“You are only joking, of course,” he said.
“Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury.”
“What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?”
“I dare say, nothing. It is not so;—is it?”
“Certainly not.”
“And there is nothing in it;—is there?”
“I wonder why people make these reports,” said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating.
“It is a fabrication from beginning to end then,” said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her headdress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. “Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!”
“Of course, it is not so,” said Mr. Gibson—lying.
“I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man’s happiness depends so much on whom he marries;—doesn’t it? And a clergyman’s more than anybody else’s. And we didn’t think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;—just a labourer’s hovel, no more;—and though it wasn’t her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;—still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife—and for such a dear, dear friend—” She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy—so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity?
About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two.
“Nice girls those Frenches, I think,” said Brooke.
“Very nice,” said Mr. Gibson.
“How Miss Stanbury does hate them,” says Brooke.
“Not hate them, I hope,” said Mr. Gibson.
“She doesn’t love them;—does she?”
“Well, as for love;—yes; in one sense—I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly.”
“What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know.”
“Dear me! What a very odd supposition,” said Mr. Gibson.
“For my part, I don’t think I shall,” said Brooke.
“I don’t suppose I shall either,” said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke.
“A fellow might do worse, you know,” said Brooke. “For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of getup. But the worst of it is, one can’t marry two at a time.”
“That would be bigamy,” said Mr. Gibson.
“Just so,” said Brooke.
XXXVI
Miss Stanbury’s Wrath
Punctually at eleven o’clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him—would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop’s ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from the bashfulness of her nature, would be no judge of eloquence at such a time. But still, for his own sake, there should be some form of expression, some propriety of diction. Before eleven o’clock he had it all by heart, and had nearly freed himself from the uneasiness of his falsehood to Arabella. He had given much serious thought to the matter, and had quite
