“Frank,” said Miss Dora, coming softly after him with her handkerchief held over her head as a defence from the sun—“oh, Frank, I want to speak to you. I couldn’t say anything at lunch because of everybody being there. If you would only stop a moment till I get my breath. Frank, my dear boy, I wish you joy. I do wish you joy with all my heart. I should so like just to go and kiss her, and tell her I shall love her for your sake.”
“You will soon love her for her own sake,” said Frank, to whom even this simple-minded sympathy was very grateful; “she is a great deal better than I am.”
“There is just one thing,” said Miss Dora. “Oh, Frank, my dear, you know I don’t pretend to be clever, like Leonora, or able to give you advice; but there is one thing. You know you have nothing to marry upon, and all has gone wrong. You are not to have Wentworth, and you are not to have Skelmersdale, and I think the family is going out of its senses not to see who is the most worthy. You have got nothing to live upon, my dear, dear boy!” said Miss Dora, withdrawing the handkerchief from her head in the excitement of the moment to apply it to her eyes.
“That is true enough,” said the Perpetual Curate; “but then we have not made up our minds that we must marry immediately—”
“Frank,” said aunt Dora, with solemnity, breaking into his speech, “there is just one thing; and I can’t hold my tongue, though it may be very foolish, and they will all say it is my fault.” It was a very quiet summer-day, but still there was a faint rustle in the branches which alarmed the timid woman. She put her hand upon her nephew’s arm, and hastened him on to the little summerhouse in the wall, which was her special retirement. “Nobody ever comes here,” said Miss Dora; “they will never think of looking for us here. I am sure I never interfere with Leonora’s arrangements, nor take anything upon myself; but there is one thing, Frank—”
“Yes,” said the Curate, “I understand what you mean: you are going to warn me about love in a cottage, and how foolish it would be to marry upon nothing; but, my dear aunt, we are not going to do anything rash; there is no such dreadful haste; don’t be agitated about it,” said the young man, with a smile. He was half amused and half irritated by the earnestness which almost took away the poor lady’s breath.
“You don’t know what I mean,” said aunt Dora. “Frank, you know very well I never interfere; but I can’t help being agitated when I see you on the brink of such a precipice. Oh, my dear boy, don’t be over-persuaded. There is one thing, and I must say it if I should die.” She had to pause a little to recover her voice, for haste and excitement had a tendency to make her inarticulate. “Frank,” said Miss Dora again, more solemnly than ever, “whatever you may be obliged to do—though you were to write novels, or take pupils, or do translations—oh, Frank, don’t look at me like that, as if I was going crazy. Whatever you may have to do, oh my dear, there is one thing—don’t go and break people’s hearts, and put it off, and put it off, till it never happens!” cried the trembling little woman, with a sudden burst of tears. “Don’t say you can wait, for you can’t wait, and you oughtn’t to!” sobbed Miss Dora. She subsided altogether into her handkerchief and her chair as she uttered this startling and wholly unexpected piece of advice, and lay there in a little heap, all dissolving and floating away, overcome with her great effort, while her nephew stood looking at her from a height of astonishment almost too extreme for wondering. If the trees could have found a voice and counselled his immediate marriage, he could scarcely have been more surprised.
“You think I am losing my senses too,” said aunt Dora; “but that is because you don’t understand me. Oh Frank, my dear boy, there was once a time!—perhaps everybody has forgotten it except me, but I have not forgotten it. They treated me like a baby, and Leonora had everything her own way. I don’t mean to say it was not for the best,” said the aggrieved woman. “I know everything is for the best, if we could but see it: and perhaps Leonora was right when she said I never could have struggled with—with a family, nor lived on a poor man’s income. My dear, it was before your uncle Charley died; and when we became rich, it—didn’t matter,” said Miss Dora; “it was all over before then. Oh Frank! if I hadn’t experience I wouldn’t say a word. I don’t interfere about your opinions, like Leonora. There is just one thing,” cried the poor lady through her tears. Perhaps it was the recollection of the past which overcame Miss Dora, perhaps the force of habit which had made it natural for her to cry when she was much moved; but the fact is certain, that the Squire, when he came to the door of the summerhouse in search of Frank, found his sister weeping bitterly, and his son making efforts to console her, in which some sympathy was mingled with a certain half-amusement. Frank, like Lucy, felt tempted to laugh at the elderly romance; and yet his heart expanded warmly to his tender little foolish aunt,
