In the afternoon Brooke Burgess went over to the further end of the Close, and called on Mrs. MacHugh; and from thence he walked across to Heavitree, and called on the Frenches. It may be doubted whether he would have been so well behaved to these ladies had they not been appealed to by Mr. Gibson as witnesses to the character of Miss Stanbury. He got very little from Mrs. MacHugh. That lady was kind and cordial, and expressed many wishes that she might see him again in Exeter. When he said a few words about Mr. Gibson, Mrs. MacHugh only laughed, and declared that the gentleman would soon find a plaister for that sore. “There are more fishes than one in the sea,” she said.
“But I’m afraid they’ve quarrelled, Mrs. MacHugh.”
“So they tell me. What should we have to talk about here if somebody didn’t quarrel sometimes? She and I ought to get up a quarrel for the good of the public;—only they know that I never can quarrel with anybody. I never see anybody interesting enough to quarrel with.” But Mrs. MacHugh said nothing about Miss Stanbury, except that she sent over a message with reference to a rubber of whist for the next night but one.
He found the two French girls sitting with their mother, and they all expressed their great gratitude to him for coming to say goodbye before he went. “It’s so very nice of you, Mr. Burgess,” said Camilla, “and particularly just at present.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Arabella, “because you know things have been so unpleasant.”
“My dears, never mind about that,” said Mrs. French. “Miss Stanbury has meant everything for the best, and it is all over now.”
“I don’t know what you mean by its being all over, mamma,” said Camilla. “As far as I can understand, it has never been begun.”
“My dear, the least said the soonest mended,” said Mrs. French.
“That’s of course, mamma,” said Camilla; “but yet one can’t hold one’s tongue altogether. All the city is talking about it, and I dare say Mr. Burgess has heard as much as anybody else.”
“I’ve heard nothing at all,” said Brooke.
“Oh yes, you have,” continued Camilla. Arabella conceived herself at this moment to be situated in so delicate a position, that it was best that her sister should talk about it, and that she herself should hold her tongue—with the exception, perhaps, of a hint here and there which might be of assistance; for Arabella completely understood that the prize was now to be hers, if the prize could be rescued out of the Stanbury clutches. She was aware—no one better aware—how her sister had interfered with her early hopes, and was sure, in her own mind, that all her disappointment had come from fratricidal rivalry on the part of Camilla. It had never, however, been open to her to quarrel with Camilla. There they were, linked together, and together they must fight their battles. As two pigs may be seen at the same trough, each striving to take the delicacies of the banquet from the other, and yet enjoying always the warmth of the same dunghill in amicable contiguity, so had these young ladies lived in sisterly friendship, while each was striving to take a husband from the other. They had understood the position, and, though for years back they had talked about Mr. Gibson, they had never quarrelled; but now, in these latter days of the Stanbury interference, there had come tacitly to be something of an understanding between them that, if any fighting were still possible on the subject, one must be put forward and the other must yield. There had been no spoken agreement, but Arabella quite understood that she was to be put forward. It was for her to take up the running, and to win, if possible, against the Stanbury filly. That was her view, and she was inclined to give Camilla credit for acting in accordance with it with honesty and zeal. She felt, therefore, that her words on the present occasion ought to be few. She sat back in her corner of the sofa, and was intent on her work, and showed by the pensiveness of her brow that there were thoughts within her bosom of which she was not disposed to speak. “You must have heard a great deal,” said Camilla, laughing. “You must know how poor Mr. Gibson has been abused, because he wouldn’t—”
“Camilla, don’t be foolish,” said Mrs. French.
“Because he wouldn’t what?” asked Brooke. “What ought he to have done that he didn’t do?”
“I don’t know anything about ought,” said Camilla. “That’s a matter of taste altogether.”
“I’m the worst hand in the world at a riddle,” said Brooke.
“How sly you are,” continued Camilla, laughing; “as if dear Aunt Stanbury hadn’t confided all her hopes to you.”
“Camilla, dear—don’t,” said Arabella.
“But when a gentleman is hunted, and can’t be caught, I don’t think he ought to be abused to his face.”
“But who hunted him, and who abused him?” asked Brooke.
“Mind, I don’t mean to say a word against Miss Stanbury, Mr. Burgess. We’ve known her and loved her all our lives;—haven’t we, mamma?”
“And respected her,” said Arabella.
“Quite so,” continued Camilla. “But you know, Mr. Burgess, that she likes her own way.”
“I don’t know anybody that does not,” said Brooke.
“And when she’s disappointed, she shows it. There’s no doubt she is disappointed now, Mr. Burgess.”
“What’s the good of going on, Camilla?” said Mrs. French. Arabella sat silent in her corner, with a conscious glow of satisfaction, as she reflected that the joint disappointment of the elder and the younger Miss Stanbury had
