“Exactly. So quiet, but so—clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?”
“Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson.”
“You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don’t think his own consent has ever been asked yet;—but, nevertheless, it’s settled.”
“Just at present he seems to me to be—what shall I say?—I oughtn’t to say flirting with your sister; ought I?”
“Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we’ve known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed—; but, however—; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see—and we do see a good deal of him—there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven’t asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you’ve known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her—perhaps a little—sly.”
In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one’s dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts—which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit.
“You are a good deal at the house in the Close now,” said Arabella, in her lowest voice—in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy.
“Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church.” People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes.
“It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson.”
“I don’t know why you should say that, Miss French.”
“Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one’s friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything.”
“I am speaking of the old lady,” said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard.
“And I am speaking of the old lady too,” said Arabella. “Of whom else should I be speaking?”
“No;—of course not.”
“Of course,” continued Arabella, “I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don’t believe that, I can assure you.” As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. “I own I should be glad,” she said, turning her eyes away from him, “if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true.”
Mr. Gibson’s position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment—the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin
