not knowing what order to give when the servant came to her.
She was very anxious about her tea, but would not have it brought to
her till after Martha should have arrived. She was half-minded to
order that a second cup and saucer should be placed there, but she
had not the courage to face the disappointment which would fall upon
her, should the cup and saucer stand there for no purpose. And yet,
should she come, how nice it would be to shew her girl that her old
aunt had been ready for her. Thrice she went to the window after the
cathedral clock had struck seven, to see whether her ambassador was
returning. From her window there was only one very short space of
pathway on which she could have seen her,--and, as it happened, there
came the ring at the door, and no ambassador had as yet been viewed.
Miss Stanbury was immediately off her seat, and out upon the landing.
"Here we are again, Miss Dorothy," said Martha. Then Miss Stanbury
could not restrain herself,--but descended the stairs, moving as she
had never moved since she had first been ill. "My bairn," she said;
"my dearest bairn! I thought that perhaps it might be so. Jane,
another tea-cup and saucer up-stairs." What a pity that she had not
ordered it before! "And get a hot cake, Jane. You will be ever so
hungry, my darling, after your journey."
"Are you glad to see me, Aunt Stanbury?" said Dorothy.
"Glad, my pretty one!" Then she put up her hands, and smoothed down
the girl's cheeks, and kissed her, and patted Martha on the back, and
scolded her at the same time for not bringing Miss Dorothy from the
station in a cab. "And what is the meaning of that little bag?" she
said. "You shall go back for the rest yourself, Martha, because it is
your own fault." Martha knew that all this was pleasant enough;--but
then her mistress's moods would sometimes be changed so suddenly! How
would it be when Miss Stanbury knew that Brooke Burgess had been left
behind at Nuncombe Putney?
"You see I didn't stay to eat any of the lamb," said Dorothy,
smiling.
"You shall have a calf instead, my dear," said Miss Stanbury,
"because you are a returned prodigal."
All this was very pleasant, and Miss Stanbury was so happy dispensing
her tea, and the hot cake, and the clotted cream, and was so intent
upon her little methods of caressing and petting her niece, that
Dorothy had no heart to tell her story while the plates and cups were
still upon the table. She had not, perhaps, cared much for the hot
cake, having such a weight upon her mind, but she had seemed to care,
understanding well that she might so best conduce to her aunt's
comfort. Miss Stanbury was a woman who could not bear that the good
things which she had provided for a guest should not be enjoyed. She
could taste with a friend's palate, and drink with a friend's throat.
But when debarred these vicarious pleasures by what seemed to her to
be the caprice of her guests, she would be offended. It had been one
of the original sins of Camilla and Arabella French that they would
declare at her tea-table that they had dined late and could not eat
tea-cake. Dorothy knew all this,--and did her duty;--but with a
heavy heart. There was the story to be told, and she had promised
Martha that it should be told to-night. She was quite aware, too,
independently of her promise, that it was necessary that it should
be told to-night. It was very sad,--very grievous that the dear old
lady's happiness should be disturbed so soon; but it must be done.
When the tea-things were being taken away her aunt was still purring
round her, and saying gentle, loving words. Dorothy bore it as well
as she could,--bore it well, smiling and kissing her aunt's hand, and
uttering now and then some word of affection. But the thing had to be
done; and as soon as the room was quiet for a moment, she jumped up
from her chair and began. "Aunt Stanbury, I must tell you something
at once. Who, do you think, is at Nuncombe Putney?"
"Not Brooke Burgess?"
"Yes, he is. He is there now, and is to be here with you to-morrow."
The whole colour and character of Miss Stanbury's face was changed in
a moment. She had been still purring up to the moment in which this
communication had been made to her. Her gratification had come to her
from the idea that her pet had come back to her from love of her,--as
in very truth had been the case; but now it seemed that Dorothy had
returned to ask for a great favour for herself. And she reflected at
once that Brooke had passed through Exeter without seeing her. If
he was determined to marry without reference to her, he might at
any rate have had the grace to come to her and say so. She, in the
fulness of her heart, had written words of affection to Dorothy;--and
both Dorothy and Brooke had at once taken advantage of her
expressions for their own purposes. Such was her reading of the story
of the day. "He need not trouble himself to come here now," she said.
"Dear aunt, do not say that."
"I do say it. He need not trouble himself to come now. When I said
that I should be glad to see you, I did not intend that you should
meet Mr. Burgess under my roof. I did not wish to have you both
together."
"How could I help coming, when you wrote to me like that?"
"It is very well,--but he need not come. He knows the way from
Nuncombe to London without stopping at Exeter."
"Aunt Stanbury, you must let me tell it you all."
"There is no more to tell, I should think."
"But there is more. You knew what he thought about me, and what he
wished."
"He is his own master, my dear;--and you are your own mistress."
"If you speak to me like that you will kill me, Aunt Stanbury. I did
not think of coming; only when Martha brought your dear letter I
could not help it. But he was coming. He meant to come to-morrow,
and he will. Of course he must defend himself, if you are angry with
him."
"He need not defend himself at all."
"I told them, and I told him, that I would only stay one night,--if
you did not wish that we should be here together. You must see him,
Aunt Stanbury. You would not refuse to see him."
"If you please, my dear, you must allow me to judge whom I will see."
After that the discussion ceased between them for awhile, and Miss
Stanbury left the room that she might hold a consultation with
Martha. Dorothy went up to her chamber, and saw that everything had
been prepared for her with most scrupulous care. Nothing could be
whiter, neater, cleaner, nicer than was everything that surrounded
her. She had perceived while living under her aunt's roof, how,
gradually, small, delicate feminine comforts had been increased for
her. Martha had been told that Miss Dorothy ought to have this, and
that Miss Dorothy ought to have that; till at last she, who had
hitherto known nothing of the small luxuries that come from an easy
income, had felt ashamed of the prettinesses that had been added to
her. Now she could see at once that infinite care had been used to
make her room bright and smiling,--only in the hope that she would
return. As soon as she saw it all, she sat down on her bed and burst
out into tears. Was it not hard upon her that she should be forced
into such ingratitude! Every comfort prepared for her was a coal of
hot fire upon her head. And yet what had she done that she ought not
to have done? Was it unreasonable that she should have loved this
man, when they two were brought together? And had she even dared to
think of him otherwise than as an acquaintance till he had compelled
her to confess her love? And after that had she not tried to separate
herself from him, so that they two,--her aunt and her lover,--might
be divided by no quarrel? Had not Priscilla told her that she was
right in all that she was doing? Nevertheless, in spite of all this,
she could not refrain from accusing herself of ingratitude towards
her aunt. And she began to think it would have been better for her
now to have remained at home, and have allowed Brooke to come alone
to Exeter than to have obeyed the impulse which had arisen from the
receipt of her aunt's letter. When she went down again she found
herself alone in the room, and she was beginning to think that it was
intended that she should go to bed without again seeing her aunt;
but at last Miss Stanbury came to her, with a sad countenance, but
without that look of wrath which Dorothy knew so well. "My dear,"
she said, "it will be better that Mr. Burgess should go up to London
to-morrow. I will see him, of course, if he chooses to come, and
Martha shall meet him at the station and explain it. If you do not
mind, I would prefer that you should not meet him here."
"I meant only to stay one night, aunt."
"That is nonsense. If I am to part with either of you, I will part
with him. You are dearer to me than he is. Dorothy, you do not know
how dear to me you are."
Dorothy immediately fell on her knees at her aunt's feet, and hid her
face in her aunt's lap. Miss Stanbury twined round her fingers the
soft hair which she loved so well,--because it was a grace given by
God and not bought out of a shop,--and caressed the girl's head, and
muttered something that was intended for a prayer. "If he will let
me, aunt, I will give him up," said Dorothy, looking up into her
aunt's face. "If he will say that I may, though I shall love him
always, he may go."
"He is his own master," said Miss Stanbury. "Of course he is his own
master."
"Will you let me return to-morrow,--just for a few days,--and then
you can talk to him as you please. I did not mean to come to stay. I
wished him good-bye because I knew that I should not meet him here."
"You always talk of going away, Dorothy, as soon as ever you are in
the house. You are always threatening me."
"I will come again, the moment you tell me. If he goes in the
morning, I will be here the same evening. And I will write to him,
Aunt Stanbury, and tell him,--that he is--quite free,--quite
free,--quite free."
Miss Stanbury made no reply to this, but sat, still playing with her
niece's hair. "I think I will go to bed," she said at last. "It is
past ten. You need not go to Nuncombe, Dorothy. Martha shall meet
him, and he can see me here. But I do not wish him to stay in the
house. You can go over and call on Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh will
take it well of you that you should call on her." Dorothy made no
further opposition to this arrangement, but kissed her aunt, and went
to her chamber.
How was it all to be for her? For the last two days she had been
radiant with new happiness. Everything had seemed to be settled. Her
lover, in his high-handed way, had declared that in no important
crisis of life would he allow himself to be driven out of his way
by the fear of what an old woman might do in her will. When Dorothy
assured him that not for worlds would she, though she loved him
dearly, injure his material prospects, he had thrown it all aside,
after a grand fashion, that had really made the girl think that
all Miss Stanbury's money was as nothing to his love for her. She
and Priscilla and her mother had been carried away so entirely by
Brooke's oratory as to feel for the time that the difficulties were
entirely conquered. But now the aspect of things was so different!
Whatever Brooke might owe to Miss Stanbury, she, Dorothy, owed her
aunt everything. She would immolate herself,--if Brooke would only
let her. She did not quite understand her aunt's stubborn opposition;
but she knew that there was some great cause for her aunt's feeling
on the matter. There had been a promise made, or an oath sworn, that
the property of the Burgess family should not go into the hands of
any Stanbury. Dorothy told herself that, were she married, she would
be a Stanbury no longer;--that her aunt would still comply with the
obligation she had fixed for herself; but, nevertheless, she was
ready to believe that her aunt might be right. Her aunt had always
declared that it should be so; and Dorothy, knowing this, confessed
to herself that she should have kept her heart under better control.
Thinking of these things, she went to the table, where paper and ink
and pens had all been prepared for her so prettily, and began her
letter to Brooke. "Dearest, dearest Brooke." But then she thought
that this was not a fair keeping of her promise, and she began again.
"My dear Brooke." The letter, however, did not get itself written
that night. It was almost impossible for her to write it. "I think it
will be better for you," she had tried to say, "to be guided by my
aunt." But how could she say this when she did not believe it? It was
her wish to make him understand that she would never think ill of
him, for a moment, if he would make up his mind to abandon her;--but
she could not find the words to express herself,--and she went, at
last, to bed, leaving the half-covered paper upon the table.
She went to bed, and cried herself to sleep. It had been so sweet
to have a lover,--a man of her own, to whom she could say what she
pleased, from whom she had a right to ask for counsel and protection,
a man who delighted to be near her, and to make much of her. In
comparison with her old mode of living, her old ideas of life, her
life with such a lover was passed in an elysium. She had entered from
barren lands into so rich a paradise! But there is no paradise, as
she now found, without apples which must be eaten, and which lead
to sorrow. She regretted in this hour that she had ever seen Brooke
Burgess. After all, with her aunt's love and care for her, with
her mother and sister near her, with the respect of those who knew
her, why should the lands have been barren, even had there been no
entrance for her into that elysium? And did it not all result in
this,--that the elysium to be desired should not be here; that the
paradise, without the apples, must be waited for till beyond the
grave? It is when things go badly with us here, and for most of us
only then, that we think that we can see through the dark clouds into
the joys of heaven. But at last she slept, and in her dreams Brooke
was sitting with her in Niddon Park with his arm tight clasped round
her waist.
She slept so soundly, that when a step crept silently into her room,
and when a light was held for awhile over her face, neither the step
nor the light awakened her. She was lying with her head back upon the
pillow, and her arm hung by the bedside, and her lips were open, and
her loose hair was spread upon the pillow. The person who stood there
with the light thought that there never had been a fairer sight.
Everything there was so pure, so sweet, so good! She was one whose
only selfish happiness could come to her from the belief that others
loved her. The step had been very soft, and even the breath of the
intruder was not allowed to pass heavily into the air, but the light
of the candle shone upon the eyelids of the sleeper, and she moved
her head restlessly on the pillow. "Dorothy, are you awake? Can you
speak to me?"
Then the disturbed girl gradually opened her eyes and gazed upwards,
and raised herself in her bed, and sat wondering. "Is anything the
matter, aunt?" she said.
"Only the vagaries of an old woman, my pet,--of an old woman who
cannot sleep in her bed."
[Illustration: "Only the vagaries of an old woman."]
"But what is it, aunt?"
"Kiss me, dearest." Then with something of slumber still about her,
Dorothy raised herself in her bed, and placed her arm on her aunt's
shoulder and embraced her. "And now for my news," said Miss Stanbury.
"What news, aunt? It isn't morning yet; is it?"
"No;--it is not morning. You shall sleep again presently. I have
thought of it, and you shall be Brooke's wife, and I will have it
here, and we will all be friends."
"What!"
"You will like that;--will you not?"
"And you will not quarrel with him? What am I to say? What am I to
do?" She was, in truth, awake now, and, not knowing what she did, she
jumped out of bed, and stood holding her aunt by the arm.
"It is not a dream," said Miss Stanbury.
"Are you sure that it is not a dream? And may he come here
to-morrow?"
"Of course he will come to-morrow."
"And may I see him, Aunt Stanbury?"
"Not if you go home, my dear."
"But I won't go home. And will you tell him? Oh dear, oh dear! Aunt
Stanbury, I do not think that I believe it yet."
"You will catch cold, my dear, if you stay there trying to believe
it. You have nothing on. Get into bed and believe it there. You will
have time to think of it before the morning." Then Miss Stanbury went
back to her own chamber, and Dorothy was left alone to realise her
bliss.
She thought of all her life for the last twelve months,--of the
first invitation to Exeter, and the doubts of the family as to
its acceptance, of her arrival and of her own doubts as to the
possibility of her remaining, of Mr. Gibson's courtship and her
aunt's disappointment, of Brooke's coming, of her love and of
his,--and then of her departure back to Nuncombe. After that had come
the triumph of Brooke's visit, and then the terrible sadness of her
aunt's displeasure. But now everything was good and glorious. She
did not care for money herself. She thought that she never could
care much for being rich. But had she made Brooke poor by marrying
him, that must always have been to her matter of regret, if not of
remorse. But now it was all to be smooth and sweet. Now a paradise
was to be opened to her, with no apples which she might not eat;--no
apples which might not, but still must, be eaten. She thought that it
would be impossible that she should sleep again that night; but she
did sleep, and dreamed that Brooke was holding her in Niddon Park,
tighter than ever.
When the morning came she trembled as she walked down into the
parlour. Might it not still be possible that it was all a dream? Or
what if her aunt should again have changed her purpose? But the first
moment of her aunt's presence told her that there was nothing to
fear. "How did you sleep, Dorothy?" said the old lady.
"Dear aunt, I do not know. Was it all sleep?"
"What shall we say to Brooke when he comes?"
"You shall tell him."
"No, dearest, you must tell him. And you must say to him that if he
is not good to my girl, and does not love her always, and cling to
her, and keep her from harm, and be in truth her loving husband, I
will hold him to be the most ungrateful of human beings." And before
Brooke came, she spoke again. "I wonder whether he thinks you as
pretty as I do, Dolly?"
"He never said that he thought me pretty at all."
"Did he not? Then he shall say so, or he shall not have you. It was
your looks won me first, Dolly,--like an old fool as I am. It is so
pleasant to have a little nature after such a deal of artifice." In
which latter remarks it was quite understood that Miss Stanbury was
alluding to her enemies at Heavitree.