He Knew He Was Right

at the gate. She soon perceived that everybody else was chatting and laughing, and that Brooke Burgess was the centre of a little circle which had formed itself quite at a distance from her seat. Once, twice, thrice she meditated an escape, but she had not the courage to make the attempt. She did not know how to manage it. She was conscious that her aunt’s eye was upon her, and that her aunt would expect her to listen to Mr. Gibson. At last she gave up all hope of moving, and was anxious simply that Mr. Gibson should confine himself to the dirt of the paths and the noble prospect from Haldon Hill.

“I think we shall have more rain before we are done with it,” he said. Twice before during the evening he had been very eloquent about the rain.

“I dare say we shall,” said Dorothy. And then there came the sound of loud laughter from Sir Peter, and Dorothy could see that he was poking Brooke Burgess in the ribs. There had never been anything so gay before since she had been in Exeter, and now she was hemmed up in that corner, away from it all, by Mr. Gibson!

“This Mr. Burgess seems to be different from the other Burgesses,” said Mr. Gibson.

“I think he must be very clever,” said Dorothy.

“Well;⁠—yes; in a sort of a way. What people call a Merry Andrew.”

“I like people who make me laugh and laugh themselves,” said Dorothy.

“I quite agree with you that laughter is a very good thing⁠—in its place. I am not at all one of those who would make the world altogether grave. There are serious things, and there must be serious moments.”

“Of course,” said Dorothy.

“And I think that serious conversation upon the whole has more allurements than conversation which when you come to examine it is found to mean nothing. Don’t you?”

“I suppose everybody should mean something when he talks.”

“Just so. That is exactly my idea,” said Mr. Gibson. “On all such subjects as that I should be so sorry if you and I did not agree. I really should.” Then he paused, and Dorothy was so confounded by what she conceived to be the dangers of the coming moment that she was unable even to think what she ought to say. She heard Mrs. MacHugh’s clear, sharp, merry voice, and she heard her aunt’s tone of pretended anger, and she heard Sir Peter’s continued laughter, and Brooke Burgess as he continued the telling of some story; but her own trouble was too great to allow of her attending to what was going on at the other end of the room. “There is nothing as to which I am so anxious as that you and I should agree about serious things,” said Mr. Gibson.

“I suppose we do agree about going to church,” said Dorothy. She knew that she could have made no speech more stupid, more senseless, more inefficacious;⁠—but what was she to say in answer to such an assurance?

“I hope so,” said Mr. Gibson; “and I think so. Your aunt is a most excellent woman, and her opinion has very great weight with me on all subjects⁠—even as to matters of church discipline and doctrine, in which, as a clergyman, I am of course presumed to be more at home. But your aunt is a woman among a thousand.”

“Of course I think she is very good.”

“And she is so right about this young man and her property. Don’t you think so?”

“Quite right, Mr. Gibson.”

“Because you know, to you, of course, being her near relative, and the one she has singled out as the recipient of her kindness, it might have been cause for some discontent.”

“Discontent to me, Mr. Gibson!”

“I am quite sure your feelings are what they ought to be. And for myself, if I ever were⁠—that is to say, supposing I could be in any way interested⁠—. But perhaps it is premature to make any suggestion on that head at present.”

“I don’t at all understand what you mean, Mr. Gibson.”

“I thought that perhaps I might take this opportunity of expressing⁠—. But, after all, the levity of the moment is hardly in accordance with the sentiments which I should wish to express.”

“I think that I ought to go to my aunt now, Mr. Gibson, as perhaps she might want something.” Then she did push back her chair, and stand upon her legs⁠—and Mr. Gibson, after pausing for a moment, allowed her to escape. Soon after that the visitors went, and Brooke Burgess was left in the drawing-room with Miss Stanbury and Dorothy.

“How well I recollect all the people,” said Brooke; “Sir Peter, and old Mrs. MacHugh, and Mrs. Powel, who then used to be called the beautiful Miss Noel. And I remember every bit of furniture in the room.”

“Nothing changed except the old woman, Brooke,” said Miss Stanbury.

“Upon my word, you are the least changed of all⁠—except that you don’t seem to be so terrible as you were then.”

“Was I very terrible, Brooke?”

“My mother had told me, I fancy, that I was never to make a noise, and be sure not to break any of the china. You were always very good-natured, and when you gave me a silver watch I could hardly believe the extent of my own bliss.”

“You wouldn’t care about a watch from an old woman now, Brooke?”

“You try me. But what rakes you are here! It’s past eleven o’clock, and I must go and have a smoke.”

“Have a what?” said Miss Stanbury, with a startled air.

“A smoke. You needn’t be frightened; I don’t mean in the house.”

“No;⁠—I hope you don’t mean that.”

“But I may take a turn round the Close with a pipe;⁠—mayn’t I?”

“I suppose all young men do smoke now,” said Miss Stanbury, sorrowfully.

“Every one of them; and they tell me that the young women mean to take to it before long.”

“If I saw a young woman smoking, I should blush for my sex; and though she were the nearest and dearest