He Knew He Was Right

and almost obstructive. Miss Stanbury had been at the trouble of explaining that she was specially anxious to have that little matter of the engagement settled at once. She knew that she was going to behave with great generosity;⁠—that she was going to sacrifice, not her money only, of which she did not think much, but a considerable portion of her authority, of which she did think a great deal; and that she was about to behave in a manner which demanded much gratitude. But it seemed to her that Dorothy was not in the least grateful. Hugh had proved himself to be “a mass of ingratitude,” as she was in the habit of saying. None of the Burgesses had ever shown to her any gratitude for promises made to them, or, indeed, for any substantial favours conferred upon them. And now Dorothy, to whom a very seventh heaven of happiness had been opened⁠—a seventh heaven, as it must be computed in comparison with her low expectations⁠—now Dorothy was already showing how thankless she could become. Mr. Gibson had not yet declared his passion, but he had freely admitted to Miss Stanbury that he was prepared to do so. Priscilla had been quite right in her suggestion that there was a clear understanding between the clergyman and her aunt.

“I don’t think he is come after all,” said Miss Stanbury, looking at her watch. Had the train arrived at the moment that it was due, had the expectant visitor jumped out of the railway carriage into a fly, and had the driver galloped up to the Close, it might have been possible that the wheels should have been at the door as Miss Stanbury spoke.

“It’s hardly time yet, aunt.”

“Nonsense; it is time. The train comes in at four. I dare say he won’t come at all.”

“He is sure to come, aunt.”

“I’ve no doubt you know all about it better than anyone else. You usually do.” Then five minutes were passed in silence. “Heaven and earth! what shall I do with these people that are coming? And I told them especially that it was to meet this young man! It’s the way I am always treated by everybody that I have about me.”

“The train might be ten minutes late, Aunt Stanbury.”

“Yes;⁠—and monkeys might chew tobacco. There;⁠—there’s the omnibus at the Cock and Bottle; the omnibus up from the train. Now, of course, he won’t come.”

“Perhaps he’s walking, Aunt Stanbury.”

“Walking⁠—with his luggage on his shoulders? Is that your idea of the way in which a London gentleman goes about? And there are two flies⁠—coming up from the train, of course.” Miss Stanbury was obliged to fix the side of her chair very close to the window in order that she might see that part of the Close in which the vehicles of which she had spoken were able to pass.

“Perhaps they are not coming from the train, Aunt Stanbury.”

“Perhaps a fiddlestick! You have lived here so much longer than I have done that, of course, you must know all about it.” Then there was an interval of another ten minutes, and even Dorothy was beginning to think that Mr. Burgess was not coming. “I’ve given him up now,” said Miss Stanbury. “I think I’ll send and put them all off.” Just at that moment there came a knock at the door. But there was no cab. Dorothy’s conjecture had been right. The London gentleman had walked, and his portmanteau had been carried behind him by a boy. “How did he get here?” exclaimed Miss Stanbury, as she heard the strange voice speaking to Martha downstairs. But Dorothy knew better than to answer the question.

“Miss Stanbury, I am very glad to see you,” said Mr. Brooke Burgess, as he entered the room. Miss Stanbury courtesied, and then took him by both hands. “You wouldn’t have known me, I dare say,” he continued. “A black beard and a bald head do make a difference.”

“You are not bald at all,” said Miss Stanbury.

“I am beginning to be thin enough at the top. I am so glad to come to you, and so much obliged to you for having me! How well I remember the old room!”

“This is my niece, Miss Dorothy Stanbury, from Nuncombe Putney.” Dorothy was about to make some formal acknowledgment of the introduction, when Brooke Burgess came up to her, and shook her hand heartily. “She lives with me,” continued the aunt.

“And what has become of Hugh?” said Brooke.

“We never talk of him,” said Miss Stanbury gravely.

“I hope there’s nothing wrong? I hear of him very often in London.”

“My aunt and he don’t agree;⁠—that’s all,” said Dorothy.

“He has given up his profession as a barrister⁠—in which he might have lived like a gentleman,” said Miss Stanbury, “and has taken to writing for a⁠—penny newspaper.”

“Everybody does that now, Miss Stanbury.”

“I hope you don’t, Mr. Burgess.”

“I! Nobody would print anything that I wrote. I don’t write for anything, certainly.”

“I’m very glad to hear it,” said Miss Stanbury.

Brooke Burgess, or Mr. Brooke, as he came to be called very shortly by the servants in the house, was a good-looking man, with black whiskers and black hair, which, as he said, was beginning to be thin on the top of his head, and pleasant small bright eyes. Dorothy thought that next to her brother Hugh he was the most good-natured looking man she had ever seen. He was rather below the middle height, and somewhat inclined to be stout. But he would boast that he could still walk his twelve miles in three hours, and would add that as long as he could do that he would never recognise the necessity of putting himself on short commons. He had a well-cut nose, not quite aquiline, but tending that way, a chin with a dimple on it, and as sweet a mouth as ever declared the excellence of a man’s temper. Dorothy immediately began to compare him with her brother Hugh, who was to her, of all men,