He Knew He Was Right

Mr. Gibson, after another pause. So he went, a melancholy, blighted man. Leaving the Close, he passed through into Southernhay, and walked across by the new streets towards the Heavitree road. He had no design in taking this route, but he went on till he came in sight of the house in which Mrs. French lived. As he walked slowly by it, he looked up at the windows, and something of a feeling of romance came across his heart. Were his young affections buried there, or were they not? And, if so, with which of those fair girls were they buried? For the last two years, up to last night, Camilla had certainly been in the ascendant. But Arabella was a sweet young woman; and there had been a time⁠—when those tender passages were going on⁠—in which he had thought that no young woman ever was so sweet. A period of romance, an era of enthusiasm, a short-lived, delicious holiday of hot-tongued insanity had been permitted to him in his youth;⁠—but all that was now over. And yet here he was, with three strings to his bow⁠—so he told himself⁠—and he had not as yet settled for himself the great business of matrimony. He was inclined to think, as he walked on, that he would walk his life alone, an active, useful, but a melancholy man. After such experiences as his, how should he ever again speak of his heart to a woman? During this walk, his mind recurred frequently to Dorothy Stanbury; and, doubtless, he thought that he had often spoken of his heart to her. He was back at his lodgings before three, at which hour he ate an early dinner, and then took the afternoon cathedral service at four. The evening he spent at home, thinking of the romance of his early days. What would Miss Stanbury have said, had she seen him in his easy chair behind the Exeter Argus⁠—with a pipe in his mouth?

In the meantime, there was an uncomfortable scene in progress between Dorothy and her aunt. Brooke Burgess, as desired, had left the house before eleven, having taken upon himself, when consulted, to say in the mildest terms, that he thought that, in general, young women should not be asked to marry if they did not like to;⁠—which opinion had been so galling to Miss Stanbury that she had declared that he had so scolded her, that she did not know whether she was standing on her head or her heels. As soon as Mr. Gibson left her, she sat herself down, and fairly cried. She had ardently desired this thing, and had allowed herself to think of her desire as of one that would certainly be accomplished. Dorothy would have been so happy as the wife of a clergyman! Miss Stanbury’s standard for men and women was not high. She did not expect others to be as self-sacrificing, as charitable, and as good as herself. It was not that she gave to herself credit for such virtues; but she thought of herself as one who, from the peculiar circumstances of life, was bound to do much for others. There was no end to her doing good for others⁠—if only the others would allow themselves to be governed by her. She did not think that Mr. Gibson was a great divine; but she perceived that he was a clergyman, living decently⁠—of that secret pipe Miss Stanbury knew nothing⁠—doing his duty punctually, and, as she thought, very much in want of a wife. Then there was her niece, Dolly⁠—soft, pretty, feminine, without a shilling, and much in want of someone to comfort and take care of her. What could be better than such a marriage! And the overthrow to the girls with the big chignons would be so complete! She had set her mind upon it, and now Dorothy said that it couldn’t, and it wouldn’t, and it shouldn’t be accomplished! She was to be thrown over by this chit of a girl, as she had been thrown over by the girl’s brother! And, when she complained, the girl simply offered to go away!

At about twelve Dorothy came creeping down into the room in which her aunt was sitting, and pretended to occupy herself on some piece of work. For a considerable time⁠—for three minutes perhaps⁠—Miss Stanbury did not speak. She had resolved that she would not speak to her niece again⁠—at least, not for that day. She would let the ungrateful girl know how miserable she had been made. But at the close of the three minutes her patience was exhausted. “What are you doing there?” she said.

“I am quilting your cap, Aunt Stanbury.”

“Put it down. You shan’t do anything for me. I won’t have you touch my things any more. I don’t like pretended service.”

“It is not pretended, Aunt Stanbury.”

“I say it is pretended. Why did you pretend to me that you would have him when you had made up your mind against it all the time?”

“But I hadn’t⁠—made up my mind.”

“If you had so much doubt about it, you might have done what I wanted you.”

“I couldn’t, Aunt Stanbury.”

“You mean you wouldn’t. I wonder what it is you do expect.”

“I don’t expect anything, Aunt Stanbury.”

“No; and I don’t expect anything. What an old fool I am ever to look for any comfort. Why should I think that anybody would care for me?”

“Indeed, I do care for you.”

“In what sort of way do you show it? You’re just like your brother Hugh. I’ve disgraced myself to that man⁠—promising what I could not perform. I declare it makes me sick when I think of it. Why did you not tell me at once?” Dorothy said nothing further, but sat with the cap on her lap. She did not dare to resume her needle, and she did not like to put the cap aside, as by doing so it would seem as though she had accepted her aunt’s prohibition against her work. For half